Interrupting Cow

Molly 1; Carrots 0

2008-10-14T15:04:00.000-05:00

Let it be known: you cannot force feed carrots to an unwilling preschooler who can puke on demand. Just for the record.

Priceless

2008-07-28T22:21:00.003-05:00

Cost of corn on the cob at Kroger - 4 for $2

Cost of corn on the cob after being digested in about 7.2 seconds by stupid large dog who takes mostly-eaten ear of corn from cackling toddler who gleefully tosses food scraps to furry beggar -- FOUR HUNDRED FORTY SEVEN DOLLARS.

Did you know that dogs aren't supposed to consume entire ears of corn? Oh yes, the whole cob, like it was a dog Twinkie. I could have sensed that this was not the greatest idea ever; however, I was inside cleaning up from dinner and the rest of the family was outside on the patio. Dan even captured the corn-eating extravaganza in photos! Whoo hooo, FUN-NY!!!!

2 hours later, I, slightly concerned, pulled out my Google MD/veterinary license and checked into "dog eat corn cob" -- followed by 12938717865 results of people whose dogs needed emergency surgery for intestinal obstruction and a lot of vet pages that read "this is NOT GOOD. Do NOT let your dog eat a corn cob."

I called the vet this a.m. after panicking all night, hoping they would recommend some kind of doggie laxative or something to speed along the corn-pooping process. Their response -- "oh. That's NOT GOOD. We need to see him. Um, now would be great."

OK...so Grandma and both kids haul the dog in and meet me at the vet. Preliminary x-ray negative, although vet notes "with obstructions, it usually doesn't show on the x-ray."

8 hours later - Murphy has gone through barium testing to look for blockages. Apparently his corn-Hoovering did involve at least a little bit of mastication. He's currently crashed out on the floor looking drained and slightly green around the edges, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

So yes, most expensive damn corn on the face of the earth. Dan is now questioning why we didn't just wait to see if the dog exploded, as he basically received a $447 enema. Hey, so did our wallet!

Nice things - a fairy tale

2008-07-07T20:46:00.006-05:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl who dreamed of growing up and living in an elegant home surrounded by nice things with a decor that hinted at Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware with a touch of Crate and Barrel thrown in for fun. She got older and got married and people bought her all kinds of nice things as wedding gifts to fill her elegant home, which she had to admit was not shaping up quite as she had pictured, what with her marital first home being approximately the size of an elf's shoebox and already inhabited by her new husband whose style was a little less Pottery Barn and a little more Pots of Old Mac and Cheese on Stove meets Crates He Used in College Dorm Room to Prop Up Nintendo. She received lovely gifts like this Wilton Armetale Reggae silver bowl, retail price $70, which she envisioned using to entertain as she hosted festive parties attended by a colorful group of friends.

Then she had children, and realized that nice things are for single people.

This is how her $70 silver bowl is used today.

Clearly still being enjoyed by a colorful group of friends. The shoebox house has been traded in for yuppie 4BR digs, and the decor has deteriorated from Early Bachelor to Disorganized Newlyweds With Hope to Continuous Regurgitation of Toys and Sippy Cups. It's possible the Big Bad Wolf might try to huff and puff and blow down the house, but he'd probably break his neck tripping on the wiffle ball bat on the front step or the rock collection that HAS TO reside across the front door frame.

At least the mailman still brings the Pottery Barn catalog, and a girl can still dream. Right?

The end.

saying 10 Hail Marys and a prayer to the valium gods

2008-06-11T13:41:00.002-05:00

We are about to embark on our first family vacation...road tripping to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a week-long stay with my imaginary friends. Well, really they're my internet Mommy friends, and I've met all of them, but this will be the first time the husbands and kids will all be thrown together for a week of beach, booze and secretly praying that our kid is not "THAT kid" all week who gets you thrown out of tourist spots and overpriced restaurants.

I have agreed (have to justify all that therapy somehow) to let Dan do some of the driving, so I will be praying and pill popping and trying not to have a nervous breakdown on the side of the turnpike. If you never hear from me again, I either ran away permanently to a land of sand, surf and no small children or Dan threw me out the window at a truck stop.

Apparently the kid licks toadstools.

2008-06-10T13:02:00.001-05:00

I swear to God I did not take illegal drugs while pregnant with this child.

Last night in the bathtub Molly told me, "Mommy, last night I was dreaming about TWELVE DOLPHINS jumping over BACTERIA!!! Bacteria is like GERMS, but it's so small you can't even SEE it. Unless you cough it out."

Uh....

2008-06-09T10:29:00.003-05:00

We finally wrapped up Molly's birthday hanukkah extravaganza this weekend, after drawing out her 4th birthday for three weeks. This weekend was her "kid party," aided by her patient if not a bit overwhelmed and slightly frightened godparents who don't have kids. We probably effectively set back any potential procreation plans a good year or two with the combination of weekend-long scream fest from Natalie the tri-molar screech monkey and concentrated attack of small humans laced with sugar and pizza. No injuries though, pretty good kid diplomacy all around, and minimal destruction of our house so I consider that a success.

Molly is gearing up for a future career in used car sales. EVERYTHING with that kid is freakin' negotiation. You can't just say "Molly, you need to finish your applesauce" without getting "Whoa whoa whoa WHOA, Mommy. Alright alright, how about THIS...I'll eat HALF of my applesauce AND two greenbeans and then I get some more french fries. Is that a DEAL??" I love the logistics of her bargaining.

Me: "Three more bites"
Molly: "No, ONE more bite"
Me: "THREE MORE BITES"
Molly: "Okayokayo-KAAAAY!! SIX MORE, and THAT'S IT. You GOT IT??"

She also apparently has been reading self help books when we're not looking. All of a sudden she's all concerned that her friend "is NOT giving me my PERSONAL SPACE, MOMMY!!!! I need some PRIVACY TIME ALONE, OKAY!???"

This weekend at her party she announced while on the potty that I should close the door, "because I need some PRIVACY to go poop mommy. ONLY MY FRIEND ANNIKA can be in here wif me." Apparently social pooping is exciting to 3 and 4 year olds. Who knew. She is also highly concerned about Murphy having "privacy time" when he has to poop outside. Yet I'd like to know what happens to privacy time when Mommy has to go potty? Because apparently there is a sign on the door only visible to people under 4 feet tall that says "PLEASE come on in!!! Mommy is lonely!! She would love to have a puppet show with you and watch the baby shred the contents of the trash can while trying to find 30 seconds in which she can use the restroom without assistance!!!!"

Handprint pictures, bodily functions and other mother's gifts

2008-05-11T21:26:00.002-05:00

There are (many) days when I look in the mirror and cannot fathom that this person who used to go to class in a t-shirt and flannel, head out to the bar at 11 pm, sleep til noon and shave her legs on a regular basis is now at least 50 percent responsible for the continued survival of two actual human beings. ACK. It's absolutely wild to consider that Mother's Day applies to ME, and that I now have my own collection of laminated handprint artwork and amorphous things made out of spray painted pasta products.

Today's gifts included diarrhea (small human being #1), vomit - in the car, of course (small human being #2), waking up at 6:15 am (oh, so not amused, S.H.B #1).

Some other musings in honor of Mother's Day:

Being a mom means that you have given up all expectations of going to the bathroom without an audience, albeit an audience that absolutely appreciates the end result ("WOW, Mommy, that's a LOT OF PEE!! DADDY!!! Come look at this!!!!")
Being a mom of girls does not mean you are raising little ladies, at least not if Dan is their father. Imagine the pride I have when Dan not only subjects us to gaseous assaults - but Molly then chimes in "NICE one, Daddy!" and attempts to add her own punctuation. Tonight she spent 5 minutes making herself burp. Charming.
I have excelled as a mommy in the acceptance and openness I've taught my children. Case in point from Molly: "Daddy, I LOVE you. Even if you are really stinky."
Certain things are inevitable as a mom. You are going to get pooped, peed and thrown up on. Sometimes all at once. And you just deal. And you always have extra clothes. For everyone, even you.
Dance recitals really suck when you are no longer the one dancing.
At least for several more years, you will not get to blow out your own candles or open your own presents for ANYTHING. And "blowing out the candles" more specifically means "expelling spittle all over the cake surface, which has already been germ-breached by nasty kid fingers that were stuck in the icing about 30 seconds after being stuck up their own or their sibling's or the dog's nose"
Whoever invented Purell should win the Noble prize in chemistry.
It's OK to really, really REALLY HATE "Goodnight Moon." I mean, HATE IT.
Cool moms let their 4 year old watch Star Wars instead of Sponge Bob and plant the seeds for a lifelong hatred of the Yankees.
The anxiety and depression you may have experienced in college or your 20s is nothing compared to the brick wall that can fall and crush you while you're incubating a baby or when this needy, irrational being actually takes up residence in your life.
You will never worry or panic about yourself to 1/1000th of the degree that you will about your children.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone who is a mom or just drives one crazy.

Natalie has survived one whole year

2008-04-08T11:40:00.003-05:00

Amazingly, the littlest monster has turned one year old, despite Molly's best efforts to suffocatingly love/squeeze/antagonize/push/"help"/run over the extremities of her little sister. I think at this time next year Molly will be in sad, sad shape when Natalie realizes she can, in fact, retaliate. Natalie is a bruiser, about as big as Molly was at 18 months (although then again, Natalie was twice her size at birth). She is about the happiest baby on the face of the earth, despite her penchant for waking up at 4 am to share her happiness with her very, very grumpy mommy. She has about an inch and a half of hair - again, Molly didn't hit that point til about 2. Despite 18 bins of perfectly re-usable girly clothes of every size under the sun, I am unable to stop buying more really, really cute and EXTREMELY necessary clothing items for Natalie and I have turned into one of those moms who swore they would never dress their kids alike (until they actually had two kids, and realized it's really damn fun and no one is old enough to argue with me. yet.)

Natalie is a lot more adventurous with food, and probably already eats more real-people food than her sister (which would be anything outside the realm of processed chicken nuggets, pepperoni, french fries, milk and Tostitos). I can actually hear Caitlin screaming all the way from Ann Arbor when she reads that list ;) No recognizable words yet (from the baby - Caitlin can talk just fine) and she still holds on to things to cruise around but is getting more confident with the drunken-stoner Frankenbaby lurch. Pretty soon she will be running into coffee tables all of her own volition, without any assistance from her helpful big sister.

Since I haven't updated since the Reagan administration, what else is new...Molly is almost 4 and the other day gave me a lecture about cleaning products when I gave her a wet paper towel to help me "clean" the back door.

"Um...Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"How about Clorox Disinfecting Wipes?"

Me: "..." (crickets)

Molly: "Clorox Disinfecting Wipes help kill germs!! And...they don't leave a streaky trail like some other cleaners. Clorox Disinfecting Wipes work great even on your shiny surfaces!"

Me: "WHERE, exactly, did you hear all this??"

Molly: "Oh, the TV told me."

I suppose she is prepping for a career as the announcer on the Price is Right.

Work is busy (not good busy), Dan's work is busy (good busy), school is busy, and the Tigers absolutely suck. That's life in a nutshell!

Darn you Kathy!

2008-03-28T09:54:00.001-05:00

One of my most beloved mommy friends has started a blog, with a link here under her "favorites." I suppose this could act as incentive to update this blog more often than...well, never. Hey, who can blame me?? There's so much going on in life!! It's almost Opening Day AND it's the middle of the NCAA tournament!!!! I mean come on, what's a girl supposed to focus on???

Don't Quit Your Day Job.

2007-12-30T22:20:00.000-06:00

Molly has been really into jokes lately, although her comedic timing leaves a bit to be desired. Here are two gems from this week:

Molly: "Hey mommy, what happened to the hippo who sat in the fireplace?"

Me: "What?"

Molly: "He BURNED HIS BUTT!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHA!!!!!!"

Tonight in the bath tub:

Molly: "Mommy, what kind of DOG eats CASHEW NUTS?"

Me: (not realizing it's a joke) "well, I don't know...does Murphy?"

Molly: "A SWALLOW!!! Get it??!? Do you get it??! a SWALLOW!!!! HA HA AH AH AH AH AHAH AHA HA AH AH !!!!!"

I asked her if maybe she meant what kind of BIRD? And she said "NO, it's a DOG!" and I said "do you know why that joke is funny??" and she said "cause MOMMY, dogs don't EAT CASHEWS!!! HA HA HA AH AHA HA AH AHA HA AHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

One-sided conversation this morning

2007-08-05T08:33:00.000-05:00

Molly just told me "Mommy, maybe next time we go to the store you could buy me a new rubber ball just like Maggie and the Ferocious Beast have! I want YELLOW - that's my FAVORITE color, just like the sun is yellow outside! rubber balls aren't FRAGILE - like a glass ball would be - you can bounce rubber balls but you have to be careful not to bounce them too close to the DOG POOP outside or you have to clean it off with a hose! ANd I will buy YOU a rubber ball that's got shiny red triangles on it!! and red circles! cuz red is my FAVORITE color for shiny triangles!! OK Mommy?? Can we go to the rubber ball store later??"

Random Mollyisms

2007-07-13T11:47:00.000-05:00

The stuff that comes out of this child's mouth is incredible. Just a few random tidbits from the last few weeks that I want to save for posterity:

Murphy did one of his bark-at-a-speck-of-air routines the other day, near the front door, and Molly says very exasperatedly "Mommy, why does Murphy have to BARK? Why can't he just say 'pleeeease put me outside??'"

If I had the answer to making dogs talk I would be a rich mommy.

Speaking of talking dogs, and cats, her new movie obsession is the very unfortunate Disney mess called "Oliver & Company," loosely and badly based, sort of, on the Oliver Twist story. It's set in New York City in the late 80s and stars a lot of people who probably wish they could erase this particular animated gem from their IMDB database. Anyway, I hadn't seen it in many years so I sat down to watch it with Molly the other night for the first time. The opening scene shows a very clear shot of the Twin Towers. I commented, more to Dan, "wow, that's sad." and Molly said "What's sad?" I said "those buildings aren't there anymore. They got knocked down by some very bad people." I didn't think she was paying much attention to me, being distracted by singing/dancing animals and all. Last night, though, she was watching this AGAIN for like the 4th time this week and she goes "Look, Mommy, there's those towers that fell down because the bad people were mean and knocked them over." Simple and deep at the same time.

We often still have to remind Molly to go potty, as she would rather playandplayandplayandplayand runaroundlikeamaniacfromthemomentshewakesuptilthemomentshefallsasleepmid-run. The other day I asked her for the 1000th time "Molly, do you need to go potty?" and she stops and looks at me and YELLS "NO I DO NOT HAVE TO GO POTTY!!! I WANT TO WAIT VERY PATIENTLY AND I WILL TELL YOU WHEN IT'S TIME!!!!!!!!!! I AM WAITING PATIENTLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She also bellowed at us the other day "WOULD YOU BE QUIET MOMMY!!!! IT IS TOOOOOO LOUD AND I CAN'T HEEEEEEEAR THE TEEEEE VEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!" The irony is spectacular.

We are working hard to curb her use of unpleasant sayings -- like, we have had to stop calling the stupid dog "Hey, Stupid Dog"...and we have definitely had to watch our use of telling even Murphy to shut up. Dan explained to her that "shut up is something only DADDIES can say." Which is just freaking great, because if I slip and say it to the dog, she turns into Captain Stoolpigeon and YELLS to Dan "MOMMY SAID SHUT UP!!!" and then chastizes me with "MOMMY! Shutup is only DADDY's word." She reprimands the TV if she hears it on there too. "*tsk* We DON'T say SHUT UP!!!!!" Except for the four thousand times a day that she says it as she reminds us that we aren't allowed to say it.

We have totally been losing the battle to get her to bed before 10 pm lately. We made the mistake of pointing out fireflies and catching them with her, and now she does NOT buy that 9 pm is bedtime because, as she reminded me, "Mommy, I can still see BLUE SKY at 9 o clock. It's not even dark enough for FIREFLIES yet. It is NOT time for bed until I can see the FIREFLIES." Umm....well, I can't really argue with that. You CAN still see blue sky at 9 pm. Dammit. By this logic she will have to put herself to bed at 6:30 in January, right??

She has recently discovered that she LOVES balsamic vinegar after tasting some off of one of my salads. Not only does she regularly eat lettuce now, bathed in vinegar, she also asks "Mommy can I have some more vig-e-ner to put on my _______?" You name it - applesauce, chicken, green beans, bread...it all gets used now as a vehicle to transport the vig-e-ner into her mouth. Weird, weird kid. Doesn't eat mac and cheese or hotdogs or any meat on earth that is not breaded chicken in nugget form, but she will eat salad with balsamic vinegar.

One last one...this was an actual conversation we had last week while I was pushing her on her swingset. I did not prompt any of this with prior questions. I also didn't get a chance to get a word in edgewise for about 20 minutes.

Molly: "Mommy, remember when we were at Uncle Frank's house (the day before) and Ellie the cat threw up? Why she threw up? Remember when Murphy threw up in the fam-blee room and it was GROSS? And it was water, and dog food, and grass...and dogs don't EAT grass,right? because it makes them sick and then they throw up like this (makes gagging noise) and you have to clean it up wif paper towels and it's GROSS. Did Ellie the cat eat grass? She threw up like (insert another hairball nose) and it was GROSS. Are cats scared of firecracks? (fireworks - it was 4th of July week) Murphy is scared of them...dogs don't LIKE firecracks and fireworks because it hurts their ears and their ears are very SEN-SI-MA-TIVE Mommy. Murphy likes to HIDE during fireworks doesn't he? Like Marley does in 'Bad Dog Marley' when he finds a good hiding space during the thunderstorm! Dogs do NOT like thunderstorms either. Murphy hid in my closet last yesterday (who knows when, a week ago I think) when it was thundering and he was SCARED!!!!"

Me: "... " pretty much speechless.

That is my life, every hour that this child is awake (well, my life and my mom's and my mother in law's, who stay with the girls during the day and probably wish they had hearing aids that they could set to "Molly as background noise" instead of "Molly at full speed jet-engine decibels")

apparently there is a word limit?

2007-06-18T15:02:00.000-05:00

Aurgh, I had more typed for the last post but Blogger just ate it.

Anyway, Natalie is cruising along just fine on her charts, weighing in at about 11.5 pounds and measuring about 23 inches. I have to laugh looking back at pictures of Molly from the same timeframe - about 10-12 weeks old - because the same outfits that Molly was literally swimming in now barely fit around Natalie's ample baby chub. Which isn't surprising, since the kid eats about 49 times a day. Apparently a maternal diet high in PopTarts and caffeine free diet coke does wonders for early childhood development. She came into the world at a nice 6 lbs 6 oz and a highly uncomfortable 20 inches - that is almost ONE THIRD of my height!!! That's like Dan birthing something over 2 feet long, which actually is greater than the size of grinder sandwich than even he can safely consume without causing organ damage.

My two goals for the coming months are to take lots of photos of Natalie (who is already getting shafted in the photo department) and to record Molly so that we can preserve the insanity that is this child's barely 3 year old vocabulary and speech for when she is 15 and hates our guts and is writing Avril Lavigne-esque songs and poems of horrid angst about what moronic parents she has and we need something to remind us not to sell her to the circus.

Stats

2007-06-18T14:21:00.000-05:00

For someone who spent a considerable number of years working in professional sports, statistics were an intergral part of my daily existence. At one point I could tell you what batting average someone who just went 7-for-39 over a 15 game hitting streak would have or how to calculate slugging percentage- which was fascinating, considering that I can't even make change for a dollar. Upon entering parenthood, I learned that parents are obsessed with a whole new set of stats - those relating to your child's growth rate.

When Molly was born, she wasn't exactly "on the charts." If an average newborn these days is around 8 lbs, then Molly was "about 47 miles under the chart, living in a nuclear bunker." Her 3 lbs 1 oz of birth weight made her smaller than most packages of chicken I defrost in the microwave (not that I ever really tried to compare this, as she was really snarky about it the one time I tried to put her in there. ha ha.) She was 15 1/2 inches long at birth - which actually was pretty long for a 31 week baby, and REALLY DAMN LONG if you are the person harboring a 15 1/2 inch long alien being in your uterus and you yourself are only 62 inches long.

Anyhow, in her early weeks of life, I was a wee bit obsessed with how she was doing on the "growth charts" that doctors and more importantly evil competing mommies follow to see how incredibly bad of a parent you must be if your child is not as high up on the charts as the most recent Fergie tune. My child was about as high up on the charts as "American Idol Presents: Bucky Covington with Special Guests 2 Live Crew - the Remix Album!"

At her two month checkup, Molly was still not "on the charts" but she could at least see them without the aid of a highpowered telescope. By four months (when she actually should have only been two months old) she was in the 1-2% range for weight, I think, and the 5th percentile for height. I could breathe a bit - I mean heck, I'm only in the 5% range for height myself without heels on, right?

As I chronicled intermittently on this blog, Molly was always a squirrely eater and with every meal I fretted that if she didn't eat that ONE LAST CHICKEN NUGGET, she was surely going to plummet off the charts again and someone would call CPS on me because my child looked like a 2 foot tall Brazilian runway model with a chain smoking habit.

And then, she started to eat a bit better. And we discovered the joys of Pediasure, caloric nectar of the gods. And she began drinking milk like the Dairy Council of America was bankrolling her. And I begat a new little monster to fret over, and stopped worrying so much about miss Molly, as she sure seemed to be burning through her clothing sizes with frightening speed.

Last week she had her 3 year checkup at the doctor, and she was 32.5 pounds and 38.75 inches. For those keeping score at home, that's roughly the 65th percentile for weight and the 80TH PERCENTILE for height!! At some point in the last 3 years, her genes realized that she is, in fact, daddy's girl after all. I no longer have a toddler - I have a what looks like a 6 year old who is going to start getting scouted for the WNBA or women's arena football. She comes up well past my WAIST now. It is actually painful for me to lug her around, although I do it anyway because despite an abundance of nearby parks and climbing structures and gymnastics lessons, mommy is still the BEST jungle gym. And I have the bruises to prove it.

While at the pediatrician, Molly's doctor who has been seeing her since she was literally palm-size for Dan asked her some questions to test her language and comprehension skills. HA HA HA. As Dan pointed out, perhaps he should have asked them in Spanish if she wanted a real challenge.

Dr. S: "What's your name?
M: "Molly!"
Dr. S: "Do you know your whole name?
M: "My name is MOLLY. MOO. CAFFRIN. HEARSCH!" (At some point, we have GOT to stop calling her "Mollymoo," as she really does think that is part of her given name. Oops)

Dr S: "OK Molly, if you were hungry, tell me, what would you want?"
M: (thinking about it for about .00000001 seconds) "CHICKEN."

Dr S: "If you were cold, what would you want?"
Answer he was probably looking for "coat!" Answer he got: (thoughtful pause)..."I would want to ZIP UP MY JACKET."

Dr S: "And if you were tired, what would you do?"
M: "Lay down and take a nap!"

He asked her if she could put her shoes on by herself - velcro sandals, which she usually can do. She struggled with getting her heel to go in correctly, but the doc was pleased with what he saw. He started talking to me about something else, and a few seconds later Molly stomps her foot down, flings off her shoe and says "Well I'm TRYING TO but these shoes are NOT COOPERATING!!!"

One day last week a car drove past us and she said "Mommy why that car has no roof on it?" I said "that kind of car is called a convertible, honey. It doesn't have a roof! So if it rains, you would get wet. You only drive a convertible when it's sunny out." She says "and if it snows, you would get SNOWFLAKES ALL OVER your seats!!"

Now, anytime she sees a topless car she yells out "HEY!!! DERE'S ANOTHER CONVERTIBLE MOMMY!!" with perfect enuciation. "

Actually still alive

2007-06-14T12:18:00.001-05:00

All of us are, that is. I don't know how - I am cursing EVERY person I've ever met with more than one child who didn't forewarn us that two children is NOT "just like one, only a little extra time needed to get out the door!" Oh my Lord, it is just like trying to get a herd of elephants to board a plane backwards while singing "Copacabana." IN-FREAKING-POSSIBLE!!!!

The baby is cute and all, but she would be a hell of a lot cuter if she learned to sleep for more than 3-4 hours at a stretch. So far she is very attached to her 3 am wakeup routine and I am getting very attached to the bags under my eyes that are now the size of a Louis Vuitton garment bag.

Molly just turned 3-going-on-14. I need to start chronicling some of her conversations and observations - I seriously wonder what she will be saying when she is, like, eight years old.

Example: My sister in law was involved in a car accident - no injuries, other than to the car - but told Molly about how someone "bumped" her car and that's why she was driving an unfamiliar loaner.

The next day, Molly was GRILLING me on the intricacies of the legal system - "Mommy, why that man bumped Aunt Kari's car? Was he not paying attention? Why not? What was he doing that he wasn't paying attention? Was he reading a book like that lady was that time we were at the green light and she didn't go and you honked your horn and said 'HEY, GO!!!!' Why a policeman came and yelled at that man who bumped Aunt Kari's car? Did he say 'sorry?' Mommy, if your car gets bumped a POLICEMAN comes and brings you a NEW CAR from the CAR STORE!!!!!!"

Seriously. Verbatim.

It is hard to discipline her because most of the time you just want to laugh. She is too smart to pull reverse psychology on...the other day I threatened to give her chicken nuggets (yes that is STILL the only meat product she will consume, save for pepperoni, which hardly counts as meat since you don't know what pig parts get squished and smashed to put in that particular delicacy) to her friend to eat if she wouldn't finish them. She goes "OK Mommy, Mairin can eat them. See? I'm doing a GREAT JOB sharing!!! Now can I have some more chips?"

Sigh.

Brilliant second-time parent observation #1

2007-04-12T21:16:00.000-05:00

It is not recommended that you wash a disposable diaper in your washing machine. Especially with other laundry in there. The result is hundreds - no, thousands - of tiny gel pellets that stick to EVERYTHING. And your laundry smells Pampers-fresh all day.

By the way, we have a new baby. Natalie Elise was born as scheduled on April 5 via repeat maternal slice and dice, aka c-section. She weighed in at a whopping 6 lbs 6 oz - one ounce less than I weighed at full term, and she was born at 36 weeks!! She was more than double what Molly weighed at 31 weeks (3 lbs, 1 oz). I bounced back a lot faster this time than with Molly's c-section - probably the result of 6 weeks of couch arrest, I was ready to run laps the day after the delivery! Anything to finally be up and around.

Big sister Molly has been utterly fascinated with the whole process. She knows all about the "big ouchie on Mommy's tummy - they have to CUT her to get baby Natalie out!!!" and she is willing to tell you ALLLLL about the "milk from Mommy's BOOBS!" She helps us give bottles of breastmilk; helps hand us wipes and diapers during changes; and has appointed herself captain of the Pacifier Patrol, following us all over the house going "does she want her pacifier NOW??? How about NOWWWW? is she AWAKE??? Awwww, I think she wants her PINK pacifier not the GREEN one!!!!"

So far Molly has not impaled the baby, although she does like to pat her on the head and check that the soft spot is still there -- so if Natalie grows up to front an all-girl Megadeth cover band or do something equally inane like go to Michigan or Michigan State, that will explain it all.

If anyone is still reading...

2007-03-28T00:16:00.000-05:00

...it is 1:20 am on Wed morning so technically "today" I am 34 weeks and 6 days...8 more days to go!! Frightening that we are in the single digits. It was 81 degrees here today, so I bedrested much of the day on a lawn chair and have a fantastic sunburn to show for it! It's at least an improvement over my gray-mask-of-death look that I've been sporting for quite some time.

Nothing new to report. If you ever have the chance to watch the movie "Bee Season," please flee rapidly in the opposite direction. Horrible.

Also, do not eat Wendy's at 11 pm and expect that you aren't going to get heartburn or reflux. Oops. My mom reminded me that Wendy's at 11 pm was EXACTLY what I ate the night before my water broke with Molly at 4 am the next morning. I'll let you know if we make it to safety tomorrow following the consumption of Combo #1, ketchup only on the burger, medium sized fries and large Pepsi.

Day 26.

2007-03-21T22:05:00.000-05:00

My almost 3 year old has chicken pox.

Why me.

I am not at risk, I had it THOROUGHLY when I was in the 3rd grade. But it's just one more level of adventure.

Baby ETA: 14 days from tomorrow!!!!

Day 23. Ish.

2007-03-18T19:53:00.000-05:00

My length of time on couch arrest has now surpassed the number of days remaining!!! We are at T-minus...18 days until scheduled delivery! I am 33 weeks and 3 days pregnant. I know this really excites me more than anyone and that you will all be happy when I am done counting numbers and days and minutes and seconds.

I have been very busy...watching enough televised basketball to rot the eyeballs off the most hardened couch potato. Luckily (or unluckily I guess for them) I have two other friends who are also bed-confined this week so we have been exchanging multiple daily emails about missed 3 pointers and bad calls and commiserating about the garbled status of our once-proud brackets. YES I AM AWARE that Notre Dame got knocked out in the first round by a school who sounds like a Dickens character with a lisp (where the hell is Winthrop?!?). On the plus side our hockey team beat stooopid Michigan for the CCHA title this weekend and we are ranked #1 in the country. So....nyah. Our WOMEN are still hanging in there in THEIR NCAA tournament.

18 days til delivery also means 15 DAYS UNTIL TIGERS OPENING DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Right now I have wheelchair accessible tickets and have been cleared by my doctor to attend the game provided I sit my butt in a wheelchair and some poor schmuck schleps me around. (that schmuck will be my dad, who is rolling his eyes at my devotion). Pregnant on Opening Day really sucks, as this is the second time I have been in that position and unable to drink beer. Plbllblblbblblb. I guess a big preggo in a wheelchair with a 97 oz Budweiser in one hand would look pretty bad. Sigh.

I finally had some in-person entertainment as an also-pregnant friend came over for a few hours to hang out and watch horrible chick movies. She chose "Stick It," a gymnastics flick that makes "Mean Girls" look like Academy Awards fodder. It was so bad it was actually enjoyable in its pure and utter hideosity. She also provided cookies, chips and bean dip so Dan was THRILLED to see me stuffing my face.

We had a slight incident last night in which my lovely husband graciously agreed to trim my pterodactyl-esque toe nails lest I sever his leg arteries in my sleep...he was SO meticulous about the process, but perhaps was leaning in a bit too closely - he ended up ricocheting a piece of toenail right into his eye. It took until this afternoon to get it out. THAT would have been a fun one to explain in the ER.

Day 17. Or 18. Or somethingteen.

2007-03-13T23:14:00.000-05:00

Day 18 I think. I really felt like crap today, which is convenient because I already LOOK like crap so it's nice to be consistent. Went on my biweekly field trip to the doctor today - incredibly uneventful. Measuring right on schedule, gained back one of the three or so pounds I lost (how, I have no idea. We are having food wars in this house - me against everyone else. I AM NOT HUNGRY and eating and then laying down for 23 hours makes me SICK. I digress). We are slated to welcome this little monster 3 weeks from Thursday. Repeat after me - YIKES.

As I mentioned, Dan is still on a mission to have me gain at least a pound a DAY at this point. He forced me to eat a double Wendy's burger tonight, finish ALL my fries AND eat most of a Frosty (minus the portion that Molly used to paint on her placemat with, using a french fry as her brush of choice and then concerned about why I wouldn't eat her soggy french fry of pollution when she was done. BLEGH!!!). Too bad Tums don't have calories - I eat about 10 a day. If you have never experienced the joy of heartburn or acid reflux, chug some jagermeister or goldschlager FAST for the burning sensation in your chest, then stand on your head to make some of it come back up, then belch uncontrollably for an hour, then choke, then gag up your food JUST prior to the point of puking yet where you can still taste the nastiness in your mouth...then repeat all day long. IT'S AWESOME.

I have been diligently working on my NCAA tourney research tonight. I did 5 brackets on espn.com, two in my "friend pool" at $10 each, and will do one at cnnsi.com as well. I have to pick ND to win it all in at least one pool (albeit one I am not putting my own money behind. I'm not that dumb).

Note to fiction fans, if you have the chance to read "A Private Hotel for Gentle Ladies," save your brain cells for something more deserving like American Idol or anything on MTV. Wow, it SUCKED. And that is as high-brow of a literary assessment as it deserves.

Tales....day...oh, hell, I don't even know.

2007-03-08T19:35:00.000-06:00

I think it's day 12. More importantly, today marks 32 WEEKS of pregnancy, so from here on out, every day is the most pregnant I have ever been in my life ;) And probably the heaviest. DEFINITELY the roundest. I look like someone seriously stuck a beach ball on my body but I don't see a lot of other weight spots (like, four chins or fat armpits) so I guess that's good. Then again, would any of my friends actually say "WOW!!! You are just getting huge ALL AROUND!!!" They probably do. Just not to my face. Or I might sit on them. And they would die. ;)

I have finished 2 books since yesterday afternoon - man I love chick lit, when I can read without worrying about having an exam on something or writing a 35 page paper. Yesterday - read "Confessions of a Shopaholic" by Sophie Kinsella (thanks Wendy!!) - very cute, AND educational - I had to have Dan look up the British pounds to US Dollar conversion rate before I really understood what the heck was going on. Today I read "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd (thanks grandma!). Good stuff. Depressing. But good.

Now any remaining brain cells I may have had are slowly seeping out of my facial pores watching "American Idol" - thank GOD they got rid of the talentless Jersey bimbo. Sorry if that offends any Jersey readers. Or bimbo readers.

Watched ND beat Syracuse in the 1st round of the Big East tournament today - my male friends (and Cara) are positively oozing with jealousy that I can watch literally a thousand straight hours of pre-NCAA tourney coverage, conference championships, bracketology specials, bubble specials, bubble bursting specials, in-depth investigations into what hair products the greasy coaches use and whether any of them can be linked to heart attack; and EVERY. SINGLE. NCAA. TOURNEY. GAME. ON. TV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! However, I will still lose all the money I gamble on tourney pools. Why should this year be any different?

Tales...day 9

2007-03-04T21:09:00.000-06:00

I think it's day 9. I pretty much judge what day it is by what is on primetime TV so for most of the daylight hours when the same shows are on, I have no idea what day it is whatsoever.

So far I have watched a lot of movies. North Country with Charlize Theron - highly recommended if you are in a great mood and want to become suicidally depressed. Yikes. But good flick. Blow stuff up space movies - Star Wars (twice, part way through each time), Armageddon (how inaccurate can we be with NASA procedures? Let me count the ways). What else...Chicken Little (or as Molly calls it "the little chicken movie"); Mad Hot Ballroom; part of Sense and Sensibility; part of CB4 (IDDDDDDDIOTIC Chris Rock movie from years ago); Memoirs of a Geisha (no I didn't read the book); In Her Shoes; the Birdcage (one of the single funniest movies EVER made) ...I think that's it. I have Walk the Line, Flightplan, Clueless and a few others "in queue" for other days.

Other than that - I sleep. A lot. At weird times. Dan is so hyper about me gaining weight that he now won't get me refills of my water or juice unless I agree to eat something too. Nice.

God, I am even boring myself with this post.

Tales...Day 6

2007-03-01T20:44:00.000-06:00

Daytime TV really sucks. thank god for TiVo. Molly thinks this bedrest deal is GREAT - the only way I can really spend time with her doing something she likes is watching movies, so today we watched Chicken Little and Sleeping Beauty back to back...and then, the little couch potato goes "OK Mommy! now YOU go potty and I will get the Simba movie out, and then we can watch Simba next!!" I give it a few more weeks before she can work the VCR on her own. We did not watch Simba, as I feared CPS might come over if I let that child watch any more consecutive television.

Potty training also sucks. A lot. Don't even ask, it's a disaster. It's very hard to potty train from the couch, so poor grandma has to deal with most of the chaos. All the synapses are just not firing at the right time in the little toddler brain, which frustrates me to no end but I will just go ahead and blame that on her father's genes. then again, these days my own potty refluxes are working overtime, particularly after 1 am when I seem to have rampant angry bladder disease.

I'm sure I should be using this time to explore religion or reach deep into my psyche and solve my mental issues and neuroses but instead I am reading up on the 2007 Tigers and will soon be spending hours a day researching college basketball stats in my annual effort to make any progress whatsoever in the 14 NCAA tourney pools I enter and then lose to people who pick teams based on the cuteness of their mascot. GAH.

Tales from the Tylosand

2007-02-26T12:28:00.000-06:00

(That would be the name of our super Swedish IKEA couch monstrosity).

It has begun. I am officially chained to my couch on bedrest, having reached the 30 week mark in this pregnancy. Today is Monday, Feb. 26 and I am at 30 weeks and 4 days. For those keeping score at home, my water broke with Molly at 31 weeks exactly and I had her 5 days later. This time around, my doctors are not taking any chances. For one thing, they would actually like to DELIVER this baby, as opposed to my out-state business trip delivery adventures from last time. So, for several weeks I have been asked not to be more than an hour from home. Now, my freedom consists of one shower per day (preferably 5 minutes - HA) and trips to the potty. I drink a lot, just so I have more excitement in my day. It's thrilling.

I am on day 3 of full bedrest. Wow. It really bites. I don't watch soaps. I don't knit. I am not allowed to work. So far I have watched a lot of TV, praised God for inventing TiVo, and been very grateful that Molly is ENGROSSED with Disney movies and will watch anything that Disney has ever produced with rapt attention, snuggled next to me on the couch. My mom is staying with us to help - aka do all the work - thank god.

I am currently scouring the "guide" function on TiVo, looking into all the Discovery Health slice and dice shows I can tape and backlog for later. I also do a lot of crossword puzzles. I am giving birth to a future kick boxer - you would not beLIEVE the X-Files-esque alien life form movements and visuals going on in my stomach. I can't keep the laptop on my LAP as the child can actually MOVE it off of me.

Right now we (why do I say we??? ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I!!!!!) are scheduled for a c section on April 5 at 36 weeks exactly with an amnio the day before to check the baby's lung maturity. hopefully we will be cleared to deliver the next day as I am at risk for internal bleeding due to the type of csection I had with Miss Molly.

that's all for now. the dog is on the couch with me, releasing periodic deadly gas attacks. good times.

2006-11-20T20:58:00.000-06:00

The little monster is on vacation for a few days at my parents' house in Cleveland. I went home this weekend and Molly and I went to visit a friend; I came back yesterday and Molly will continue to hang out with grandma and grandpa for a few more days. So far during her short visit, she has decided to go on the potty ALL THE TIME (today at least) - two pees and a poop by nap time and the SAME DIAPER ALL MORNING!!! Of course, all this excretory excitement had to come when they were 1) at the mall and 2) at a restaurant. The child has impeccable timing. But whatever works. She had to call both daddy and I at work to tell us alllll about it so I pity my coworkers who have to listen to me exclaiming "REALLY??? How MUCH poopy??? That's SO EXCITING HONEY!!!!"

She also sat on Santa'a lap, rode the Christmas train at the mall, and learned how to walk up steps backward. All today. She helped grandma and grandpa decorate their Christmas tree by putting about 45 ornaments on two low hanging branches, all in a very concentrated mass but dammit she DID IT HERSELF, she told me about 100 times this weekend. Too funny.

I am still pregnant, and crabby. I've been having some braxton hicks contractions, I think - and for the non mommy readers out there, those are very annoying little "fake" or "practice" contractions wherein your uterus suddenly turns into the consistency of titanium and you feel like it's having steel-coated seizures. You know what? I had plenty of REAL contractions last time. I don't need any damn practice. GO AWAY stupid contractions. You are freaking me out. I drink enough water to fill a fish tank already, so it shouldn't be a sign of dehydration. We are just a few weeks away from finding out what the little alien is sporting genitalia wise, so that I know if I should curse "him" or "her" for making my existence miserable, my bladder depressed, my sleep schedule disastrous and my face the consistency of a land mine that has just been run over by obese elephants wearing cowboy spurs.

Argh.

2006-11-12T16:58:00.000-06:00

I just spent half an hour attempting to play Dora Candyland with a not quite 2 1/2 year old. The game is for 3+ but that did not deter miss Doraobsession, who spotted the box and wanted to do NOTHING else but "play wif my Dora game pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!!!" She can get the color thing down, where you draw a card and move your piece onto the corresponding colored square. What's missing is the ability to understand that you are following this colored path to and END POINT; that you only get to be one piece at a time; that no, Murphy does NOT want to be Boots this time; that you cannot walk on the board "like a balance beam mommy!", that you do in fact have to take turns with the other person (or dog) playing with you, etc.

Unrelatedly amusing moment from this week's adventures in Pottyland...we have been able to get her to at least AGREE to sit on the potty lately, but only on the BIG potty - no more potty seats, thank you very much. Despite the fact that her skinny little butt fell right in a few days ago, she is undeterred. She holds onto the big potty porcelain seat with both hands and reminds me "I am NOT falling in dis time Mommy!!"

She accomplished a great big poop on the potty the other night (by coincidence, not by telling us she had to poop or anything helpful like that) and we did the whole routine - "now we wipe! and now we get a STICKER!!" I reminded her that we had to flush the poop away so I pulled the handle and she sticks her head over the bowl watching the poop go away and yells "BYE BYE POOPY!!! HAVE A NICE WEEK!!!!!!!!!"

She is nothing if not polite.

I came, I saw, I scoffed...I shut up.

2006-11-10T15:35:00.000-06:00

My own personal kiwi/avocado/kumquat/4 oz beef patty was obviously not amused with my last post, and in the last hour has taken to kicking me in the damn belly button. Sorry, bloblet, if I offended you. I guess you can feel it at 15+ weeks. Or I need to lay off the chili, as it may be attacking from the inside out. But having been down this road before, I venture to say that the internal assault (well, ok, teenytinylittlepops, not exactly tae bo) is coming from the bloblet.

Doritos Dancing In Utero

2006-11-08T12:24:00.000-06:00

I have a good friend at work who is also pregnant, about 2 1/2 weeks behind me. She told me this week that she has already been able to feel her baby kicking and moving...at 12 WEEKS. When I noted that I haven't felt a thing thus far, at 15 weeks, she reminded me that "you DO tend to feel it earlier with the second child - hmm!"

Now OK, I can buy that. But 12 weeks??? At 12 weeks your fetus is roughly the size of a DORITO. Unless it has detached from your uterus and lodged itself just on the other side of your belly button AND your skin is the consistency of Saran Wrap, you are not feeling a baby kick at 12 WEEKS!!!! Maybe you are feeling the effects of eating pickles and mountain dew simultaneously - it's called GAS. But whatever, maybe she is growing a monster in there.

I love that the pregnancy progress sites like to give you weekly updates as to the size of your little uterine alien, in terms of food. For example, at 15 weeks, my baby is apparently the size of a kiwi. This would be fantastic knowledge to possess, if I actually 1) cooked or 2) consumed any fresh produce. At 16 weeks you graduate to an avocado. I wouldn't know what an appropriate sized avocado looked like if it jumped up and bit my ass. All I know about kiwis is that they are little and hairy. But how little? Am I growing a mutant kiwi in there? Is it a California kiwi or an import?? When you tell me the thing is a size of an apple -- what the hell kind?!? Granny Smith? Red Delicious? Little sour green kind??

Could they not give you measurements that a more in tune with what the average pregnant woman might encounter -- say, at XX weeks, your fetus is roughly the size of a junior bacon cheeseburger! Or...at this stage, your baby is the length of an Oscar Meyer hotdog bun. The normal kind, not the footlong ones. Or the size of a deluxe Hershey bar. THESE things I can picture.

So far I have managed not to kill anyone, and more importantly, no one has (successfully) attempted to murder me, which is impressive given that I have been having mood swings and conniptions of cartoon-character proportions, complete with steam exiting cranial orifices and separation of head from body while it spins in circles before coming back to rest in proper location. I hate all my clothes, I hate work, I hate getting up, I hate trying to fall asleep, I hate food but if I don't eat it I still turn wretchedly green.

By this time next week, I will reach the "more than halfway" anniversary from Molly's 31 week birth. SCARY. We are hoping that halfway this time around will be 18 weeks, with a nice problem-free delivery around 36-37 weeks. However, we all know my history with problem-free (or "nice" for that matter) so we shall see!

Just Shoot Me.

2006-10-04T14:08:00.000-05:00

Pregnancy is a glowing, mysterious, wonderful, joyous, magical, anticipatory time for many women. I am certainly glowing -- with sweat, brought on by non stop anxiety attacks from not being able to be properly nutcase-medicated. I am mysterious -- as in, it's a mystery to me how one person can gag and dry heave so many times in one hour and yet not actually throw up. I am joyous -- when I am asleep. Magical -- frosted Lucky Charms ARE magically delicious, with carbs and in particular, sugared breakfast foods accounting for 90% of my daily intake. I am anticipating a point in the future in which I do not want to spear my husband with a javelin soaked in arsenic for inflicting this on me.

I do not do pregnancy well. If there are any of you who don't yet know that I am pregnant, there you are. The land-mine ridden face full of 14 year old acne hell would be a good giveaway, as would the cumulative amount of hours a day I spend in a bathroom, either gagging, getting ready to gag, finishing up a gag, or trying to poop for the first time since the Reagan adminstration. I am on some lovely pills called Zofran to help with the nausea, but the side effect is that they basically turn your stomach into quik-dry concrete. Nothing comes up, but nothing goes out, either. For me this is a completely unfathomable phenomenon. things are ALWAYS coming out, hence the irritable bowel fun. Zero millimeters of my GI tract are currently functioning properly.

I am also "living clean," completely devoid of my friends the "antis" -- antidepressants, antianxiety drugs, antihomicidal maniac suppression...this has been great fun for my immediate family, who I'm sure would like to find me a Victorian-era "home" for young mothers to wait out their "confinement period" in secret and where I would be less likely to lash out at people asking me IDIOTIC questions like "can you hand me that magazine?" or "have you seen the remote?" I even had to give up my beloved Diet Cokes (usually only about 6 a day) and switch back to regular coke, 2 a day! eeeeek.

If I had felt this horrible with my first pregnancy, you can bet that there would NEVER EVER EVER be a second little alien brewing in there right now (yes, we are sure there's ONLY ONE, THANK GOD IN HEAVEN). Due date is 5/3/07, but right now we just hope to make it to the month of April and see what happens! In the meantime, for your safety, please keep your hands, arms, valuables and small children away from the manic starving poopladen gaggy bitchy pregnant woman.

Click Clack Moo...

2006-07-27T14:47:00.000-05:00

There are few things on this earth more empowering, more initmidating, more awe-inspiring, more...more...clackier -- than a new set of fake ones. Nails, I mean. If any other part of your anatomy is new and clacky, you may want to get a new surgeon.

I had abandoned regular manicures shortly after Molly was born out of fear that my little claws of power would claw her little eyes out. Subsequently, it took me til roughly last week to regrow completely normal, healthy nails that didn't look like they were pillaged off of a corpse. So what do I do? March right back to the nice little shop of indeterminable Asian descent and plop down $55 ($45 plus tip) for them to start the cycle of mucking my nails up all over again.

It feels GREAT. I am typing with wild abandon today (whereas usually I type with pretty domesticated abandon) just because it is EXTRA CLICKY CLACKY. "Hi. PERIOD. How are YOU BAM BAM BAM TAKE THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT SPACE BAR!!! HA HA!!!!"

One thing I forgot about, though, when telling the nice man "yep, that looks like a good length" is that every night I am sort of required to stick my fingers in my eye to get my contacts out. oops. I figured this out last night at 11:45 after having already taken an Ambien and doing the little drunken-totter-maybe the dose should be a little less for small people-dance.

I tried with my thumb and forefinger. POKE. Thumb and third finger. JAB. Tried just smooshing the damn thing to one side of my eye. SCRRRRRAPE. Tried all of these things for 10 minutes before finally clawing one soft contact out of my right eye.

God damn it, I have two eyes. Repeat. Repeat. repeat. Finally get contact extracted from left eye.

Go to do one final round of business on the potty before bed -- poke nail through TP and almost partake in do-it-yourself episiotomy.

ARRRRRRGH.

Today I do appear to be all in one piece, and even managed to get both contacts in without ripping them in half or lodging my eyeball up into my sinus cavity.

I am woman. I have nails. Hear me roar. (I mean, in addition to the pain related roaring. just ignore that)

crickets

2006-07-25T20:35:00.000-05:00

I am sitting here watching the Tigers, again, as usual, which is par for the course for me every single day from April-OCTOBER (yeah baby, this year it WILL be OCTOBER) except the random Monday or Thursday travel day. It's best for all involved that I be left alone when undertaking this daily ritual, as I turn into Captain Tourette's.

"BLEEP BLEEP you BLEEPING sheep BLEEPING monkey BLEEP piles of BLEEP!!!!"

And that's when we're only up by a few runs. Tonight we started off down 7 RUNS after the FIRST INNING. It is now the 6th, and we are within one run (8-7 Indians winning).

Err...

BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEPING BLEEPNUTS

9-7 Indians.

I am free to spew obscenities at the top of my lungs this week without fear that Molly-the-human-parrot will immediately pick one of them up and decide it should be the name of one of her stuffed animals. She AND Murphy are both on vacation this week, up north with Mamaw and Grampa Waters and Mamaw Hearsch, having a lovely time at the beach. Dan has class every night this week. This means that my house is totally. utterly. completely.

QUIET.

It is insane. And disconcerting. I have been away from Molly on business before, but having an entire house in which no one is snoring or muttering "dorrra...boooots...choc-ate millllk" in their sleep and in which there is no 115 lb lump of fur to trip over is just WEIRD. Even when Dan gets home from class around 10 or 11, we sit here and look at each other like "what exactly DID we do before we had a kid? or a dog? Or laptops? I mean, at some point, did we talk to each other?? Did we watch something on television during which neither of us was IMing someone or studying?"

I can actually hear crickets outside. Over my obscene mutterings of course.

One upside of this dependent-free week -- the poop quantity and responsibility is massively reduced. Each of the humans in this house is currently responsible SOLELY FOR THEIR OWN POOP THIS WEEK!!!!! I don't have to pick up dog poop! I don't have to feign excitement over toddler poop in the toilet and examine each piece like I'm checking out the prized jewels of the Nile and I don't have to explain to anyone that no, those are NOT raisins in the potty and I do not have to yell "BYE BYE POOPY!!!" every time I flush away a bowel movement!! (although I can if I want to. You can't stop me) And Dan can get his own candy if he wants a pooping reward!!! It is a thing of beauty.

So, I am off to scream at the TV some more and enjoy my eerily quiet night. Last night I ended up having to turn Molly's Baby Einstein CD on to try to help me fall asleep. Didn't work. Also -- I do not recommend that any human being try to watch "The Passion of the Christ" after 1) eating anything in the last 3 days that you don't want to see back up in your lap and 2) within 12 hours of trying to sleep. We started watching at 11:45 last night. Bad. Bad. Idea. Hopefully my nightmares tonight will be limited to misplayed grounders.

Blogging only as a distraction

2006-07-19T19:26:00.000-05:00

I am currently watching the Tigers and White Sox and if I don't do something with my hands, I may hurl the remote through our very expensive TV. I guess i could do laundry or something useful, but I'll update instead so that my 4 former readers have something to read later.

I can't believe I haven't been on here since May. Oops. Molly turned 2 on May 24 and is now 2 going on 17. WHERE in the world she gets her attitude and mouth I am sure I have NO idea. The child talks in monologues. Not just paragraphs. You can actually call her on the phone and have a conversation. Whether or not it makes sense is another thing, but you can try.

Me: "Hi baby!"
Her: "MOMMMEEE! What you doing mommy? Mommy? Mommy I on da TEL-FONE!"
Me: "I hear that! What are you doing?"
Her: "Ummmm...MUR-phy....STOOOOPID DOG!!"
Me: "Murphy is a NICE dog. Not a stoopid dog."
Her: "OK. Stoopid dog."
Me: "What did you do with Grandma today?"
Her: "I GO SWIIIIIMING MOMMY!! In da pool! I jump in and get ALL wet!!"
Me: "What else did you do?"
Her: "I GO POOOPY MOMMY!! In da POTTY!! YAAAAAY!"
Me: "That's great! And wh...
Her: "OK Bye"
drops phone on floor.

Lovely.

Potty training is a slow process indeed. I thought I was a supergenius, and would successfully bribe her with M&Ms for any poop or pee pee actually deposited in said potty and not on the floor, in the diaper, in the pull ups, etc. After a few months of limited success, we've lately been doing a lot better with actually going. Last week she would pee or poop and yell "WHAT I GET MOMMY???!!" before she was even off the toilet. She would get to pick an M&M and yell "I get CANNY!!"

This week, she pooped on the potty the other day and I said "YAY Molly!" She says "What I get?" and I said "CANDY!" and she looks at me for a second and goes "No thank you mommy. What ELSE I get?"

She got a sticker. I hope we train fast, or this is going to start costing me some serious bribe products.

Screw you, thieves

2006-05-16T14:21:00.000-05:00

Just before Molly and Dan and I were about to stumble out the door this morning in our usual fit of late-running chaos, we were met by a very nice policeman knocking on our door. At 8:15 a.m. This did not amuse Murphy the sharp-as-a-rusty-filed-down-tack watchdog who promptly barked loud enough to trigger a mild earthquake.

Seems some neighbors down the street had come out this morning to find their cars ransacked and items stolen, and while the cop was driving down the street looking for other possible victims, he noticed that the door to my car -- lovingly referred to now as "mommy BLUE car" -- was ajar. Sure enough, some jackasses had completely rooted through both my and Dan's cars overnight -- pulling everything out of the glove compartment, emptying consoles, throwing our shit on the floor (I think it was them. Hard to tell among the 4 inches of pretzel crumbs and smashed up goldfish crackers that already form a lovely graham cracker-like crust on the floor of my car)...and yet, apparently, taking NOTHING.

We are not talking the world's finest criminal minds here, or even people who understand that people will PAY MONEY to buy NICE STUFF on ebay. They left Molly's $250 car seat; our cell phone chargers; the adapters for our MP3 players; a stroller; all our CDs, etc. I was ragingly fumingly lividly and several other adverbs-ly PISSED, but Dan found some humor in the fact that no one in their right mind would steal my CDs, even if he PAID them. Among the ransacked display on my front seat -- Nelly, Britney Spears, KC and the Sunshine Band (the remix album), A Chorus Line, Baby Einstein Traveling Melodies, Best of Disney part 2, and Millenium Hip Hop Party. Now WHO could pass down a musical smorgasbord of such distinction?? I mean really.

Anyway, from now on, I guess daddy's insistence that we DO NOT NEED TO LOCK OUR DOORS, OH MY GOD WOMAN, STOP IT, YOU ARE AN OBSESSIVE FREAK has been reduced to a whimper. I hope these dumbasses walked away with sticky poptart residue, baby boogers and other assorted schmegma all over their unsuspecting little criminal fingers. And perhaps next time, Captain Snores-a-lot the Wonder Dog could actually GET OFF the extra bed where he sleeps sideways like a 115 lb passed out furry frat boy and bark...AT THE PEOPLE BREAKING INTO OUR CARS!!!!! Seriously. No points for the dog on this one.

Happa DaBay

2006-05-11T12:25:00.000-05:00

In an apparent effort to make sure that at least ONE person will be singing at her upcoming birthday party, Molly has taken to serenading us nightly with various refrains of "Happy Birthday," which I am guessing she learned from school. Although quite the neverending chatterbox, her pronunciation is still a bit (using my favorite word of the week) wonky. The other night as I was getting her tucked into bed, I gave her kisses and she laid down, and said "MOMMY lay down on da big bed." I complied, since she does now have an insanely comfy twin bed that is a bit more conducive to Mommy laying down in than, say, her crib was.

She likes to talk to me and give me kisses in bed before she falls asleep, and hug each of her 426 stuffed animals that have to sleep in bed with her (425 of them are stuffed bunnies). So she is going through this routine, and all of a sudden starts singing "happa da-baaaay....mommy....happa da-baaaaaay....daddy...happa da-baaay.....murfffy...."

I'm like "What the hell is a happa da bay?" and then she goes "Happa da-baaaay....TOOOO....yoooooou" and I figured out that she was, indeed, singing happy birthday to everyone she knew. She continued, with verses for mamaw, poppa, yoooou several more times...she actually fell asleep singing. I went downstairs and could hear "hap...da....bay....yoooo" in this tiny whisper.

Among the other "where did THAT come from" comments this week -- driving home from daycare one day --

Molly: "MOMMY!!!!"
Me: "WHAT??
Molly: (pause)..."Where da Easter bunny go?"
Me: (pause)..."WHAT??"
Molly: "Where dat bunny go mommy?"
Me: (pause....what the HELL is making her think of the easter bunny? is she seeing things? Is Harvey in my backseat???) "Um...I don't know, sweetie!"
Molly: (looking out window) "Up in da sky. In da airplane." (resumes eating pretzels)

Well there you have it. The Easter bunny was off on his private jet going to hook up with the tooth fairy in Cabo.

Still counting...annoying things

2006-04-18T10:50:00.000-05:00

Since I only got through #s 100 down to 69 with my things I hate about winter rant, I guess I will just pick up where I left off and start in on the remaining 68 things that I hate...I'll start with spring.

#68. Wet worm smell after rain.
#67. STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#66. STUPID MUDDY YARD THAT CAUSES STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#65. Bees start coming out of hiding. I HATE BEES.
#64. Cleaning up recently unfrozen dog poop piles that have been fermenting on the lawn since October and which Molly thinks would be GREAT fun to pick up and throw for the dog to chase
#63. Spring cleaning. I tend to clean in giant spurts of energy - like, every 4 months or so I will windex a mirror in the bathroom -- then, phew, have to rest. I just cleaned out our garage all by myself and found 89% of the surfaces in the garage covered in either mouse poop, spilled birdseed, stray pieces of the pink insulation stuff or dirt. Yum.
#62. Trying on bathing suits.
#61. Trying on ANYTHING that involves showing skin.
#60. Having to actually maintain your toenails now that your feet are seeing the light of day again, after enjoying many months of poking your bed mate with nasty sharp little uneven toenails and then rubbing your nasty pale unshaven legs on them.
#59. Actually having to shave your legs higher than your anklebone.
#58. I STILL HATE BEES. Especially buzzing around my beer at Tiger games.
#57. Realizing that the Tigers do, indeed, still suck.
#56. Realizing that you paid $1300 in season tickets to once again see the Tigers suck 21 times in person.
#55. Realizing how many cute purses you could have bought for $1300
#54-45. ROAD CONSTRUCTION EVERYWHERE I POSSIBLY NEED TO GO IN MICHIGAN

There, I fixed the spacing problem.

2006-04-12T13:33:00.000-05:00

All I had to do was completely change the look of the whole blog. Oh well.

HERE. I updated.

2006-04-11T14:25:00.000-05:00

Now all six of my remaining readers (Curt, Kathy, Rachel, Erin, possibly Megan if she's really bored in a meeting, and maybe my sister in law) can have proof that I do still exist in cyberspace.

I recently did some online poll thing where it tells you what animal you will be reincarnated as in your next life. I think I was actually a cat -- which I guess means I am bored with humanity, selfish, reclusive, arrogant and deathly allergic to myself. Yep, that pretty much sums me up. I think, though, that I more accurately will be reincarnated as an octopus as payback for the fact that I spend all of my waking hours and many of my sleeping ones multitasking like a freak. My coworker told me the other day, "Wow, I really wish I did as much 'stuff' as you did. But then I think -- wow. Just HEARING about your life makes me tired."

It makes me tired and cranky and overcommitted and overstressed and guilty. Right now in addition to full time work (well, "full time" -- ha ha, considering how often I am online googling things that I saw the night before on Discovery Health channel or debating whether or not Molly REALLY needs that $84 pair of baby Ralph Lauren capris...by the way, NO.), I am performing in "A Chorus Line" -- which I have to tell you is the WORST show for a woman's self esteem EVER. Just the thought of standing in front of hundreds of people in a leotard makes me (ALMOST) want to vomit. In my brain, the entire show will be ignored by everyone as they stare intently at my midsection and say in their heads (or out loud, if they're really rude) "tsk tsk, what a NASTY looking roll of fat from that poor woman's C-section! And look! Her left thigh seems to be growing fatter as we sit here!!!" Not to mention that 3/4 of the women in the cast are a) under 20 and b) the size of my arm. You got us couple-a mommas up there feeling like dancing water buffalos next to this army of no-inner-organ, rib-cage removed pixies. BLEGGGGH.

So, show ends April 23. April 25 I leave at 7 am for Charlotte for 4 days for work. I also recently agreed to serve on the communications committee for the March of Dimes, which requires 7:30 am monthly meetings, and am on the board of the theater group that is performing Chorus Line which means being involved with fundrasing/begging, events, marketing, getting the word out to local media, etc.

With my beloved group of online mommy friends (many of whom I recently met in real life!!! I will have to get into that later. See? promise of at least one more post), I am doing two "gift exchanges" and "secret mommy" relationships. I have Molly's 2nd birthday coming up -- which I vowed to "scale WAY back" from last year's 60 person gala -- right now I am at 42 and counting. My mother in law's birthday is this Sunday; and oh yeah, yours truly celebrates her Baskin Robbins birthday next Thursday on opening night of the show (get it? Baskin Robbins? 31-derful? ha ha ha. sigh. It should be 31-der why I feel like ass all the time and have wrinkles and saggy parts -- oh yeah, I'm OLD. Guess that won't fit neatly on those little pink plastic taste spoons though).

I don't expect sympathy from anyone -- I bring this on myself and have always been involved in a million and a half things. But what gets to me is that oh yeah -- wake up , captain selfish -- you have this little person named Molly who might, perhaps, like to see her mother at some point. Daddy is also in school, a schedule which is about to get a LOT worse before it gets better, so in theory, one or the other of us is always a single parent and more often than THAT, Molly is shuffled around between her very patient/willing grandparents and her aunt who indulge my silly penchant for theater and Daddy's penchant for wanting to make a lot of money to support Mommy's ridiculous spending on things like, oh, CARPET that isn't the color of ground salmon with giant spills all over it (including the Kathy memorial wine stain); FURNITURE that isn't faded, torn, puked on, shedded on, deflated and deformed; and oh yeah, a $10 GARBAGE CAN THAT DOESN'T HAVE A GAPING HOLE IN THE SIDE OF IT!!!!!! (Dan's response -- "I can't believe you're throwing that out. We can PATCH it you know.")

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Anyway, if you've been wondering where I've been and what I've been doing, there you have it. Talk to you all in 2007.

SING!

2006-02-16T13:04:00.000-06:00

I just wanted to see if I could get anyone to faint by updating not once, but twice - in ONE WEEK!! That should give you some indication of how bored I am with the riveting world of housing industry public relations. Be still, my beating interest rate.

In true typecasting, I have been given the role of "Kristine," the dancer who can't sing to save her life, in the upcoming production of "A Chorus Line" with my new theater (or "theatre" if you're truly cultured. Or pretentious.) group, Destination Theatre. The downside of this role is that it is a pretty nice-sized role, with lots of dialogue, a whole song, and plenty of dancing -- thereby likely to land me in divorce court from a time commitment standpoint. The upside is that I will be doing the show with my bestest little short person mommy friend Rachel, all four-feet-ten-inches (oh, 11, fine) of her. Should be a blast! Kristine's signature piece is aptly titled "SING!" which, of course, she cannot do. I can at least sing (a little), but it will be a huge relief for me to actually squawk and shriek on stage with the goal of being as BAD as possible. I still have to dance well, unfortunately, which as I found out during auditions would be an easier feat if I wasn't Captain Carbs-a-lot, actually got some exercise other than toting the 23 lb screaming eel up and down the steps, could wear a leotard without looking like a sausage factory accident, and had any of the flexibility left that made me such a popular party trick in my earlier days (reference: bachelorette party photo of foot over head, wearing 3 inch heels and feeling no pain. Til the next day at least)

That's all the news for now. Molly is feeling better but has lately turned into a control freak on issues like diaper changes, eating, clothes changing, crayon picking, page turning...basically anything that occurs during waking moments. It's a blast. Why do we want to do this again??? DO we want to do this again?!?! EEK!

(NOTE: THIS IS IN NO WAY AN INDICATION OF A CHANGE IN CURRENT CHILD COUNT. WE WILL ISSUE AN ALL POINTS BULLETIN SHOULD THE CHILD QUANTITY EXCEED THE CURRENT LIMIT OF 'ONE' IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. PLEASE RESUME NORMAL BREATHING PATTERNS.)

Greetings from Snotsville USA

2006-02-13T15:00:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I really have that boring of a life that my child's bodily excretions are worthy of their own blog entry. While it seems that the little monster had had some kind of snotty nose for about the last 3 years, including time in utero, she got cough-y and phlegm-y enough today that even DADDY agreed she needed to go to the doctor (something that usually requires "proof" of serious illness such as an amputated limb or second head sprouting). Turns out she has RSV and a double ear infection (sounds like something you would order at Starbucks -- "Make mine a half-caf RSV with a double E/I, please"). We are lucky this didn't happen last year -- RSV would likely have landed her in the hospital as an infant. It stands for Respiratory Syncitial Virus (look at me throwin' around all the medical terminology, now that I am considering nursing school!) and is a cousin of pneumonia that causes wheezing, coughing and all sorts of unpleasantness, including, apparently, the desire to take all solid foods and shove them up mommy's butt or somewhere equally far away from said child's mouth.

She has been surviving on Pediasure, chocolate milk, drinkable yogurt and daddy's homemade milkshakes. Yesterday, Daddy aka Captain Child Psychology aka I Worked In A Daycare Don't Question My Parenting WHERE IS MY SUPERSUIT, WOMAN?!?! decided that we needed to start boosting Molly's protein intake since her idea of well rounded nutrition is eating solely from the F group - French Fries, Frosty, Fingers (chicken), etc. Sooooo, daddy mixed up vanilla ice cream, nestle quik, bananas, and...A RAW EGG. Yes, because apparently Molly has unbeknowst to me become a champion weightlifter and will soon be trading in her cheerios for Creatine. BLEGGGGGGGGH. Needless to say I was none too amused with Daddy's efforts, as thoughtful as they were to get her to try to eat more. Sigh. He is home with her today and tomorrow while she rests up from the RSV, so I am secretly hoping that maybe a few nice rounds of less-than-well-formed poop might repay daddy for the raw egg favor.

I've Been Tagged So I Have to Stop Slacking

2006-01-31T11:20:00.000-06:00

Thank God for Natalie, who tagged me with these questions, thus saving me from having to come up with an original idea. Original ideas have been in short supply 'round these parts so I will happily post some responses to her "four questions" and then pass them along to anyone who's left who hasn't already been tagged!

Four jobs that I have had:
1) game technician and merchandise rep at Sea World of Ohio, working in Shamu's Happy Harbor and perfecting my Skee-ball skills (college summers)
2) public relations coordinator for the Detroit Tigers for four years (experience: priceless. number of drinks paid for by gazillionaire athletes: priceless. salary, broken down per hour: priceless. I mean, LITERALLY priceless. As in too small to assign a price to.)
3) public relations human sacrifice, horrible Midwest calls-itself-luxury-but-really-overpriced-crap apartment management company (job stress = prime suspect for why I had a baby, 9 weeks early, while on a business trip 1000 miles from home)
4) dance teacher (high school)

Four movies that I can watch over and over again:
1) Major League (but NOT Major League II or III or however many unfortunate sequels now exist)
2) A League of Their Own (sensing a trend here?)
3) Rudy (naw, I really don't like sports. Really.)
4) Clueless (it's just damn funny)

Four places I have lived:
1) Pittsburgh, PA
2) Cleveland, OH
3) South Bend, IN
4) Detroit, MI
Yes, indeedy, all I need is Gary, IN and I will have hit all of the Midwest's finest armpit cities

Four TV shows I love to watch:
1) Lost
2) Anything and everything on Discovery Health Channel
3) West Wing
4) Jack's Big Music Show (regardless of whether or not Molly is home)
4a) American Idol
4b) Dancing with the Stars
4c) I 4-C needing to stop watching so much bad TV

Four websites I read daily (or I at least check on daily):
1) Detroit News (detnews.com)
2) Babycenter.com
3) Msnbc.com (I am a news junkie)
4) A private site I cannot name for fear that the other members will hunt me down and fling rabid wet rodents at me
4a) ESPN.com
4b) Dooce.com (hil-a-ri-ous blogger)

Four places I have been on vacation:
1) Spain
2) The Bahamas
3) Hawaii (Maui, Kauai, Oahu)
4) Duck, NC (always one of my favorites)

Four favorite foods:
1) my nachos
2) Don Pablo's anything
3) anything Italian that doesn't involve olives
4) Brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts

Four places I'd rather be:
1) in bed, asleep
2) with Molly, not at work :(
3) Hawaii, if I could get there without the whole airplane flight thing
4) in bed, asleep

Four people to tag:
Sheesh, who's left???
Did anyone tag Kiki?
How about Kafra?
Angel?
Everyone else I can think of has already been hit with this one!!

#69 is so annoying it gets its own post

2005-12-27T11:00:00.000-06:00

The 69th most annoying thing about the holidays, that is - get your mind out of the gutter!!!

DAMN TO HELL the sadistic people who designed the packaging on Fisher Price/Playskool toys. Seriously, these $19.99 toys are more secure than the Hope diamond. Fisher Price has this line of toys called "Little People" -- I'm not sure how the PC Patrol lets them get away with that one, considering that kids will grow up thinking that anyone who is referred to as a "little person" is a 2-inch plastic molded thing with its legs fused together and a big hole in its bottom.

But anyway, there are all kinds of Little People playsets - circus, zoo train, airport, school, playground, maximum security prison compound, etc. etc. We got Molly a few more of these for Christmas, as they are currently her favorite toys in the world. As she opened up the Little People zoo train present, her eyes lit up and she immediately wanted it "opa. OPA!!!" (not Greek flaming cheese, but "open" in Molly-ese). So, Mommy rips open the outer box to find...another box. A box to which every single piece of the 14 piece set is securely anchored by way of titanium-reinforced steel twist-ties, which are then scotch-taped over just in case the 45 twists in each steel tie come undone. Yes, apparently scotch tape is the end-all product in security.

The zoo train is secured to the packaging in multiple locations. The train wheels are separately secured to each other so they don't spin. The little animals on the train are separately SEPARATELY secured, with twist ties around their bodies and I am not kidding you, I think even through their eye sockets.

What, exactly, are the engineering gods at the toy company trying to prevent here? Individual pieces somehow jumping out of the plastic-encased packaging? Thieves who only want to steal the random toy giraffe here and there? Wow, gee, I guess now they'd steal THE WHOLE PACKAGE, because it's easier to diffuse a bomb than get any pieces out of this toy set. Apparently, also, no one at the toy company has children or they would understand the severe danger created for parents who are incapable of ripping through the steel twist-ties and protective plastic, cardboard and omnipresent scotch tape fast enough for the satisfaction of a very impatient toddler who wants to start jamming those cute little animals in her mouth and running the doggy over with the train NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#79 and counting...

2005-12-20T09:37:00.000-06:00

Yes, my Scrooginess continues. Here we go...

#79. GETTING REAR ENDED IN YOUR OWN SUBDIVISION because the DAMN HOMEOWNER'S ASSOCIATION that you pay $100 A YEAR to for NO CONCEIVABLE REASON other than to PLANT SOME DAMN TULIPS can't come up with the funds to hire someone to CLEAR THE DAMN STREETS which contain 3 INCHES OF SOLID ICE!!!!!!!!
#78. Shopping with a 19 month old. Anywhere. Anytime. But especially in stores so overpacked with merchandise that the aisles are .00001 micrometers wider than the sides of your shopping cart, and said 19 month old is capable of pulling down breakable items with both arms simultaneously
#77. Creepy friends-of-friends-of-friends at holiday parties
#76. Spending 5x more per person on everyone in your department at work than they spent on you
#75. Waiting to get your annual review at work (today) which will dictate whether #76 is really an issue, or whether you no longer care because you have a nice bonus in your pocket
#74. RADIO STATIONS THAT INSIST ON PLAYING "MY FAVORITE THINGS" FROM "THE SOUND OF MUSIC" AND TRYING TO PASS IT OFF AS A CHRISTMAS SONG. IT'S NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yes it mentions snowflakes and packages but it also mentions dog bites, attacking bees, depression, rain, and SCHNITZEL WITH NOODLES. NOT CHRISTMAS!!!!!
#73. Any Christmas songs sung by Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, any female pop star from 1985-present (please leave Christmas song singing to Karen Carpenter and good ol' boys like Burl Ives and Johnny I-still-can't-accept-that-he's-gay-Mathis)
#72. The silver candy ball thingies that people use to decorate Christmas cookies. I don't trust 'em. God didn't intend for us to eat silver balls. Interpret that as you wish, perverts.
#71. Eggnog. Bleggh.
#70. Shutting your scarf end in the car door and not realizing it til you start walking awayyyyaggggkkkkkk.

More things I hate about winter

2005-12-13T11:12:00.000-06:00

Where did I leave off? #89?

#89. HELLACIOUS Christmas decoration displays -- newsflash to my neighbors, there was no giant inflatable holy penguin at the manger. The three wise men did NOT bring white twig-made light up reindeer along. Mickey Mouse and friends did not ride the Xmas train into Bethlehem to pay their respects. And BABY JESUS SHOULD NOT PLUG IN TO AN EXTENSION CORD FOR BETTER NIGHTTIME VIEWING!!!!!!!!!!!!
#88. People who mix big Christmas light bulbs with small ones (DAN), or people who mix the twinkly motion lights with still ones
#87. You know those white-light "net" decorations that are supposed to be thrown over a bush for easy installation? THE BUSH SHOULD NOT BE 14 TIMES THE SIZE OF THE LIGHT NET, giving the impression that the shrubbery has a bad toupee
#86. Boring, trite, grammatically inept Christmas card letters that mention either surgical procedures, pets with infestations of any kind, or the progress of raising the next Einstein because your kid accidentally, once, put the square block through the square hole in the shape sorter instead of trying to shove it up his nose
#85. People who get offended because their kid is singing Christmas carols as part of the third grade holiday/winter pageant
#84. People who get offended because their kid ISN'T singing Christmas carols as part of the third grade holiday/winter pageant (hey, unless the kid is singing "God Bless the KKK" or "I'm Just a Jew at Christmas" from South Park, chances are they don't really care WHAT songs they're singing -- they're more interested in flinging boogers at their classmate on stage)
#83. Lingering illnesses that last from Labor Day til the spring thaw
#82. Trees that insist on standing at a 33 degree angle despite anchoring them to the tree stand, the wall and the floor joists
#81. Pumping gas while wearing gloves, which inevitably STINK for the next three days, although the alternative of getting frostbite while fueling your car makes smelly gloves a slightly better option
#80. Second-rate Christmas specials. Dear networks: please stick to the classics. We don't need to see "Charlie Brown's Adopted Cousin's Christmas Wish"

101 Things I Hate About Winter

2005-12-08T09:58:00.000-06:00

I am not going to post all 101 here today. But I think I can come up with that many in the coming weeks.

#101. Trying to put mittens on a toddler who has the attention span of a short-wired eel
#100. SCARF SMELL - the nasty phenomenon that occurs from breathing in your own snot smell when having to wear a scarf over your nose and mouth lest #99 occur...
#99. Your drippy, runny nose instantly freezing into little snotsicles as soon as you set foot outside
#98. Having to get into a freezing cold car that warms up 1 mile before you reach your final destination
#97. MORON MICHIGAN DRIVERS who act like every flake of snow is the first damn one they've EVER seen
#96. Having to wipe up your hardwood and tile floors EVERY day because your husband is incapable of understanding that his size 46 gigundo shoes track in enough snow and slush for the dog to take a bath in
#95. Untangling Christmas lights that you tangled yourself last year because it was so damn cold when you took them down that all you wanted to do was throw them in the box and deal with them next year
#94. Pumping gas in any temperature below 55 degrees
#93. The fact that taking your car to a car wash is rendered pointless 4 seconds after you pull back onto the street and the salt/grime/slush spray re-cakes your vehicle instantaneously
#92. Going from being a very tan white girl to a very very VERY WHITE white girl whose sexy dark hair now looks very goth next to her very white dry flaky skin
#91. The inability to EVER have warm toes, especially in bed
#90. The 45 minutes it takes to get you and your child dressed to go the 10 feet from the front door to the car in the morning, especially when said child thinks that mittens, hats, coats and all other forms of protective, warm clothing are restrictive torture devices that should be removed, hurled or chewed on as promptly as possible

Please, feel free to send me ideas for 89 more things you hate about winter. To any of my readers in warm weather areas who wistfully say "gosh, I WISH it would snow here...snow is so pretty...blah blah blah" and all that other crap that Harry Connick-esque carols have drummed it your brains over the years -- I have one thing to say:

PLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLB :P

Say what?

2005-11-01T12:27:00.000-06:00

Molly had a delightful time trick-or-treating last night and even managed to keep her bunny ears/hood thing on the whole time! (This photo is from our "Zoo Boo" excursion, which unfortunately came on the same day as our run-face-first-into-a-magazine-rack-excursion -- hence the lovely cut on her face. I have come to the conclusion that we are not going to get photos of this child without some kind of scratch, bruise, cut, welt or other evidence of self-inflicted injury until she graduates from college.)

We kept trying to get her to say "trick or treat" but more often than not the only thing she would say is "woooof! wooooof!" regardless of whether or not any actual woof woofs -- er, dogs -- were within 20 miles. Only a handful of people said "hey, what a handsome little guy" or other such gender-specific commentary, which is understandable since what little hair she has was covered up by said bunny ears/hood thingy.

She was (obviously) a bunny this year, and conveniently has added bunny -- "Buh." pause. pause. pause. Go-make-a-peanut-butter-sandwich, put-the-dog-out, fold-some-laundry, come back. pause. "NEEEEEE" to her vocabulary.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of carrying on a conversation with a 17 month old who can only say about 15 things, I thought I'd give everyone a lesson in Moll-ese in case you find yourself in a babysitting situation without a translator.

Here are her words, quasi-words, animal sounds and whatnot as of today -- 17 months and a couple of days old:
- Mama, which has recently been replaced with:
- Mom-MEEEEEE
- Dada
- Daddy
- dog (DOHHHH!)
- duck
- HI. HI. HI. HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI. To anything, everything, everyone, anyone, and no one, 25 hours a day.
- bye and bye-bye
- no. No. NO. NONONONONONONONO
- busssssssss
- uh oh (this is a step up - her first words were uh oh, but for a long time it was just "UH.")
- Melmo (Elmo, the red little Muppet cretin)
- Ernie (ehhhhhh-neeeeee! AKA any Muppet who is not Elmo.)
- Grover (Roh-ruh)
- Bunny (see above)
- Mickey (mouse) -- Mih.....meeeeeeeee
- Baby (baaaaay-beeeeeeeee. NO WE ARE NOT HAVING ANOTHER ONE, SIMMER DOWN, SHE PLAYS WITH BABY DOLLS AT SCHOOL. Sheesh. When she starts saying "wretched morning sickness &^#%!@&#% then you people can start worrying.)
- MAAAAAAOOOOOOOOO! MAAAAAAAAOOOOOO! (this is what a kitty says, by the way. LOUDLY. OFTEN. EXCLAMATIONPOINTILY.
- thank you (dat doooooo)
- Bahavagasha rerrfnassssh babablllllldldldldldd maooo maoooo? HI!!! (translation: I am channeling the spirit of a Bangladeshi goat herder from the year 1634. I eat cats. Hi!)

Bloglets

2005-10-28T13:07:00.000-05:00

I have no real topic today so I thought I'd treat you all (all 4 of you still checking this, although I seem to have fallen into a once-a-week-or-less rut) to some random little bloglets....

* Boo hiss on the outcome of the World Series. I was pulling hard for the Astros. Now we enter the black hole of my life, the time between the end of the World Series and the start of Spring Training (yes, on my planet, Spring Training is important enough to deserve capitalization). Once college football ends I REALLY have issues. You know those two days a year - before and after the baseball All Star Game, the only two days where there are NO professional sports played whatsoever??? Worst two days of my year. It's like tomboy PMS.

* Molly's new phrase this week is "dat doo," which for those who do not speak babble-ease, means "thank you" -- I know this because she says it after you hand her something (or she gives you something -- whatever, we'll get the etiquette logistics worked out later). Apparently at daycare this week she has been talking up a storm -- she said "snack" yesterday -- great, now maybe sometime she will want to EAT food rather than just talk about it.

* Molly has been on an eating strike lately, and when you only weigh 22 lbs, "you've lost weight!" is NOT a positive comment. She has a bizarre affinity for pizza and garlic bread though, and has been wolfing down Ensure shakes every morning to add calories. So far her caloric intake each day is about 800 calories, and her output is about 167, 453. NEVER. SITS. STILL. Unless Melmo is on TV.

* Halloween is quickly approaching, and we have a very uncooperative little bunny on our hands who does NOT want to wear her cute bunny ear hood/headpiece thing under any circumstances. We took her to Zoo Boo last weekend to go trick or treating at the Detroit Zoo, and she spent much of the time waddling around like an overstuffed marshmallow since 1) she did NOT want that hood on and 2) she did NOT want ride in the wagon we lugged down 5 flights of parking lot stairs -- she wanted to WALK, thank you, and also did NOT want to hold our hands. None of the scenarios we presented to her were met with much enthusiasm (i.e., be carried, ride in the wagon, or hold our hand - ewww, responsible parenting sucks!!!) so we'll see how we do with the rest of our trick or treat adventures. And to those parents who think that taking young children out for trick or treating is a devious, underhanded way for parents to eat candy while exploiting their children --

Yup. Sure is. Payback time from our own childhoods. I think my dad convinced me that I HATED Snickers bars as a kid, solely so he could swipe them out of my pumpkin pail. If anyone talks to Molly, pass along that she can't STAND peanut butter cups and M&Ms. Please reiterate that dislike early and often so it's stuck in her head for all eternity, and I am 13,000 calories richer because of it this weekend.

I told you I had nothing interesting to write about, so I'll sign off. Went to the doctor yesterday and yes, I am still certifiably crazy -- nope, they haven't developed a cure for irrational emotional nutcakiness yet. Damn.

Banned Books

2005-10-21T13:03:00.000-05:00

I am stealing this post directly and shamelessly from my friend Heather's blog -- the 100 most banned and challenged books from 1990 through 2000.

The ones in bold are the ones I've read. Some of the things people ban or challenge are just incredible. I mean seriously. "How to Eat Fried Worms"????? Who does this offend?!?! Are fried worms too tempting for those on Atkins that we should remove all traces of them from our kids' bookshelves in an attempt to cure childhood obesity? Would "How to Eat Zero-Trans-Fat Worms" be more acceptable?!?

"Anastasia Krupnik"??? Seriously???? I have no problem banning Howard Stern's "Private Parts," only because he is a moron and no one should have to be subjected to reading anything about him. But anyway, I hope this encourages others to steal this list and evaluate their reading history as well...Sadly, for an English major, there are many I should read/should have read already -- kind of pathetic that half of the banned books I've read on this list are courtesy of Stephen King or Judy Blume.

1. Scary Stories (Series) by Alvin Schwartz
2. Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
3. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
4. The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
5. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
6. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
7. Harry Potter (Series) by J.K. Rowling
8. Forever by Judy Blume
9. Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
10. Alice (Series) by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
11. Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
12. My Brother Sam is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
13. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
14. The Giver by Lois Lowry
15. It’s Perfectly Normal by Robie Harris
16. Goosebumps (Series) by R.L. Stine
17. A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck
18. The Color Purple by Alice Walker
19. Sex by Madonna
20. Earth’s Children (Series) by Jean M. Auel
21. The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
22. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
23. Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
24. Fallen Angels by Walter Dean Myers
25. In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
26. The Stupids (Series) by Harry Allard
27. The Witches by Roald Dahl
28. The New Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein
29. Anastasia Krupnik (Series) by Lois Lowry
30. The Goats by Brock Cole
31. Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane
32. Blubber by Judy Blume
33. Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois Duncan
34. Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
35. We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier
36. Final Exit by Derek Humphry
37. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood (Mel's note: this is FANTASTIC)
38. Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
39. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
40. What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madaras
41.To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
42. Beloved by Toni Morrison
43. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
44. The Pigman by Paul Zindel
45. Bumps in the Night by Harry Allard
46. Deenie by Judy Blume
47. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
48. Annie on my Mind by Nancy Garden
49. The Boy Who Lost His Face by Louis Sachar
50. Cross Your Fingers, Spit in Your Hat by Alvin Schwartz
51. A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein
52. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
53. Sleeping Beauty Trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure (Anne Rice)
54. Asking About Sex and Growing Up by Joanna Cole
55. Cujo by Stephen King
56. James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
57. The Anarchist Cookbook by William Powell
58. Boys and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
59. Ordinary People by Judith Guest
60. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
61. What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Boys: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Sons by Lynda Madaras
62. Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
63. Crazy Lady by Jane Conly
64. Athletic Shorts by Chris Crutcher
65. Fade by Robert Cormier
66. Guess What? by Mem Fox
67. The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende
68. The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline Cooney
69. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
70. Lord of the Flies by William Golding
71. Native Son by Richard Wright
72. Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women’s Fantasies by Nancy Friday
73. Curses, Hexes and Spells by Daniel Cohen
74. Jack by A.M. Homes
75. Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo A. Anaya
76. Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle
77. Carrie by Stephen King
78. Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume
79. On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
80. Arizona Kid by Ron Koertge
81. Family Secrets by Norma Klein
82. Mommy Laid An Egg by Babette Cole
83. The Dead Zone by Stephen King
84. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
85. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
86. Always Running by Luis Rodriguez
87. Private Parts by Howard Stern
88. Where’s Waldo? by Martin Hanford
89. Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene
90. Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman
91. Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
92. Running Loose by Chris Crutcher
93. Sex Education by Jenny Davis
94. The Drowning of Stephen Jones by Bette Greene
95. Girls and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
96. How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
97. View from the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts
98. The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Keatley Snyder
99. The Terrorist by Caroline Cooney
100. Jump Ship to Freedom by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier

Experts Announce New, Highly-Effective Method of Birth Control!!

2005-10-20T13:37:00.000-05:00

It's called "stay at home with your sick child." I guarantee it'll knock the potential future reproductive vibes right outta your procreation tool of choice (it is effective for both male AND female users).

Molly has been sick since, roughly, the 4th of July -- just had a sinus infection and a week later ended up with a nasty virus of some sort that decided to manifest itself in her lower eyelid. What? You didn't know this was possible? Oh, indeedy. You learn all kinds of wonderful medical mysteries when your child is ill.

The other night she woke up crying, and when I touched her, the mommy-hand-thermometer instantly registered in the "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!!!" range. I took her temp using the handy dandy ear thermometer, which at any other time she likes to chew on - we knew she was legitimately sick when she didn't try to gnaw on the probe or club one of us to death with it.

104.3, which is too close to the end of the radio dial for my comfort. We knew we had a dreaded task ahead of us, one that would require all of our colletive fortitude, strength and cunning.

We had to use the rectal thermometer.

For those of you who don't have kids (and therefore probably still harbor a desire to have sex again, at some point), ear thermometers are accurate, but rectal thermometers apparently are the pinnacle of precision. Children who still chew on crib slats like a deranged beaver cannot be trusted to hold a poison-filled glass mercury stick in their mouths, so to get the most accurate reading and see if that 104.3 is really HIGHER than you think, thus necessitating a trip to the ER or at least a panicked phone call to Grandma, you have to resort to the ol' butt stick method.

The "What to Expect: The Toddler Years" mush-covered lovey version of how to do this is like: "Gently insert one inch (ONE INCH!?!?! The kid is 33 inches tall!!! You are not sticking something 1/33 of the way into ME via that particular orifice!!!!) of the thermometer into the rectum, using a generous amount of lubricant (yes, because that makes the baby MUCH less likely to want to disintegrate you with its laser baby death ray eyes)...hold for TWO MINUTES, applying gentle pressure to the buttocks to keep the thermometer in place."

TWO MINUTES?!?!?!!? This is a child who will not stand still and watch (M)Elmo for more than 11 seconds at a time. And you want me to shove a cold stick of glass covered in Vaseline a fair amount of space into her butt, knowing WHAT COMES OUT OF SAID BUTT at any point in time, and HOLD IT THERE for TWO MINUTES?!?!?!?!?! The book suggests singing to the child, or rubbing its back.

At at time like this, when you are trying not to lose your grip on the little glass stick of death and accidentally ram it far enough in to cause another belly button protrusion, you are NOT thinking "hmmm, I wonder what that 4th verse of 'If You're Happy And You Know It' is??" I can tell you it is NOT "If you're happy and you know it, stick a thermometer up your ass and THAT'LL wipe the smile off your damn face!!!!" Although it should be.

Molly was sick enough that honestly, she really didn't put up that much of a fight during this ordeal. Dan and I were more traumatized than she was. Over the next 3 days she developed an eye infection and coughed up half a lung (which I'm sure she subsequently fed to the dog, as regurgitated Molly food is one of his favorites), and was forced to stay home from daycare for three whole days.

That's three whole days of Mommy and/or Daddy watching endless amounts of "Franklin" and "Little Bear" and "Regular Bear" and a whole lot of other bears, and Sesame Street, and Disney movies, and so on and so on. None of that sounds like a particularly bad gig in and of itself, but throw in a snot-covered, temper-tantrum-throwing, pick-me-up-no-put-me-DOWN, food throwing, Mommy-slapping little firecracker whose sleep schedule is off and who just feels YUCKY, DAMMIT, and Mommy's magic wand can't fix the problem -- well, it's not a good time.

This morning when Daddy and Mommy AND Molly left the house, on our way back to work and daycare as usual, I am certain that Murphy breathed a huge sigh of relief to have the house back to himself and no one chasing him around trying to wipe their drippy nose on his tail. Molly wasn't very nice to him, either.

Finding Melmo

2005-10-11T10:20:00.000-05:00

Sheesh, the pressure! I'm starting to feel like Marlin the clownfish in "Finding Nemo" -- "Hey, you're a clownfish? Say something funny!!"

Write something funny, WRITE SOMETHING, DAMMIT!!!! I didn't realize how many of my friends and loyal readers (all three of them) depend on this blog to entertain themselves during horrendously boring meetings and conference calls. Alright alright, I'll try to do better.

HALLELUJAH, we finally found something else Molly will eat for dinner besides chicken nuggets EVERY DAMN DAY OF THE WEEK PLEASE GOD MAKE THEM STOP HAUNTING MY DREAMS!!!!!!

Last night we had Noodles and Company for dinner because, well, it being a day that ends in "y" meant that I was not going to cook anything. I had my usual healthy staple, buttered noodles with parmesan and chicken, extra cheese thank you very much. Molly finally decided that pasta might not be such a bad thing (phew - I was starting to doubt she was mine. Thank God for the mother-daughter resemblance or people would REALLY wonder) and took a tentative bite of my greasy, butterific noodles.

And another.

And another.

Did I mention that in addition to signing for "more," she can now SAY "more"?? In the span of 15 minutes she ate half my bowl of noodles and yelled "more" so many times she sounded like a broken record of "Oliver."

Except that in "Oliver," the cute little urchin says very politely, "Please, sir, may I have some mohhhhr?" in a very proper British accent; and my cute little urchin says "MAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!" and points at the object of desire with more precision than a champion German shorthair on a duck hunt.

Her vocabulary has been growing by leaps and ba's lately, which is dangerous considering she is getting much more adept at parroting what people say and she does, unfortunately, live in a home where her two parents have spectacular linguistic range when watching sports -- none of it suitable for children under 25.

My friend Kathy could tell you all about this danger, as her little miss A was the delight of many a party as she was learning to talk, and her daddy yelled at a Michigan football player named McClintock who screwed up some play or another (as Michigan players are increasingly wont to do) -- "Way to go, McClinCOCK!!!!"

Miss A gleefully piped in, "Cock. COCK!!" and repeated this ad nauseum (fueled, no doubt, by the rest of the grownups who kept asking her to say it -- none of us parents yet at this point, so none of us realizing this behavior would one day come back to bite us in the ass. Butt. Heinie. See, I am incapable of censoring.)

Much to the dismay of several probably-much-better-at-this-than-me mommies I know and love, Molly loves to watch TV (specifically Sesame Street), and LOVES the Sesame Street characters. Of course, making Mommy want to put her head in a nutcracker and smash it to bits, her favorite Muppet is Elmo. Mommy wonders how she made it through her own entire childhood without this annoying pronounically challenged interloper popping up all over Sesame Street, but alas, he is now a regular fixture and, alas even more, (alasier?) he is firmly ingrained in Molly's limited vocabulary.

"Melmo. MELMO? MELMO!!!!!"

Sigh.

She is also a big fan of Ernie ("Heinie!") and Grover ("roh-rov?" not sure about that one yet), and -- gasp, horror or horrors, her favorite thing to play with at daycare? DOLLS. WHO IS THIS KID AND SERIOUSLY, HOW DID SHE COME FROM MY DNA?!?!?! Of course, every doll regardless of age or gender is "Baby."

To those who scoff at the notion of kids learning from TV, yesterday, while watching Sesame Street, the letter of the day was "B" and there was a segment where a big yellow schoolbus drove across the screen. Molly looked up at me and said "busssssss." Kind of in a tone like "God, you big dummy, see that thing?? It's a BUS. Catch up, mommy."

I thought maybe I was high from the chicken finger fumes so I ran to get her plastic school bus, sat it in front of her, and said "Molly, what's this?"

"BUSSSSSSS."

Well, thank God we can watch Jerome Bettis now and she'll know what to say.

I'm off -- I have to go find Melmo. Elmo. Nemo. My sanity. Whatever.

Addendum from yesterday....

2005-09-28T13:19:00.000-05:00

I remembered some more songs that I routinely butcher.

Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" -- "Don't get me wrong, I'm really not sick. Eagle chips is not my thing."

Well hell, they wouldn't be my thing either. I much prefer vulture chips. Eagle chips DO tend to make you a little nauseous.

Rage Against the Machine, AKA Rage Against Anything Intelligible -- "Bulls On Parade" -- "Rarry rarry rarry, with a pocket full of shells. Ra-rarry ra-ra-rarry, with a pocket full of shells." Sounds like Scooby Doo trying to sing about Sargeant Larry.

Pearl Jam -- "Can't Find the Velamints"

Bon Jovi -- "Livin' on a Prayer" -- for many years I sang "Gina wants to die of old age..." and -- frighteningly, I JUST LOOKED THIS UP -- did you know the lyrics are actually "working for her man, She brings home her pay for love...for love." ???? Well slap me upside the head with a deaf rubber chicken. Until 14 seconds ago I thought it was "Workin' for 'the man,' she's free to work back for love...for love" Hey, who knows? "The Man" can be very demanding!! And here all this time I thought he was pimpin' Gina, and Tommy just let him get away with it. Phew. So good to know the truth.

There Goes My Hero...Sergeant Larry

2005-09-27T14:22:00.000-05:00

For someone whose entire education and subsequent career have focused on language and communication, I have a frightening lack of comprehension when it comes to hearing and repeating song lyrics. Frightening, also, because of the sheer volume of song lyrics I KNOW - ranging from early broadway to whatever Kanye West is muttering through his latest jaw operation. If you could actually clear out the portion of my brain that contains obscure song titles, artists and lyrics from 1980-1990, I might actually be able to comprehend and store other useful knowledge -- like, math. Or logic.

But as it is, there is no room for such triviality in a mind cluttered with idiotic and usually completely inaccurate song lyrics. And while I can freely admit those songs whose lyrics escape me, I still sing them anyway -- loudly and proudly and wrongly and lots of other adverbs.

Hearing a Foo Fighters song in the car today reminded me of this affliction -- the song is "There Goes My Hero" -- and the line right after that in the chorus is "He's ordinary." Or so my husband says. But as we all know, enunciation is not cool when you are an alt-punk-quasi-mainstream-band-with-a-nonsensical name, so I firmly believe that what I am hearing are the correct words -- "There goes my he-rooooh, Sergeant Larry."

And then we have Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which for the last 20-odd years has contained the lyrics (at least in my head) "livin' in a pony keg and giving up sparks." All I can think of is a little electrified, short-circuited troll swimming around inside a shrunken beer container.

Abba's "Take a Chance On Me" -- why the hell would they be singing "Honey I'm still free?" I was like 5 when I first heard this song, so from there on out it has been "Ollie Oxen Free" and the song was, clearly, written about hide and seek.

Britney Spears' "Toxic" (yes, I own more than one Britney Spears album) -- "it's the taste of a poison paragraph"

There are some songs I can't hear without laughing -- Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know," in which I DO know what she's saying, but it's far more amusing to think about "the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me" than the "cross I bear." Picturing a deformed carnival prize here.

From "Live and Let Die," the line "this ever changing world in which we live IN" makes my English major sensibilities want to ball up into the fetal position.

I'm sure there are a zillion more but for now, I need to go see if there's already a fan club started for sergeant Larry.

Closet Tag

2005-09-26T10:02:00.000-05:00

ARRRRRRRGH!!!!!! I had this whole post typed out and then did some funky computer illiterate thing to it and lost it. So now I have to START OVER with only the first 3-4 paragraphs able to be recovered. If this gets unfunny FAST, it's because I already used up my allotment of wit on the first draft. RASSIN FRASSIN!!!!!

Let me start off by saying yes, I realize I have become an immense slacker on this blog -- I guess I feel that if ya don't have anything funny/witty/sarcastic/brilliant to say, don't say anything at all -- so you can guess how exciting I have been for the last week or so. I believe I am still in the throes of "post-show letdown," the bleggggh feeling we all get immediately after the last cast party wraps up whenever we do a theater production and realize that yes, indeed, our real lives DID wait for us, and so did our laundry, dishes, child who has learned to throw a 95 MPH fastball/fastblock/fastjuicecup, spouse, job, etc. Rats.

So anyway, as I was contemplating which aspect of my run of the mill life to tackle as I ease back into trying to make my friends expel carbonated beverages out of their nasal passages at least once a day (or, if you're Rachel, far more often than that), I was informed by one of my imaginary online friends (I have a whole posse of them. They are scary) that I had been blog-tagged or something along those lines -- kind of like those "fill out this survey and tell us about yourself, then copy and paste it and send to your friends" things that everyone bitches about getting but everyone does anyway.

The purpose of this "blog tag" is to share information that will probably interest -- well, no one -- about your closet (your real, physical one -- not the psychological one that several people I know are stuck between the bifold doors of -- "Am I in? Out? Drunk? All of the above?")

I have been tagged by my cyber pal Tess -- http://archwords.blogspot.com. For the record, I don't know how to make it so you click on the name and it links to their site -- I will work on that later. One thing at a time, folks. Here we go:

Three Random Facts About My Closet:
1) The sliding mirrored doors are covered from ground level to 32 inches above ground level in a delightful blend of fingerprints, dog slobber and baby snot
2) There are four sections of closet in our bedroom -- three of them are mine, as are the two separate closets in the extra room
3) I hate the mirrored doors

Three Items I've Never Worn But Still Haven't Tossed:
1) A DKNY wool suit that is unlined and ITCHY
2) A black corduroy skirt from Arden B. that collects too much lint to be useful
3) A tighter-than-it-looks-on-the-hanger black skirt from Express that I try on every few months in the feeble hope that my ass and thighs will have STOPPED looking like Snausages being held against their will. No luck so far.

Three Items I'll Never Get Rid Of, No Matter How Ugly They Get:
1) The Notre Dame sweatshirt I got during my first visit to campus when I was a junior in high school, despite having more holes than the theory of intelligent design
2) My stretched out obnoxious orange Tigers sweatshirt
3) My Jay Bell/Pittsburgh Pirates authentic jersey circa 1991

Three Items People Wouldn't Expect To Find In My Closet:
1) Sensible shoes. I DO own some, I just don't choose to wear them
2) A Michigan cheerleading outfit
3) A fuzzy fleece mom-looking robe

Three items that made me go, "Oh Lord, what was I thinking?":
1) A tight wool-blend sweater from Ann Taylor -- makes a mockery of my non-cleavage AND IT'S WOOL, which I hate. Not sure why, at the time, I was convinced that particular blend of wool would be the first ever to not annoy the crap out of me. It wasn't.
2) Anything with a plunging neckline
3) A red mini-skirt suit from the Limited that would work on "Ally McBeal" but not in any real corporate setting unless I was the paid all-male happy hour entertainment

Three things that I have a surprising number of:
1) Suits -- 25 or 30? Despite the fact that I have not had a job that required wearing a suit every day since -- well -- ever. Guess I am prepared for a string of 25 interviews or funerals in a row.
2) Scarves, considering I only wear them during theater shows onstage
3) Shoes, although it doesn't surprise anyone to hear that. Probably 50-60 pairs.

Three dominant colors in my wardrobe:
1) Orange. Lots of it.
2) Black
3) Notre Dame

Three items that never fail to put me in a good mood whenever I wear them:
1) Great fitting jeans
2) One of my favorite sweaters on a 50 degree fall day
3) Suck-it-in brief thingies, which, along with a water bra, make all outfits look better and are the answer to "how can you EAT like that and still be that size???"

Three people I will tag:
1)

Heather

because she needs a kick in the blogging booty
2)

Aerin

although she has much better things to be doing right now -- like, having a child -- than blogging about her closets
3)

Kara

-- because she is funny and probably has some weird skeletons in there

Giving Summer the Boot

2005-09-16T14:27:00.000-05:00

Here in Michigan, the seasons of the year are 1) nasty DAMN cold sloppy winter 2) nasty cold sloppy spring 3) 400% humidity summer and 4) road construction. I was lamenting the passing of summer this morning as I experienced a creepy sensation -- you know, kind of like when your hands keep buzzing after you push a lawnmower around for an hour or you have no feeling around a big scar -- I was forced to put actual whole-foot-covering footwear on for the first time in five months.

Given that I own, without exaggeration, probably 40 pairs of sandals, and also that I have very, VERY weird toe-constricting issues (one wonders how I did ballet en pointe for years), I look forward to the ability to feel the wind and rain and dog slobber on my naked podiatric digits from May til whenever-it-gets-really-really-crappy-in-Michigan.

I was disheartened this morning to have to put on BOOTS since 1) it was raining and 2) I would be spending the morning walking around in the dirt (aka mud) at a construction site. I cringed as I pulled up a pair of Dan's socks -- I despise trouser socks for women and all of my boots come up to my knees so I routinely steal Dan's nice Calvin Klein socks to wear under dress pants and leave him having to fend for his black loafers with a pair of grass-stained sweat socks. Sorry honey. Feel free to do the laundry if you want clean socks more frequently.

It took me a few minutes to retrieve a complete pair of matching non-sandals this morning, as one of the only ways for us to keep Molly occupied in the morning while we get ready is to let her empty my shoe closet -- thus most of my shoes live in single pieces with the mate somewhere lost under the bed, behind the toilet or shoved in a trash can. She is also obsessed with emptying my underwear drawer, but we won't go there.

I morosely jammed my feet into one of my 4 pairs of black knee high boots (yes, DAN, they are all different and yes I DO NEED THEM ALL.) and when I started to walk out of the room, my feet were gripped with a horrible claustrophobic feeling akin to walking around in casts. I had to check about 40 times during the day to make sure my boots were indeed on the correct feet -- it felt THAT WEIRD to be wearing actual foot-covering shoes. My beautiful (well, beautiful is a stretch. Tolerable.) polished toes were screaming in constrained agony beneath a vacuum seal of black leather.

It really truly feels ICKY to be wearing boots, and it's equally icky to know that summer is being booted out the door. Sigh. The only way to combat (oh, ouch. combat. boots. ha, ha, de ha ha ha) this malaise is, of course, to go buy some more shoes. Better stock up on sandals for next year - God knows how many more Molly will manage to lose before next season.

Those pages of the manual must be missing

2005-09-15T14:27:00.000-05:00

There are so many things they don't tell you about parenthood in the nifty "How to Be a Great Parent or at Least Keep Child Protective Services One Step Behind You" manual that all new parents get.

If they told you the truth about pregnancy, labor and/or birth, no one would have sex. Ever. I seriously do not understand how people have more than one child -- did you FORGET the hemorrhoids?? Puking? Heartburn? Having your innards ripped out on a steel table so the doctors can get to the little slime-covered pasty squirming alien that has taken residence between your bladder and your bowels for nine (err, seven) months???

We experienced one of those great moments of parenthood this morning which is only amusing to other parents, when Molly ran over to our full-length closet door mirrors to give herself "kisses" which she loves to do, imparting slobber 32 inches off the ground across a full wall of glass -- only this time, she ran up to it and sneezed and thus covered a two-foot-square swatch of mirror with bright green snot and boogers. Then proceeded to finger paint with it, all while laughing hysterically and alternately licking her hand and running it through her hair.

Oh, the joy.

Among the other items I must have missed when speed reading that manual:

- Yes, a being that small REALLY CAN produce that much poop despite eating only breast milk and the occasional bug. And it really can smell THAT BAD.

- Sticking your finger in your child's mouth to assess their teething progress should only be attempted while wearing one of those chain-link gloves worn by shark documentary makers

- The more disgusting the dog toy, the more appealing it will be as a food item for your child

- Baby carrots do NOT come out of clothing, whether spilled, barfed or pooped

- Believe it or not, grown ups without children do NOT enjoy hearing about the consistency of anything that comes out of your child's body

- Enjoy that carrier car seat while you can. The second they outgrow it you have one of those "well NOW what??" moments when you realize you cannot neatly transfer them from car to store or house or whatever without unstrapping them, rooting through your backseat for whatever toy or piece of lint they were chewing on and then threw on the floor and now CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT, finding the left shoe they managed to take off and throw at your dashboard while you're driving, cleaning pretzel pieces off of every surface in the car because pretzels are for THROWING, not eating, silly Mommy...

- Anyone who says their kid is "great, an angel" in restaurants either 1) only takes them in to pick something up from the to-go counter or 2) is on crack. There is NO SUCH THING as a great kid in a restaurant, unless it's asleep in its carrier car seat; again, see above for the logic of why you should only eat at home, on a large plastic mat, naked, once they are big enough to get out of the car carrier.

- You will never get your old body back 100% without surgery or photo retouching. Sorry. You might weigh less, but you will acquire hips or lumps or squooshiness in areas you previously were OK with showing in a bikini

There are many more items I seem to have overlooked in the parenting manual, several of which I'm sure are still to come. Please remind me of all these things should I ever entertain the notion of doing this AGAIN.

Kathy - you must have lost the whole book ;)

Random observations from the weekend

2005-09-12T11:46:00.000-05:00

This was a crazy-busy weekend, one in which I traveled about 300 miles between home and Ann Arbor (much of it on foot, wearing insensible footwear -- the only kind I own). I attended a bachelorette party, the Notre Dame-Michigan football game, a theater gala, and dress rehearsal for "West Side Story," while Molly basked in the undiluted attention of her Ohio grandparents (following whose departure this child never fails to be completely off her sleep schedule or get sick, both of which promptly occurred this time. I think my mother dopes her milk so that the child will be a mess when she leaves, thus ensuring that Grandma MUST return as soon as possible so as to right all the wrongs that Daddy and I surely impart on a daily basis).

I'll start with Friday night, in which I drove from work to home (15 miles), from home to Ann Arbor and back (60 miles round trip) and walked the length of Ann Arbor and back in 3 inch heeled strappy sandals so that our gang of skimpily-clad primarily over-30 primarily mothers of infants and toddlers (and one fetus in progress) could escort someone wearing a circa 1985 wedding veil plus a veil adorned with plastic penises (penii?) to a gay bar.

Observation #1: There is no higher compliment than an extremely gay man wearing a pink plastic lei telling you "you are FABulous," especially when he does so inside a coed bathroom whose surfaces are not even safe for the bottom of your shoe to touch without fear of instant disintegration. It was the best compliment I have received in MONTHS.

Observation #2: A gay bar is an ingenious place for a group of women wearing various iterations of hoochie black tank tops and sassy pants coupled with nursing bras and an unborn child to tear up the dance floor with absolutely NO reaction from the people around you and no need to feel self conscious. We were like man repellent -- and even the lesbians didn't give us a second look.

Observation #3: Even after two beers and a shot of who knows what, there is no logical explanation for Tiffany's musical career.

Observation #4: Don't attempt to dance on a stripper pole or a stair railing unless you've properly warmed up.

Observation #5: Despite your best efforts, you (straight white girl in the tank top and black pants -- i.e., me and everyone I was with) are NOT "THE" Dancing Queen in a gay bar, no matter how violently you dance to the song. The lovely man wearing a blue beehive and a plaid dress has you beat on all counts.

We left the club at 12:30 or so Friday night and returned home, only to find a child who despite being perfectly healthy when we left her in her Grandma's care (read above about my theory), had now come down with a hearty cold and woke up several times screaming her snot-caked little lungs out before Mommy hauled her into bed at 1 am. She proceeded to wake up mewling like a wounded kitten at least 27 times between 1 and 6 am, at which time I took her into her room and tried rocking her as a last resort. This apparently was great fun -- she wanted NOTHING to do with going back to sleep, but was content to smile at me and lay peacefully on my lap -- peacefully, with the exception of continually poking me in the eye and saying "dada." Fun times.

She finally went to sleep around 7, which left me a whole hour to sleep in before we were due to get up and get ready to drive BACK to Ann Arbor, allegedly at 9 am, to get to the game in plenty of time to tailgate prior to the should-not-be-allowed-to-do-this-to-sports-fans 12 noon start time.

Ha.

We left the house around 10:15, much to the chagrin of my houseguests (my best friend from ND and her husband, who is also my friend, and was before they even started dating, but I know it pisses him off to be described as my friend's husband. nyah) who are well accustomed to my timeframe which generally means I leave or arrive at least an hour later than I ever intend to. My last timely entrance to anything was my own birth in 1975.

We finally walked into the game about 2 hours later. Some observations on the ND-Michigan game:
Observation #1): Wearing shirts that say "RUDY SUCKS!" is NOT an insult to ND people. If they said "NO SHIT, SHERLOCK" on the back, we'd probably sell them at the student center on our own campus.

Observation #2): Whatever academic ranking Michigan boasts should be lowered by about 17 notches given that the two best anti-opponent chants they can come up with as a student body are "F*** THE IRISH!" (clap clap clapclapclap) and this particularly witty one, chanted to a weird funeral dirge type thing played by the band:
YOOOOOU. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUCK. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUUCK, YOOOOOU, SUUUUUCK. SUCK!!!"

Wowee, that last one REALLY drives the nail into the coffin.

Observation #3): GOD is it great to be a woman at sporting events, the only time you can walk past the men's room line and LAUGH

Observation #4): Dan and I may as well have been wearing spit-up stained shirts and holding dirty diapers, given how obvious our parenthood was as we stood in the student section -- at one point, something on the field made us simultaneously yell something in the voice of Elmo speaking to Mr. Noodle, and worse yet, we both found it hysterical.

Observation #5): Get over the "maize" people -- 90% of you wear fluorescent yellow or something closer to what you'd find on a paint chip labeled "buttercream."

From the game, we drove back home (another 30 miles), arrived at 6:15 pm, and by 6:45 were back out the door to attend a theater gala another 30 miles away. Did I mention how swell it is that both of us drive gas-guzzling trucks??

I believe the purpose of this gala was to showcase the different performing groups that appear during the year at this gorgeous new theater complex -- one of which is a new theatre company that I am involved in. By the way, yes, it's "theatre" when it's the troupe you're talking about -- "theater" is the building. Either that or we just like to spell things the pretentious British way, which makes every word look more sophisticated. Glamour. Colour. Booubies. Just stick a "u" in there and voila, instant status upgrade.

Anyway, we mercifully left after intermission, having done our duty in supporting our own little theatre company which looked positively Broadway-bound amidst the other acts that were showcased. We left with very full stomachs, a contraband wine glass (good job, honey) and an appreciation for how talented our regular theatre group really is. Oh, and the knowledge that even the worst performances can be forgiven with an open bar and an unlimited Don Pablo's buffet.

I spent my EARLY Sunday morning watching Noggin and trying to sprint to Molly's nose with a wad of Kleenex before she even finished sneezing, since she has displayed record speed in going from sneezing to running snot-covered hands through her hair in about .3 seconds.

Her new word this week is "uh-oh!" which she gleefully exclaims about 400 times a day. At first she would actually WAIT for something to occur which would elicit an "uh-oh" -- for example, a spoon falling on the floor or a toy slipping off a table -- but now, she more or less warns us so that "UH-OH!" has become code for "I AM ABOUT TO HURL SOMETHING, MOST LIKELY SOMETHING THAT WILL STAIN, AT EITHER YOUR HEAD, CLOTHES OR CARPET!! HA HA!!!" The dog leaves the immediate area so quickly when she rears back to toss something that you can almost see the three cartoon speed lines and a puff of smoke trailing him. He's learned that it's safer to snuffle around for food after she has left the area instead of lurking next to her and getting yet another SpongeBob Squarepants animal cracker lodged in his eye.

Sunday evening I returned to Ann Arbor AGAIN as we started dress rehearsals for "West Side Story." Back home at 11:15 pm (60 miles round trip) so that I can start the whole mess again tomorrow. I'm off to go put another $180 worth of gas in my car that will be gone by this evening...

GO IRISH!!

Molly + Sailboat = ARRRGGGGGH

2005-09-07T14:54:00.000-05:00

I am not good with math in general (as in, I cannot make change from a dollar for something that costs 50 cents), but I am CERTAIN that my math in the title of this entry is RIGHT ON THE MONEY.

I have nothing and everything to write about today, so humor me because if I continue to write about the atrocities that have happened and continue to unfold in the wake of Katrina, I will be forced to take all the pills in my possession and believe me that is a LOT of drugs.

We spent this past weekend "up north" with Dan's family at their "cottage" on a "lake." First of all, EVERYONE in Michigan goes "up north," even if that only entails driving 20 minutes sort of in a north-east-westerly direction from your house. Technically I go "up north" when I drive to work every day. We did not have this phenomenon in Cleveland when I was growing up, as "up north" meant "Lake Erie" which meant "cesspool of hypodermic needles." But in Michigan, you ain't nobody til you got a place "up north," as I quickly learned.

I first went to the "cottage" with my then-boyfriend-now-thank-god-no-longer-sick-and-driving-me-to-the-edge-of-sanity-really-REALLY-needs-a-haircut-please-note-this-does-NOT-mean-shave-your-head-you-dumbnut-husband about six weeks after we started dating in the winter of 1999-2000. I had a boyfriend in Cleveland whose family had a cottage in New Hampshire where his family and I would vacation every summer -- it was about 200 square feet, wood, with a toilet that ran on battery flushing and a shower that delivered about a half-cup of water per hour. It was great though, and in the wilderness, and on a beautiful inland lake, so of course this is what I was prepared to see when Dan invited me to go "up north" to his family's "cottage."

The "cottage" is about 2000 square feet, with a master suite bigger than my entire first floor, room to sleep about 72 people of varying sizes (although I believe the fire marshall would only approve about 40, those other 30-or-so -- see, I'm not actually going to figure out the number -- pile in strictly for the waffles), a never ending supply of beer and froofy drinks, a ginormous yard that, when we eventually got Murphy and started bringing him up, was about the closest thing to Doggy Nirvana he could possibly imagine, jet skis, a private beach (now that it has been dug out of 29 feet of sludge caused by weird coastal erosion, it is much more conducive to laying out without feeling like you are succumbing to the La Brea tar pits), etc.

This cottage is inexplicably called the Blue Goose, which is super because the entire building is pink. I'm sure it made sense at some point. Anyway, this is the "big" cottage -- they also own a rental cottage that is still 5 times the size of what I was expecting, albeit more cottage-esque in its circa 1974 decor. We still get booted to the rental cottage when there is an influx of actual grown ups staying at the big cottage, although having a baby is a great trump card since Grandma and Grandpa adore her. I should say, if they had their way, they would boot Dan and I out and just keep Molly, and frankly, there are many mornings at 6 am where this is a very welcome suggestion.

Anyway, Dan's family is from all over the surrounding "up north" area, including Bad Axe, MI which my San Francisco-native boss still snickers at everytime I say it. I believe he is starting an official petition to the governor to have it renamed "Bad Ass." Hey, we already have Climax and Hell, MI -- why not Bad Ass?

So this past weekend, as is common for all major sun-worthy holidays, hordes of Hearsches descended on the "big cottage" to, in this order, 1) slobber over our child 2) buy our child toys 3) buy our child clothes 4) drag our child around to "be seen" 5) eat. a lot. 6) drink 7) play about 900 rounds of Tripoly, a card/gambling type game that this family has managed to turn into tribal warfare 8) yell at the TV during various sporting events 9) yell at each other because this is the loudest family on earth 10) sleep

Somewhere during the course of all that, Grandma and Grandpa and I decided it would be precious to take Molly out for her first sailboat ride. Now that she can walk like a pro, and likes being outside, and likes the beach and the sun and all that good stuff, we figured this would be a groovy little outing.

Har.

Considering this child does not want to be touched by so much as your FINGER when she is walking, and god forbid you should try to cuddle, hug, kiss or get within 3 feet of her without wearing body armor, I don't know why we thought she was going to be keen on wearing her very cute, very orange, very CONSTRICTING baby lifejacket. We lumbered onto the boat, got settled, and attempted to strap this 21 pound ball of fire into a restraining device.

I look like I was fighting with a mountain lion, and I wasn't even the one strapping her in. Then, because it was 85 degrees and sunny, we had to put a sun hat on little miss baldy pants, which was about as successful as the Tigers' recent offense (for you non sport types, that means it SUCKED). So as Grandpa is motoring the boat out past the breakwall and onto the lake -- oh, did I mention this is LAKE HURON?? As in, really really really BIG LAKE with waves and everything -- I am trying to hold onto a very, VERY disgruntled orange flotilla with flailing appendages who is trying to alternately claw my eyes out of their sockets and crawl back into the womb to escape the rocking motion of the below-deck cabin.

About 10 minutes into our trip, the cabin below had reached a temperature somewhere between 85 degrees and pottery kiln, and the rocking motion was doing GREAT things to mommy, queen of the claustrophobes. I do NOT get seasick, never have in my life. But trying to calm her down while swaying and lurching was not going well with the 9000 calories worth of breakfast sloshing around in my stomach.

In short, it wasn't a very long sail. We did finally get her up on deck, and she stopped crying long enough to eat some animal crackers and try to ingest the filthiest, non-baby-proofiest items she could find on board.

After that, I went back to the big cottage, took a big pill with a big drink and took a damn big nap on the beach while Daddy, who was smart enough to point out that he HATES sailing, would be going nowhere near this excursion, and wouldn't be surprised if his boat-aversion got passed along to his child, helped Molly play with the in-house slot machine.

There is no doubt where the gambling gene came from. It's the only time I can stand numbers.

Katrina and the Unfortunately Named Oceanic Phenomenae

2005-08-29T14:13:00.000-05:00

Anyone else think that "Katrina and the Waves" are collectively walking around with bags over their heads right now?? Yowch. Don't think they will be doing a reunion tour of the south anytime soon.

Here is my rant for the day: people who, despite three days of warnings from everyone from the President (well, OK, to be fair, I try to tune him out too) to the governors of several states to the nerds who study weather disasters with every second of their geek-laden lives to the National Guard to Miss Cleo the psychic, refuse to believe that "MANDATORY IMMEDIATE EVACUATION" applies to their ignorant asses DESERVE TO GET SWEPT OFF THEIR ROOF IN A 20-FOOT WALL OF SEWAGE-SOAKED WATER.

Kudos to the, oh, MILLION other people who were smart enough to get out of harm's way; but there are inevitably those who retort with the "rassin' frassin', I lived through the great storm of nineteen-ought-whoozawhatzit and dadgummit I kain't leave thems chickens here all alone" mentality and then, sure enough, are the ones jamming up 911 at the peak of the hurricane's strike pleading for emergency personnel to come by in a magic kayak and rescue them despite 150 mile an hour winds.

Chalk it up to Darwinism in my book -- these people deserve whatever they get. It infuriates me that emergency workers will inevitably lose THEIR lives at some point rescuing these morons from the roofs of the 2-room tin-panel covered shacks that their owners were SURE were going to withstand winds going three times the speed of cars on their street.

I can understand that some natural disasters don't give you time to prepare - tornado, meteor strike, alien attack, etc. -- but they've been tracking this hurricane since it was making windsocks flutter off the coast of Africa two weeks ago!!! When terms like "catastrophic loss of life," "toxic cesspool" and "30-foot storm surges" get bandied about for three days in advance of said disaster, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD LISTEN.

I will now descend from my soapbox and go back to hoping that the hurricane at least does some good, like knocking down the Britney Spears museum in White Trashton, LA or wherever it is she hails from.

Men-ingitis

2005-08-24T14:26:00.000-05:00

Here's a riddle: What's worse than a sick man?
A: A sick man you are married to.

What's worse than a sick man you are married to?
A: ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING!!!

(By the way, my lubbly hubband who has da cowd said id wad OK for me to wride dis)

Why is it that men who are perfectly unfazed when they take a large divot of flesh out of their leg when using a garage-sale-find weedwacker that has been souped up for maximum efficiency with a rusty piece of coat hanger (true story in my house) are completely unable to function when they sneeze more than three times in a day? They will willingly play idiotic, harmful and certain-to-end-in-someone's-scrotum-being-the-focal-point-of-the-ER-visit sports like rugby (aka "drunk men trying to kill each other" -- in cleats!) , yet are reduced to whining, simpering, snot-leaking sacks of patheticness when they get a cold.

Dan harps on me for giving Molly children's Tylenol (he seriously thinks this could lead to an addiction problem. Of what??? Red liquids?? Like she'll rob a 7-11 someday because she has a primal need for an extra-watery Slushee because I gave her too many red suspended liquids as a child??!) anyway...dammit...hold on...(looking under my desk)...oh, OK, there's my point.

The kid is cutting fangs that are six thousand times worse than any puppy teeth I've even been gnawed by, which, Oh, I don't know, probably HURTS. We don't want to overmedicate. Unless daddy is sick.

He'll first walk around the house morosely opening and closing cabinet and refrigerator doors, sighing heavily, in that "pleeeeeeeease ask me what's wrong" tone, shoulders slumped.

When I don't pay attention (usually because I am watching "The West Wing" or "Lost" or something that seriously requires thought) he'll ask in a veryverysad little voice "wherrrrrre is the tylenol?"

"Why, do you have a headache?" I'll ask.

"My (fill in the blank, anything that is not actually his head) hurts/is clogged/is itchy."

"Well then you don't need Tylenol. You need allergy medicine."

"Ok. Wherrrrre is the allergy medicine?"

"Probably in the medicine cabinet. What an immensely silly name for such a holding device."

He'll go upstairs and I can hear him banging around in both bathrooms and usually the computer room as well. He'll come down five minutes later and collapse into a chair.

"Did you find it?"

"No. I found some cough medicine and some advil and some benadryl."

"So what did you take?"

"All of it."

Dan's idea of dosage for cough medicine is this: put bottle to lips, chug, count to some arbitrary number, like 17, and stop. He has no idea a) why we run out of cough medicine after a day and a half of illness and b) why he falls asleep for 20 hours at a time. Whatever the dosage is for anything, it clearly wasn't intended for such a unique physical specimen and I'm sure no doctors or technicians tested the doses on, like, full grown adults. So he doubles, or triples, the dose, and more often or not makes some kind of tossed salad type creation with whatever drugs he can find and washes them all down with a beer.

Right now he is suffering from allergies, although he of COURSE won't go to a doctor, or take medication that, you know, is intended to address ALLERGIES. He is also seemingly incapable of understanding what facial tissue was invented for, and instead opts to blow his nose IN THE SINK, WITH HIS HANDS. It is one of those sounds, like nails on a chalkboard or "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, George W. Bush" that make me want to rip whatever-colored hair I am sporting this week out of my head.

I am hoping to God that he feels better soon -- not because of a great concern for his welfare, but becaus I already have one child to take care of who at least can't fight me when I wipe her snotty nose with a Kleenex. Although...how does Dan know what I do to his snotty nose when he's passed out in a chair looped out of his mind on a Robitussin high??? Hmmm....

**Editor's note -- I am the ruling party/matriarch/CEO of Medicationland myself, so I realize I have no room to talk when it comes to pill popping, sleeping for ungodly amounts of time while the other spouse is left to tend to explosive diapers and a newfound affection for finger painting with one's food, whining, craving illness sympathy or a myriad of other things that I rip on my husband for. It's just funnier when it involves a man. Nyah.

Beware My "People"

2005-08-21T11:51:00.000-05:00

"Oh. My. God. Your people are INSANE," my husband told me on Saturday. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and we were just getting back to our car after my company's family picnic at an excellent area game/arcade/go-kart/batting cage/money-wasting type place made all the more excellent by the fact that we didn't have to waste any of our own money, and go-karts are much more fun when preceeded and post-ceeded by free beer.

By my "people," he was not referring to others of short stature or uncategorizable hair color or uncertain Slovakiaustohungarian descent.

"My people" are fellow ND alums. Domers. Irish. And we are a scary, scary lot.

The incident that prompted my husband's most recent incredulous commentary (one of about 100 he has uttered since we first met) involved a note we discovered stuck under one of the wipers of my car. As we walked up to the vehicle I first thought the paper flapping on the windshield was an ad for some strip club or a protest notice that the 17-year-old employees of the entertainment establishment we'd been enjoying were striking to obtain better 401Ks and domestic partner benefits or something.

Then when I saw that it was handwritten, I began to panic -- "Holy crap, I must have cut some lunatic off on the go-kart track and he's stalking my family! Did I hit someone's cat on the drive here and they followed the trail of fur and blood??"

Fully expecting the note to read something like "You stoopid moron, you banged my car with your door! I am sueing you!" (we were not in an area that would lead me to high expectations for grammar and spelling on windshield hate notes), I gingerly slid the paper from beneath the wiper blade and held it like one might hold an anthrax-soaked death threat.

I needn't have worried.

"GO IRISH!" it proclaimed in all caps. "Go Charlie Weis!" (the ND football coach, for the majority of my readers who are female and are not pre-wired with the ESPN addiction I have developed over the years). "My son Tom (last name) and wife Meghan (last name) are Class of '97!" He also listed their home phone number, and signed his name -- and added "Class of '65"

Aaaah yes. The ND Network strikes again.

How, you ask, did this gentleman deduce my allegiance to Notre Dame? My "97 ND" license plate might have been a good starting point. Please realize that I live in southeast Michigan, home to rabid Michigan and Michigan State fans, a few of whom even attended and graduated from those respective schools (note -- the latter is not a prerequisite for being a loudmouth, boorish, haughty aficionado). Driving around with that license plate, especially when I spend so much time in Ann Arbor, home to the University of Michigan (South Bend, please note -- this is what a college town is actually supposed to resemble. You, as a town, suck. A lot.), is akin to driving around the GM headquarters parking lot tooting a horn that plays "Turning Japanese." My supporters are few and far between, and trust me, they do NOT reside in my home or share my last name.

Yet wherever we go, whether I am wearing a Notre Dame hat, shirt, jacket, or toting around one of five zillion other items of paraphernalia, "my people" always seem to track me down and vice versa.

Waiting in the bathroom line at the back of the plane during a flight to who knows where on a recent business trip, a gent in his late 20's saw my Notre Dame baseball t-shirt, asked me if I went there, and within 30 seconds we had raced through the "3 degrees of Notre Dame" game and pinpointed which professors, favorite dining hall foods and footpaths containing the least amount rabid squirrels en route to class we shared in common. This is a lot like the game "6 degrees of Kevin Bacon" or whatnot, except Notre Dame people are so weird that we need far fewer steps to find things in common.

If you are a University of Michigan alum, and you run into another University of Michigan alum, chances are you will know where the same buildings are, have drunk beer at the same establishments and maybe know a friend of a friend who graduated in the same year as the person you have just met. If you are a Notre Dame alum, chances are high that somewhere along the lines, your parents were in the wedding party of this person's parent's roommate; your own former roommate's sibling is currently dating this person's brother's best friend; you have both sneaked booze past the same usher named Lou near section 33 of Notre Dame stadium; or, in the case of Mr. Class of '65 who felt compelled to give me a good ol' ND shout out on the windshield of my car, your daughter in law was good friends with the college ex of the person you know nothing more about than the fact that they have a pompous license plate.

Which, in fact, his daughter in law...was. Is. Yikes. I knew her name immediately. She lives in Cleveland now and I have not talked to her since our senior year but our paths crossed thanks to the irrepressible Domer-ness of her father-in-law, who like most of us who wear their heinously overpriced class ring every single day, simply could not walk past the "97 ND" beckoning from my license plate without sharing some of the ND love.

I received an email a week or so ago by a fellow alum who had read my blog and realized that we both had children born in the same month and year. "What class year were you?" she wrote innocently enough. Turns out we were, of course, both class of '97, and lo and behold, she remains best of friends with a group who are also good friends with one of my ND roommates. I shared the news of my roommate's current pregnancy; she shared news of weddings and random run-ins with other classmates I would know; we made plans to tailgate this season and introduce our little Class of...err...2026 Domerettes to each other.

I got a fabulous job with the Tigers several years ago simply because the then-president of the team was a Notre Dame grad. He didn't know me from a hole in the wall and to this day, probably sometimes wishes I had kept it that way. But on a whim, I thought I'd see if what "they" say was true about the power of ND...I wrote him a business letter explaining my desire to work in professional sports -- what path should I pursue? Get an MBA? Switch careers out of PR? Start in the minor leagues??

If you were a graduate of, well, almost anywhere else in the world and you wrote such a letter to the president of any major corporation, you would get a lovely canned response back, written by a bored secretary with a laser-printed signature of Mr. Alum, saying "Thank you for your interest. However, it is our experience that English majors are not good for much aside from being able to recite the first 30 lines of 'Canterbury Tales' in middle English dialect (which, by the way, I can do). Thank you for writing and in the event that a job becomes available that matches your qualifications, we will all be very, very frightened and will run for cover to flee the approaching apocalypse."

Not so at Notre Dame. He responded with a handwritten note inviting me out for coffee and spent an hour and a half getting to know me, my skills, my interests, and of course, swapping ND stories. He didn't call back the next day with a job offer -- he called two days later with an interview offer. Hey, these things take time. That interview eventually led to an entry level job. I stayed for four years and worked up through the PR department thanks solely to the crazy phenomenon of the ND factor.

While my husband rolls his eyes when things like the dashboard note or random people striking up conversations with me at the vet's office or during childbirth happen, he also admits, with what I adamantly maintain is a wee bit of jealousy, that he has never seen anything like the connection between ND people, regardless of class year, gender, major or which coach they had either the misfortune or bragging rights to associate with (I will always pledge allegiance to Lou Holtz).

My people are a scary, scary group. And we love it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go call someone in Cleveland.

Lo, How the Mighty Have Fallen

2005-08-18T09:05:00.000-05:00

I admit it -- I used to be a mega-store elitist snob. I scoffed at people who shopped at "Tar-zhay" and swore that someday, I would exercise my right to NEVER register there in the event of wedding or childbirth. Kohl's? Bah. Meijer? Only if I need something at 2 a.m. Wal-Mart? Spawn of the devil.

Oh, how times have changed. Well, mostly. I still run screaming from Wal-Mart and think I have actually only purchased something there in the case of a dire swimsuit and sunscreen emergency on a business trip. Just walking through the store makes me feel icky. Blegh.

However, I have completely succumbed to the black hole of irresponsible, throw-away shopping that is TARGET. In conducting a recent very scientific poll of exactly 3 of my friends, I have determined that it is physically impossible for a woman to go into Target and emerge with only the item or items she originally entered the store to buy.

I went to Target last night with the intention of buying plates, napkins and a gift for an upcoming shower I am hosting (by the way, how did ANYONE get married or have children before the Target gift registry?!? I adore the friend I am hosting the shower for in part because she actually registered for all of "The Simpsons" seasons on DVD -- and where else can you get "The Simpsons," picture frames, trash cans, cookware and hemorrhoid medication all in one place?? Genius). I somehow walked out holding an $85 receipt.

What the hell jumped in my cart?!? I had Molly with me and by the end, she was no longer feeling the love for Tar-zhay (and no one in the store was feeling the love for her ear-piercing howls and goldfish cracker hurling) so maybe in my efforts to speed through the store I didn't notice that she pulled extra items into my cart.

I have no idea how this happens but it happens all the time. I stride purposefully over to the greeting card section and do my best to shield my wandering eyes as I hurry back to the checkout counter with my ONE SINGLE $2.29 ITEM IN HAND when all of a sudd...OOOOO! SHINY THINGS!!!!

Ok, I'll just buy this one funky photo frame. I mean, I could always give it as a gift for Christm...OOOOO! STRIPEY FABRIC THINGS!!!!

Well hey, I've been meaning to replace some of my bath towels. And these are ON SALE so I mean really, I'm saving money! Wait...now the shower curtain won't match. I better go check out the bath aisl...OOOOO! PINK FUZZY WALLETS!!!!

I mean, it goes on and on. It's a vortex from which no woman with a functioning credit card can hope to escape. So should you be the person on my Christmas list who gets a lime green Hello Kitty change purse and a pair of Isaac Mizrahi maternity pants...well, just know I had no choice. They jumped into my cart.

Daycare Diva

2005-08-16T11:32:00.000-05:00

We sunk yet another rung lower on the ladder of utopian parenting yesterday. For ther record, rungs we have passed on the way down include:

allowing our child to drink chocolate milk solely so Mommy can eat spoonfuls of raw, undiluted, orgasmic Nestle Quik straight out of the box;
failing to read to her on a daily basis, largely due to the fact that she likes to either eat the books or use them as projectile weapons -- the exception being "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" which has been read soooooo many times that the only thing Mommy now sees when that book gets toted out is an oncoming migraine;
not teaching her baby sign language, although somehow without our prodding she has perfected a very snooty, dismissive, Queen-of-England-esque wave that makes you feel like you should immediately remove yourself from her regal presence, you annoying piece of filth;
allowing the TV to be on, all the time, because frankly, a Daddy sans-Simpsons or Mommy sans-SportsCenter is not someone you want to associate with-- and besides, she learns some colorful new words when Mommy is watching the Tigers;
encouraging her to follow Mommy's diet plan of carbs, carbs with a side of carbs, washed down by a carb-shake (hey -- she likes carbs. They mostly don't end up on the floor, or on/in/under the dog. Whatever works at this point);
and sometimes, God forbid, not bathing her every day unless there was a REALLY angry poop involved, or Daddy fed her.

Yesterday, however, we topped all of that as we began the ritual of abandoning our child with strangers 9 hours a day. Very, very, VERY expensive strangers. Molly started daycare yesterday, after spending the previous year in the blissfully ignorant dreamworld of one or the other of her Grandmas, wherein she developed the theory that yes, indeed, the world DOES SO revolve around Molly.

Yesterday was a rude awakening. Many of my friends were more concerned about how I was going to react to the new daycare situation. I suppose if Molly were to have cried, sobbed, clung to my leg like a...a...leg-clinging...thing...I would have felt more remorse. As it happened, we set her down in her new classroom and she took one look around at the toys toys toys toys MANY MANY TOYS, WHY THE HELL DID MY IDIOT PARENTS NOT BUY ME ALL OF THESE TOYS ALREADY?!?!??!?! and she was off. She got her grubby little clutches (they were only grubby because Daddy fed her breakfast, and apparently Murphy didn't do a very thorough job of licking them, the preferred method of Daddy post-meal hygiene) around a plastic croissant and a plastic pear, and weren't nothin' or nobody gonna take those away from her.

Some innocent little boy wandered over to see who this new hot blond chick was and what toys she might have and she promptly let him know that these were HER FAKE CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST ITEMS THANKYOUVERYMUCH and the reign of Molly the Magnificent had begun.

When I picked her up yesterday, she briefly turned and looked at me, scowled, gave me the "piss off, peon" wave and went back to trying to beat another hapless little boy (what kind of wuss boys are in this place??) over the head with a school bus toy because HE WAS HOLDING THE XYLOPHONE, and apparently did not get the memo that all toys, everywhere within eyesight, in any situation, are clearly meant for Molly ALONE. Damn interloper, messing with her domain!!

Her teacher sing-songingly reminded her, "Now Molly, we need to sha-are!"

I laughed the smug laugh of an only child and shook my head at this poor teacher. Whatever they are paying these teachers, it's not enough if they are going to have to be the poor saps who teach this child that one, there are actually other children in the world and two, some of the toys on earth do, in fact, belong to them. Good luck with that.

In case you're wondering, I did fine. The daycare folks called me twice to let me know that she was having a great day, and more importantly, that she hadn't yet lodged plastic pastries into other children in such a manner that surgical extraction methods were necessary. Still waiting to hear how today is going, but hoping that in the words of my media idol, the great Gary Gnu of "The Great Space Coaster," "No gnu-s is good gnu-s."

ESPN-D haters

2005-08-12T09:19:00.000-05:00

Oh. My. God. ESPN has actually published something that is not entirely critical of, misinformed about, biased toward, hateful at or derisive upon (I am running out of prepositions to stick after words here) my alma mater.

It occured to me that nowhere in this blog or in my profile thus far have I touted my undying devotion to Notre Dame, which, in my life of married-to-double-Michigan-grad, daughter of Penn State grad, in-law to Michigan State grad and friends with people-who-went-to-Div.-6-schools-with-T-ball-teams-instead-of-football-teams-who-still-find-it-their-right-to-hop-on-the-ND-bashing-bandwagon-yes-Timo-I-am-talking-about-YOU...causes a lot of non-speaking spells from September through January 1 (or 4, or 6, or 27th -- whenever that last bowl game finally gets played and I can promptly start counting the days to Spring Training).

I not only bleed Blue and Gold - I also blow it into my tissues and clean it out of my ears. There's just that much of it in me. I was a 1st generation "Domer" -- and if you think it's coincidental that I named my child "Molly Catherine" instead of something distinctly UN-Irish, well...I am also considering sticking an O' in front of our last name when it's time to do college apps.

Anyway, back to ESPN. Being the sports junkie that I am, I am pretty partial to the station/magazine/ESPN empire as a whole (with the exception of Lee Corso, who needs to run off with Terry Bowden and go make little sniveling troll babies somewhere). However, ESPN in general is one of the more anti-ND establishments on earth (save for Digger Phelps, and even he can't pretend that we have something resembling a basketball team most of the season).

So when I read this recent article about new Irish coach Charlie Weis, I was pretty pleased to see that at least for the time being, someone other than the Notredame Broadcasting Channel had good things to say. Enjoy the read (don't worry, they still bash on the Ty Willingham fiasco and it includes lots of gratuitous references to the actual "Rudy," the world's biggest tool even in my opinion, so there's plenty to hate if you are any of the above-mentioned people in my life), and expect to be overrun with Notre Dameness in the coming months. Training camp started this week and I will be visiting South Bend this weekend to, among other things, get a refill on my blue and gold platelets.

Weis embraces intangibles only ND can offer
By Pat Forde
ESPN.com

Notre Dame players reported for the 2005 football season Sunday. After checking into their dorms, the first order of business was a team meeting in the theater of the posh new Guglielmino Center.

The purpose of the meeting? Charlie Weis had his team watch "Rudy."

Only natural, right? Notre Dame players watching the stirring story of the little walk-on who would not be denied his chance to suit up for the Irish?

But when the movie was over, Weis took the motivational ploy over the top. And in the process he showed that when it comes to grasping his unique new job, he simply gets it. Gets it better than any Notre Dame coach has gotten it in a long time.

Weis walked to the podium and told the team, "I could tell you what 'Rudy' was all about. But why don't I have the real Rudy tell you?"

With that, 5-foot-6 Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger popped out of his seat in the theater. Invited from his home in Henderson, Nev., to South Bend, Ind., by Weis for this special screening, he'd snuck in near the end and had been sitting anonymously among the players.

"We were just like, 'wow!' " said linebacker and defensive captain Brandon Hoyte.

"I felt kind of bad," said quarterback and offensive captain Brady Quinn. "He was only a row or two behind me, and I was laughing when he was getting knocked on his butt."

Rudy didn't mind. It was the getting up off his butt that made his story movie material.

By the time Ruettiger got to the stage, the players got over their shock and got on their feet. They gave Rudy a standing O.

"They were like little kids," Ruettiger said. "Eyes wide open, clapping and cheering."

Ruettiger, who now makes his living as a motivational speaker, gave the players 15 minutes of Grade A Notre Dame rah-rah.

"You cannot ever quit on yourself," Rudy told them. "That's when you lose it. If you're going to quit now, you're going to quit a lot more important things later on. ... Your belief system must be this university. That's why you're here."

It should be noted that this was the first time Ruettiger had spoken to the team at his alma mater. The movie that made him famous is more than 10 years old and has been used as motivational material for Florida State, Alabama, Wisconsin and other college teams -- but not at the school where it was filmed.

That all changed when Ruettiger picked up the phone one day this summer.

"Charlie Weis here."

"Charlie Weis?" Rudy responded. "You gotta be kidding."

Ruettiger said that Weis wanted to make sure Rudy knew he was welcome to come back, and asked him if he'd speak to the team. You had me at hello was the gist of Ruettiger's reply.

The plan for this August appearance was hatched, and the favorite Fighting Irish underdog officially became a big Charlie Weis fan.

"If you don't understand the movie, you don't understand Notre Dame," Ruettiger said. "Charlie understands Notre Dame."

And he understands motivating young people. This beats castrating a bull, doesn't it?

When it comes to winning the hearts and minds of his players and Notre Dame Nation, Charlie Weis is doing all the right things. We'll see whether he has enough hands and feet to do winning work on the field, but Weis has done a brilliant job of tapping into the intangibles of the Golden Dome.

First it was the tireless tour of the Notre Dame dorms, meeting with students to talk football and reinforce the best student body-athletics bond in the country. Then it was the play to bring back Irish icons Joe Montana, Joe Theismann, Tim Brown and Chris Zorich as honorary spring game captains/story tellers/legacy educators. Now he's got Rudy welcoming the players in for fall camp.

What does Weis pull out on the eve of the Sept. 3 opener against Pittsburgh? A séance to bring back the Four Horsemen?

I detested the way Notre Dame dealt with Tyrone Willingham, firing him with unprecedented haste. But that doesn't mean I was convinced that Willingham was the best coach for the school over the long haul.
Among the problems: He was a dispassionate man at a passionate school.

Charlie Weis doesn't have that problem. His offense might be coldly analytical, but he's not -- not when it comes to Notre Dame. Weis is willing to plant a wet one on the school's spirit and see if he can't make that spirit do some work for him.

The Notre Dame grad is a real-life Rudy -- went to school in South Bend as a regular student, returns as its head football coach -- with a graduate's feel for the myth and lore of the place.

Of course, it should be noted that Gerry Faust had a limitless love of the ND intangibles, as well, and look where it got him. Whistling the fight song on your way to work doesn't necessarily make the work easier. But Weis is bringing an NFL mind and a fistful of Super Bowl rings to campus, not the Moeller High School playbook.

And it's nice to see that a career NFL man can connect with the rah-rah stuff that still makes college football one of America's coolest enterprises. It's been known to work.

Pete Carroll won't hesitate to play cheerleader with his guys at USC. Urban Meyer is a solid bet to sing the Florida fight song with the band and students after every victory, just as he did at Utah. And Charlie Weis isn't afraid to tap into his inner leprechaun.

Pat Forde is a senior writer at ESPN.com. He can be reached at ESPN4D@aol.com.

Well Isn't That Just Rich

2005-08-11T11:25:00.000-05:00

HOW cool (and yes I mean to yell) is this website??

http://www.globalrichlist.com

You go to it, enter your annual income in dollars or euros or pesos or chickens or Lucky Charms or whatever it is you use for currency, and it tells you where you rank among the rest of the world.

Now, like online IQ tests (which my husband was rather disgusted to find out last night that I one, had taken, and two, had not scored the near-genius levels he himself would score on such a thing --- if he were to lower himself to such a petty and stupid exercise -- which he WOULDN'T, of course....he's just saying...) I question the validity of the rich list website -- interesting concept, but I'm questioning their ability to pinpoint EXACTLY where I fall among the world's inhabitants. Do conjoined twins count as one person or two? How DID they find the time to survey approximately six billion people about their earning potential? Did they consider child labor?

I know that the point of the website is to show everyone who makes a comfortable living that they are, allegedly, clearly sooooo uber-wealthy compared to the rest of the world that they should donate money (in my case, they suggest just one hour's salary, approx $48.61) to some cause du jour to ease the unconscionable burden we are obligated to feel because we are able to Super Size our Mickey D's meals.

Dammit, I don't want social causes mixed in with my "hey, cool, try this out!" websites!!! Did the people on the Make-Your-Own-South-Park site ask you to give money to support all those homosexual teachers who wear mini-bearded-"Where's Waldo" type puppets on their hand?? No, they did not.

I have no real point today. I know we live a comfortable life; that I am a shopaholic; that I do not grasp the concept of yard sales and auctions and estate sales and would rather have one verrrrry overpriced thingy from Pottery Barn than six verrrry similar looking items from an auction place simply because I want to say that I have nice grown up things from Pottery Barn. I also understand that this makes no fiscal sense, and some night I am going to wake up buried in the back yard locked inside my verrrry overpriced Pottery Barn thingy while my husband cackles softly as he carries the shovel back to the garage and rejoices that he never has to deal with my neuroses, listen to the "Wicked" soundtrack or watch "Sense and Sensibility" or "Emma" one more time, EVER.

Wow did I get off topic. Anyway, if you are dying to know, I am the 46,777,565th richest person in the world. Many of those 46,777,564 other people are the professional athletes I used to work with, who often made about a gazillion-point-three dollars per at bat and whose job qualifications were to hit a ball 30 percent of the time (often less, given the ones I worked with) and the rest of the time, readjust their jock straps, spit, and think of interesting ways to either hit on or insult women in various languages. I know how much one of said former players whom I actually still like makes per year, so I entered that, and got this lovely derisive message:

You are in the top 0.001% richest people in the world.

You don't need to know any more than that (and besides our calculator can't do sums that big).

Please consider donating just a small amount of your enormous wealth to help some of the poorest people in the world. Many of their lives could be improved dramatically or even saved if you donate just one hour's salary (approx $2083.33)

-- And he's not even GOOD! I entered the amount of money I made per year when I was working in professional sports, and lo and behold, I was now the 601,655,887th richest person in the world, making about $17 an hour. I compared that to the $2000 an hour for someone doing a crappy job at playing a GAME, and eventually decided to sell my soul to corporate America for a reasonable price.

For the record, my husband and his family are slowly succeeding in making me see the value of auctions and not EVERYTHING we own is from Pottery Barn. Some of it is also from Crate & Barrel. All of it is covered in dog hair and salsa drippings. Having a baby actually contributed very little to our overall mess quotient.

Travel Trials and Tribulations, Part Two

2005-08-09T21:26:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, August 9, 2005

Something o’clock PM – my computer says 7:15 EST although I am somewhere over Kansas or Minnesota or something, so what I do know?

Well, I am currently at 37,000 feet on my way back from Denver. I am slightly less substance-ically enhanced than on the way out, although not much – still slammed the Klonopin (half a pill on the Avis shuttle bus as I was freaking out and sweating bullets for no conceivable reason) and a whole pill as soon as I was seated in beautiful aisle seat 3C, thank you Northwest for yet another upgrade.

First class is so amusing to me, because nine times out of ten, or, you know, approximately 75% of the time, I am the only woman seated here. I am also generally the only person under 35. I am typing this in a word doc right now only because it seems that out of the 15 other all-male all-middle aged passengers around me, I was the only one doing something so clearly uncorporate and un-first-class-deserving as reading People magazine. I at least should be reading BusinessWeek or Wired or something, just for appearances’ sake.

Although on the way down, I got into a great conversation with a gentleman who was at least 60 years old about the newest Harry Potter, which he was toting around in all its purple-hardcover glory along with his laptop. I refrained from expounding on my snogging theories and no, I did not ruin the ending for him.

So I figured I better bust out the laptop and at least pretend to be doing something useful, although I have the little animated Word “assistant” enabled as the puppy dog so every time I use spell check or hit save, the little puppy barks at me. I am DEFINITELY surrounded by those whose Word assistant would be the innocuous, boring paper clip thingy. That is just the kind of world that first class is.

I had a delightful and kind of frightening Mommy moment as I was seated waiting for my ohmygodweareabouttotaxiandImightdie panic to ensue and the poor schlubs in coach class were still boarding. A rather frazzled looking mom (like there’s any other kind, especially when traveling with kids) carrying a toddler with wonderfully unruly boinging, bouncing curls paused next to my seat as the morons in front of her in line tried their best to cram their grand piano-sized carry-on bags into spaces that would barely fit a pair of rolled up socks. Anyway, I waved at this little girl as I am inexplicably now drawn to doing – for the record, I was NOT an awwww, cute baby!!-waver in the past. I still don’t wave at ugly babies.

This little girl giggled and her mom prodded her with, “say ‘hi,’ sweetie” – and the little girl pointed right at me and said, loudly and proudly, “MOMMY!”

Considering Molly’s only discernible words are DADA which she yells with joyful abandon every 5 seconds when Dan is in the room (and every 10 seconds when he’s not) and something that resembles dog – more like “daaaaaaawg” – yes, we are raising a little gangsta in training – I almost burst into tears to hear something of the child-like variety refer to me as Mommy. Her own mom laughed and said “yep, I bet she is a mommy” as they kept walking.

Wow. I have actually become a recognizable Mommy, even if it’s just a vibe that little kiddos pick up on. Who knows. But it was darn cool and the best pick up line I’ve heard in a long time.

Non-stop Flights to Crazyopolis, Now Departing Daily

2005-08-08T23:41:00.000-05:00

1:55 pm EST, Monday August 8, 2005

Waiting in the schwanky-danky “WorldClub” at the lovely Detroit airport before my 3:07 flight to Denver. Dan got me a WorldClub membership each of the last 2 years for our anniversary – even better than the fun perks like free soda, all the wine and beer and liquor you could drink (if you were unlike me and actually COULD drink before flying, without mortal fear of making you sick, like everything else in the world) and ENDLESS Milano cookies is the wonderful feeling of snootiness you get from whooshing though those mysterious frosted doors at the entry. Suddenly you are separating yourself from all the riff-raff out there in the concourse…pssssh, PEONS, begone.

Of course, anyone sucker enough to pony up $350 a year for said perks can achieve airport snobbery just like me. I, personally, am doing my part to make sure it is $350 WELL SPENT, in my ongoing attempts to eat as many Milano cookies as they can set out in their pretentious little silver bowls. Keep ‘em comin’, Northwest. You are talkin’ to a pro here.

I plan to take the nectar of the gods, Klonopin, at about 2:30 – plenty o' time to make me pleasantly oblivious in the face of my usual pre-take off panic attack which subsides, promptly, as soon as the wheels leave the runway. For most people this is when air fears set in, but for me, the torture is being strapped in my seat, unable to get up or god forbid GO TO THE BATHROOM, in the event that the elapsed time between when they pull away from the jetway to when the wheels leave the ground might be when I finally have the giant colostomical/gastroenterogical breakdown I have been fearing my whole life and cover myself and everyone with in a six-row radius with poop. Hey, it could happen.

The bizarre-o factor is that if it is a half empty plane, and I am seated in my comfort zone du jour (last row, right side as you are sitting in your seat, no one in the two seats next to me, no one at least two rows in front of me, no one across the aisle from me) I am much, much calmer. It’s the overwhelming fear of drawing attention to my insane neurotic behavior that I fear the most. I am a 30 year old corporate type person dressed in nice clothes, with no small child to draw attention away from me, and thus, I should just blend comfortably into the bored, blasé background of similar travel-weary types.

Isn’t that a sad goal in life? Yet it’s what I’d love to do more than anything.

10:43 pm MST (Denver time)
May have overdone it a bit on the Nectar of Klonopin. As we started pushing back from the gate, I frantically dug through my purse and pulled out the bottle of magic yellow pills. I took one out and cradled it in my palm, thinking that maybe just knowing it was there would calm my nerves. I don't NEED this stupid pill. I got upgraded to 1st class; the nice woman in 2C let me switch with her so I could sit on the aisle; I haven't eaten anything (except some Milano cookies) all day so what could POSSIBLY make me sick, right?

Detroit Metro Airport has to be home to the absolutely most excruciatingly long taxi times on earth. I swear you bob along at 10 mph in your plane til you are halfway to Kentucky before you actually take off. So, plenty of time to sit. And wait. And panic. And OKmaybeI'llbreakthepillinhalf...NO, I don't need it. Taxitaxitaxitaxi...OKmaybeI'llbreakthehalfinhalfandjusttakeaquarterofapill. Gulp. Done. 5 seconds elapse. Still feel panicky. Quickly take the other quarter of the pill, so that's 1 1/2 Klonopin in about 45 minutes. Plus some Immodium, my magic butt caulk, despite the fact that I don't actually need it.

We finally make it to wheels up, and I haven't died or exploded or cried or anything, so I think I will reward myself with a nice free glass of 1st class wine. And a refill. And do you know what happens to a 110 lb person who is slightly over the recommended dose of sedatives, also taking Zoloft, without food, plus wine, at 20,000 feet? If you do, let me know because I'm sure I don't remember. I did a crossword puzzle, I think...and then fell asleep. It was joyous. Not so much when I had to get off the plane and go find the rental car, but I can truly say the flight didn't bother me. I also believe I now have to get drool stains off my blouse.

Had a great dinner tonight with one of the uber-cool mommies from my Babycenter.com May 2004 birth board -- also may have overdosed on that, as we took full advantage of the roughly 17 courses at the hip fondue place she found for us. One of us is pregnant and can stand to eat that much -- I'll give you a hint, it's not the druggie ;)

I am off to bed, and maybe to find some molten chocolate to dip my toothbrush in...adios from the Mile High City.

Golden Retriev-durrrr

2005-08-05T13:22:00.000-05:00

I know it's rare for humans and animals to be able to pass diseases to each other, but I swear that my craziness has been leaking out of my pores and somehow contaminating the dog. In the last few days, Murphy has become either regressively dumber or possessed - the jury is still out.

Some people wonder what their pets do all day while they're at work -- lay on the couch, lick their rudely spayed-or-neutered parts without fear of reprimand, invite their buddies over for some Texas Hold'em -- but I can tell you with certainty what Murphy does with his free time.

Stares at light fixtures.

He has developed an inexplicable obsession with several ceiling-mounted light fixtures in our home, including our...er...colorful dining room Tiffany-style dragonfly-covered (GOD I pray for a stray Michigan earthquake to break that thing -- Molly! Quick! Learn how to play ball in the house!) lamp, and the very boring hanging fixture in our front hallway.

Mind you, these items have been installed in their respective ceiling-places for the two years we have owned this home, and never once, at least to my knowledge, have they done anything suspicious to warrant 24/7 canine supervision.

But when he's not following Molly around trying to nonchalantly eat Teddy Grahams out of her sticky little fingers, Murphy is poised, ready to pounce like a possessed, shaggy Sphinx, beneath one of these offending light fixtures.

He can stare at them for hours. Every 17 minutes or so, he growls at whichever one he is visually boring a hole through; runs around the table; knocks over a chair or a child, whichever is more inconveniently placed, and sits back down to resume staring some more.

Every once in a while, he remembers that there is a ceiling fan in the family room and WOW -- while his head stays still, you can almost hear his little eyeballs rattling around like psychotic marbles as he follows every turn of the blades.

Don't even get me started on the two innocent little goldfish we housed in a brand new fish tank for Molly to enjoy last week. She couldn't care less about them, since she a) can't get to them and thus b) can't try to eat them, but to Murphy, they apparently pose an immediate and deadly threat. The first day we got them he whimpered for hours. And hours. A pack of rabid llamas carrying the Libyan terrorists from "Back to the Future" could have stormed our house, stolen our child and left us for dead, and Dumbnuts the Wonderdog would have remained firmly planted in front of the little plastic pirate skull that so mercilessly taunts him from inside that damn tank.

Do they make OCD drugs for dogs??

And on the eighth day he created cramps

2005-08-04T12:35:00.000-05:00

The Menstrual Process: proof positive that God is a man.

Nothing Nachos Can't Fix

2005-08-03T11:16:00.000-05:00

Attention citizens of Blogland - we now return you to your regularly scheduled smartass. We apologize that yesterday's blog was apparently overtaken by an uncontrollably morose interloper from the planet Zoloft, Stardate PMS 8/05.

The ruling party of Interrupting Cow, Her Majesty Queen Moolonia the Great, wishes to issue the following statement:

"Thank you all for your kind words of concern, healing, and for the wisdom of that weird Turkish guy who wanted me to PLEASE SEND MY PERSONAL EMAIL INFORMATION TO HIM RIGHT NOW THANKYOUVERYMUCHYESPLEASE! Thankfully, everyone slept in their own beds last night with little or no crying or psychological meltdowns. The condition that temporarily overtook me was apparently nothing that nachos couldn't fix (or at least patch over - sort of like congealed cheese caulk for the psyche), and for that we thank the brilliant Rachel FranKOUGAHHHHH. If that makes no sense to you, well, you're just not as cool as you wish you were. Please resume your normal daily activities - nothing more to see here."

Unrequired Love

2005-08-02T13:49:00.000-05:00

When I was younger I thought that my immense vocabulary was certainly something to be haughtily proud of. By seven or eight, I was soooo much wiser than all those other kids who foolishly thought that some tart named Madonna was singing "Like A Virgin" -- "Who would be singing about baby Jesus' mom outside of church?" I scoffed. I knew that it was "Like, Aversion" -- didn't have a clue what Aversion was, but I knew it was a word and a BIG word at that -- therefore, it must be right.

I also remember hearing about "unrequited love," and assuming that some idiot must have misspoken -- the term, I was certain from my little grade school soapbox of superiority, was "unREQUIRED love." It made much more sense. You could love someone to death, and that was enough -- if they didn't return the affection, it was all good -- you had enough love for both of you and their reciprocation was, in fact, unrequired for your happiness. I mean, I had unrequired love for four out of five New Kids on the Block at one point or another and that was enough for me. It wasn't until I was 15 or so and developed the first gigantic crush of my life that I realized that just my participation in this love fest wasn't gonna cut it -- love was, cruelly, a two-way street of requirement.

The concept didn't really strike me again until recently, and in a way I never thought possible. Unrequired (yes, I mean to keep phrasing it that way) love doesn't just work between two grownups of incompatible attraction. It is just as strong and infinitely more heartbreaking between a parent and child.

As background, let me point out that I am currently "transitioning" -- er, "crashing" as my husband would say -- between medications. The Effexor I had been taking for a few months hadn't been doing its job -- neither had any of the multitude of other anti-depressant/anti-anxiety/SSRI/herbicide/pesticide concoctions we've tried over the years. I have recently been more and more frequently rendered absolutely helpless under panic and anxiety attacks, scaring fellow airline passengers from coast to coast as I shake, sweat and squirm as though being questioned by the Iraqi Republican Guard (sorry, I watch too much "Lost") while the rest of the people on board somehow manage to blithely go on with their existence around me. Bastards.

Anyway, I have just "ramped down" off of Effexor and am "ramping up" on Zoloft with a chaser of Klonopin every day. Let me tell you, Klonopin is fuuuuuuun stuff. Not so sure I should be driving, or walking, or even attempting to pee unassisted while on it, but it sure does negate those anxiety attacks. wheeeeeee.

I digress. (as usual). In addition to bottoming out my supply of Effexor and still taking only a tiny dose of Zoloft as my body adjusts to the new meds, this week is also what Dan and I refer to as "Mr. Happy Week" -- signaling the arrival of the ONLY thing whose absence made pregnancy enjoyable. Let me tell you what kind of head-on, pedestrian vs. 18-wheeler at 100 mph collision PMS and emotional/psychological drainage does to you.

Has anyone out there who takes medication for anxiety or depression or any of their related mental cousins ever wondered what kind of parent they would be without the meds? For me, I feel like my mommy license should routinely be suspended -- and that's WITH the aid of things that are supposed to keep me in control. For weeks and months, I have been snappy; frustrated; prone to slamming down the spoon and leaving the room when Molly won't cooperate with mealtimes and begging Dan "YOU do it -- she hates me. She won't eat for me." I have no patience and I hate it. I have no control over my emotions and I hate it. I wonder every day of my life why God made such an immature, selfish, unstable human being responsible for a helpless little blond creature who doesn't know any better that her continued insistence on putting the food in her hair makes Mommy leave the room and cry. And I hate it.

I was overwhelmed yesterday with feelings of unrequired love in regard to Molly. I feel like I am a passing fancy to her -- interesting when I first walk in the room, but never anything that elicits feelings of joy or love or clinginess or need or anything. When moms on my baby board ask other moms for advice about how to get their child to stop crying "Mommy! Mommy!" when they leave the room or stop clinging to their leg or who won't go to sleep unless Mommy tucks them in, I want to reach through cyberspace and smack them in the head with some unrequired hatred. I feel that I am nothing more than an interesting diversion to Molly and that I am pouring love on her the best way I know how, which admittedly is very flawed and littered with frustration, self-doubt and anger that I will never get this Mommy business right.

One of the only times I feel that my unrequired love is being returned, or at least tolerated, is bedtime -- the times when she actually allows me to rock her to sleep; when she nuzzles up to my neck, pokes me in the eye a few times just to make sure I'm still there and still gazing at her, and then drifts off to sleep. Part of me relishes this ritual so much because it makes me feel like it is the only part of Mommyhood I am any good at, and the only time I feel like she needs/wants me. But then other times, like last night, I realize that she would probably curl up with Jack the Ripper or the Son of Sam for all she cares - it has nothing to do with me being special to her.

As I rocked her last night, after an evening full of Mommy throwing down spoons, declaring that Molly will "never" walk because she is clearly sooooo far behind, only taking 10-12 steps at a time at 14 months (10-12 steps at a time is 11-12 steps more than she took a week ago, mind you), I absolutely fell apart in her comfy glider chair. I was torn between "she needs me and loves me and I am a toxic, horrible mother in return" and "she couldn't care less about me, and I could snuggle and cuddle her here til 3 am and nothing is going to change that." I laid her in her crib, sat down on the floor next it, and cried. For a very long time. I even scooted over to the darkest, smallest corner of the room I could find, wedging myself between the crib and her dresser, wanting to curl up into the smallest, most pathetic ball possible (yet staying away from the monitor lest Daddy hear the muffled sobs, think it was Molly crying, and come up to find me holed up like a wounded badger).

After about half an hour I thought I had a grip, so I went off to bed. Two minutes after laying down it started all over again. And despite the fact that Molly was happily asleep in her crib, I padded down the hall, picked her up, and brought her to bed with me. I laid there with her on my chest, crying as quietly as possible so as to not wake her up, until my mom, who is staying with us during weekdays to help watch her until she starts daycare (too soon), got up to go to the bathroom and noticed Molly's door was open. She checked her room, found no baby, and came into my room to find her 30 year old, fiercely independent, well educated daughter trying to quickly wipe a mess of tears and mascara off her face while desperately hugging an oblivious sleeping toddler in the other.

My mother, who has dealt with a host of mental issues both personally and in her family, found very little odd about this and simply asked, "is she OK?" knowing full well it was not because Molly couldn't sleep that she was curled up with Mommy.

I had already taken a sleeping pill to try to help numb the mess in my head, so I answered back "Yes. It's me. She didn't need me -- I needed her. It's just...just...this is the only time I feel like I am being a good mom to her. She doesn't need me. I need her."

Lovely - I am crying all over the place even rehashing this, which is super duper considering I am about to get on a conference call at work.

My mom gingerly picked Molly up, put her back in her crib, and somehow I wasn't embarassed any more -- I kept saying "I can't do it. I'm a horrible mom. I mean, all these meds -- what kind of mom am I that I need medication to function, and I can't even function very well WITH them."

I don't remember what she said except that she sat on my bed and said reassuring things - the things I expect a good Mommy to say, whatever age they are, to their messed up, hysterical child, whatever age THEY are.

There is no happy moral to this story. I woke up with a blinding migraine and just wanted to die. I have been crying on and off all day. I am sure those of you used to reading my humorous blatherings on all things banal will think an alien took over this blog for the day - but as I said yesterday, to know me is to love all of me, even the crazy parts (and the dysfunctional ass). I just hope my mom is right, and that I am not suffering from unrequired love from Molly. Maybe my mom felt the same way at some point as I was growing up. I'm just glad she knew that she was desperately required by me last night, and I hope someday, Molly will do the same.

Maybe It's A One-Legged Guy

2005-08-01T12:03:00.000-05:00

(What? What's that you say? My mommy is insane?? Well, thanks for the warning at least)

Those closest to me -- as well as anyone who has known me for longer than approximately 23 minutes -- know that unending optimism is not one of my strong suits. It's not even one of my weak suits. Frankly it's a suit that's not even in my closet, which is REALLY saying something, because there sure as hell are a lot of other things in there. Despite the fact that orange is my favorite color and I do bounce around with the relentless energy (some would say ADD characteristics) of Tigger, in reality, my moods are much more in tune with Eeyore. Right down to the fact that my butt is also always in danger of falling off, like Eeyore's tail, although irritable bowel is not (at least as of this writing) curable with a little button-on tail that seals the hole back up.

Editor's note: To know me is to love ALL of me, even my dysfunctional ass which dictates much of my existence. Please do not call me anal retentive. Oh, I WISH that were the case.

Anyway, butt-issues aside, nothing made my gloom and doom demons come out with more vengeance than the premature birth of our daughter, Molly. I promise that at some point I will regale you with that bit of drama, but here are the basics: despite a very healthy uneventful pregnancy, wherein I cut the Cokes back to 1 or 2 a day (down from about 17), sort of exercised (well, ran to the bathroom faster than usual), didn't get any additional tattoos and refrained from punching the little cretin inside me back when she was pummeling my bladder during executive meetings, she still decided to show up 9 weeks early (at 31 weeks gestation, for those of you i.e. MEN who have no concept of how many weeks/months/agonizingly painful swollen miserable hemorrhoid-ridden hours go into a normal pregnancy).

Since the moment she was unceremoniously schlepped out of my innards via C-section (during which, did you know? they talk about you like you aren't conscious -- WHICH YOU ARE!!! I clearly recall my doctors talking about their weekend plans one minute, and the next, explaining to some hapless intern "Now, we're just going to take the bladder blade and move that over...that's right, now if you could just hold up this strand of intestines..." "HELLLLLLLLLO!!!!!" I shouted. "I CAN HEAR YOU!!!! I COULD DO WITHOUT THE PLAY BY PLAY THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!!!" At least, this is what I thought I was saying. From what my mom later told me, as she was the unlucky soul seated next to me trying very hard not to puke on my head while patting my arm in the least convincingly reassuring manner ever, what actually came out of my drug-addled brain/mouth was "I CARRRERRYA! HA HA, BLAAAAAADDDGGGE.")....where the hell was I ?? Oh yes. Since the moment she came into this world I have been, as my husband puts it, "waiting for the other shoe to fall."

She was 3 lbs 1 oz at birth, and only 15 1/2 inches long. My husband eats philly cheesesteaks bigger and longer than this on a regular basis. Although she was so early, they gave us pretty good odds on her being pretty darn OK. Her Apgar or Agpar or whatever those stupid baby scores that they dole out up on birth to assess their color, size, ability to shatter glass with their screeches, likelihood of one day playing tight end for the Packers...her scores were 7 at 3 minutes after birth and 9 at 5 minutes. Those are pretty darn good, even for a full term baby, but in my "what do you MEAN I GOT AN A-MINUS??? I DO NOT ACCEPT THIS!!" brain, I wanted TWO TENS, DAMMIT. My stupid, incompetent, claustrophobic uterus was a failure from the beginning in my eyes.

When she was first born, she squeeked (it's cuter if you spell it that way) like a very sweet mouse rather than cried like the babies you are programmed to expect by watching a hundred and fourteen thousand episodes of "Maternity Ward" on TLC. I actually recall sobbing as I begged God and whoever else was listening and might be able to put in a good word or two that "I wish she would cry louder! SOB!!" (I didn't actually yell "SOB." Maybe if I did they would have upped the morphine. Have to keep that in mind for the next one).

"She's FINE, Mel," Dan and my parents and his parents and our doctors and nurses and everyone else who came into contact with us would tell me 100 times a day. She started off needing a feeding tube that they would insert down her throat, let food flow down, and then remove. Considering the many, many preemies who need full time feeding tubes, surgeries, and a host of other aids to help them eat, everyone saw this as a great sign. I, however, saw it as Baby Armageddon. Surely the end was near. She had trouble learning to breast feed, and because like a good pregnant mommy I had read every book on the subject and knew that BREAST IS BEST GODDAMMIT, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU CRAPPY-UTERUSED-FAILURE?!?!? I took that as a huge slap from God too. Nevermind that we set up a breast pump, which you would think would have cured me from my fascination with cows VERY QUICKLY, having been mechanically/electrically pumped a gazillion times a day for weeks; she was getting breastmilk and that was great -- to everyone else but me. This was not how it was supposed to be!!!

She quickly graduated to taking pumped milk via tiny little bottles, and at first, could only take down 2 or 3 cc's at a time. If you can't fathom how much a cc is, it's about enough to sustain a baby flea. While everyone else rejoiced as she moved from 2 to 3 to 10 to 20 ccs per feed, I panicked every second of the day that she would be eating pureed grilled cheese out of a medicine dropper when she was in grade school.

For every routine test they ran on her, for vision, hearing, brain development, etc., I answered each "amazing -- she is just GREAT" with an array of questions I had educated myself with from the University of the Internet. "But...what about...did you test for...couldn't she have...what if she doesn't..." And Dan would just repeatedly tell me to stop waiting for that "other shoe" to drop.

I couldn't let it go. We finally got her home, taking 4-6 oz bottles of milk and doing everything a normal newborn should be doing. However, I became a slave to "What to Expect: The First Year" and literally made checkmarks in the book for the things she could do and panicky little question mark thingies next to the things she couldn't. For every doctor that told me she was progressing fantastically well, I countered with the story of a friend or a friend of a friend whose 1, 2, 3 or whatever month old child could already roll/eat solids/speak Portuguese, and OH MY GOD, IS MOLLY BEHIND????

Finally one day, and I wish I remember when it was because I would have written it in her milestone book, Dan turned and looked at me during one of my "well I REALLY think she should at least be able to do basic sign language by now" rants and said:

"You know what?? Maybe it's a one legged guy."

Understandably, I looked at him like he was a few crayons short of a full box.

"Huh?" I retorted with remarkable wit.

"The other shoe. It's not gonna fall. Maybe it belongs to a one-legged guy and there IS NO OTHER SHOE!!!! So WILL YOU JUST LET HER BE A BABY AND GET OVER IT?!??!!?"

Didn't cure me, of course, but it did help temper the crazier bouts of pessimism. For the record, she can now screech at volumes I did not realize were possible without the aid of Dolby Digital SurroundSound equipment; uses about 49 letters of the alphabet to talk in a language so advanced that weird marsupial beings on some other planet must SURELY understand her, is learning to walk, can crawl like lightning, and oh yeah, eats anything that's not nailed down (at least tries to. usually spits it back out, but hey, it's the thought that counts).

So please, everyone -- keep reminding me that in this case, maybe it really is a one-legged guy.

Interrupting Cow Goes to Pot(ter)

2005-07-29T13:54:00.000-05:00

Last night, I finished the sixth and latest "Harry Potter" book, a tale so complicated (at least in my current state of medication) that I thought I was going to need a decoder ring and an org chart to figure it out. I admit I was not surprised at the death (if you haven't read it, don't blame me if I am about to ruin your happiness by spurting out all kinds of details) but DID find myself getting waaaaaay too worked up about the varying romantic plots that litter this particular book.

It's like someone unleashed a rampant spell on all the students -- Hormonus Rageamongous? -- but it seemed every character except for the giant squid in the Hogwarts castle lake was gettin' their "snog" on with someone.

The plot goes something like this:
a) Harry and friends go back to school
b) Harry and friends are ridiculed
c) Harry and friends are famous
d) Harry and famous friends don't look so bad now to all the suddenly boob-laden/perfume wearing hoochie witches who start throwing themselves at the young boy wizards with the same crazy ass love potions that Ric Ocasek must have used on that super hot model wife of his (there is no other explanation for a pairing of someone that heinous and someone that...not heinous)
e) Harry and famous friends decide that a little promiscuity here and there never really hurt anyone, and besides, wizards invented the cure for herpes, right? so they and their classmates fling themselves at every willing target they encounter (including a couple of ghosts, and maybe a centaur or two)
f) Harry and famous friends all switch partners and resume "snogging"
g, h, i) - repeat, repeat, repeat, until you have swapped saliva with all of your classmates, your classmates' siblings, your enemies, your local bartender, and half the staff of Hooters of Diagon Alley
j) fight some bad guys
k) dream about who you plan to snog in the next book

I realize I may be simplifying things a bit. I also realize I am something of a Harry Potter freak and spend far too much free time worrying about what kind of hair products Hermione must use to keep that mess under control, whether or not I could convice Dan that our next child's middle name should be Hedwig, what shape my own Patronus would take on (probably a cow -- and yes, THAT would certainly stare down death and have it fleeing in terror....), and whether I could get my OB/GYN to give me a lightning-bolt shaped scar on my next C-section.

That's all for now. Daniel -- READ THE DAMN BOOKS. It would make this post much funnier.

EXPELLIARMUS!!!

(Did your keyboard go flying out from under your hands there??? eh??? am I good or what?!?)

Noggin'-a get this crap outta your head

2005-07-27T10:13:00.000-05:00

This, my friends, is Ooby. At least one of them is. The other one is Uma, his sister. Both of them are pure baby crack in our house, capable of holding Molly's attention longer than all of her expensive battery/solar/plutonium-powered walking/talking/hokeypokeying toys put together.

Ooby is one of the programs regularly enjoyed by toddlers and stared blankly at by parents on the lovely invention called Noggin -- "It's Like Preschool on TV!" In our house, it's like free babysitting, albeit babysitting by an alarming concoction of uppity British animals, claymation thingies and hands with eyeballs stuck on them.

I don't know what I thought I was planning to do with our child when I brought her home from the hospital before I discovered Noggin. I thought we would be doomed to old standards like Sesame Street and...er...Sesame Street -- let's face it, cartoons and kids shows have gone downhill fast since the days of the Banana Splits, The Great Space Coaster, Captain Kangaroo, the Smurfs, Shirt Tales, JEM...OK, maybe that last one wasn't so great but it didn't stop me from wishing I had long pink hair and could get any 7 year old hottie I wanted with my wicked guitar playing.

Baby Einstein videos were a good start, but nothing prepared us for the pure rapture of discovering Noggin and its seemingly endless parade of strangely named animal characters, brain-rotting between-show snippets that you CANNOT GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD, no matter what you try, and commercials clearly aimed at grownups that make me laugh like a maniac.

I do, however, have some concerns about some of the Noggin shows and the mere fact that these bother me so much means that the evil gamma rays of mind domination emitting from channel 110 in our house have already taken hold of my brain cells. These are brain cells that were so full of useless 80s song lyrics and statistics about the 1968 Detroit Tigers that it must be a hell of a battle going on in there for the few remaining snippets of sanity.

Let me start with "64 Zoo Lane," a show about a bunch of zoo animals who frequently reminisce about their lives in Africa, despite all having Her Majesty's perfect British pronounciation, and who cavort at night with their little friend Lucy who a) has no discernible accent whatsoever and b) apparently cannot afford more than one pair of pajamas which probably smell pretty rank considering she runs around all night with hippos and such. The problem with this show is its theme song, which now runs through my head at extremely inopportune moments such as during conference calls, merging into 6 lanes of traffic or during sex. And I can't remember half the words, so my lovely inner voice sings "there's one with....ermefffff...and one who can...mmfffhf...and one who is...WELL A LITTLE BIT PLUMP (I always remember that one). I could go in the car and crank Audioslave at full volume and still be muttering WELL A LITTLE BIT PLUMP as I get out of the car.

Another show that causes me far too much stress is "Franklin," about a kid turtle who happens to be the only one on the show with an actual name. I guess you don't worry about having a wuss name like that if you're a turtle - not like someone can punch you without breaking a hand on your shell. But his friends are cleverly named...Rabbit, Beaver, Bear...well alrighty, let's just succumb to stereotypes here and assume Rabbit is not the only child of Mr. and Mrs...Rabbit. What are the other kids' names? Rabit? Rah-byt? Is it like that group Tony Toni Tone and they just spell them all differently? And the adults are all named Mr. or Mrs. (species,) so that makes his friends Bear Bear, Rabbit Rabbit and Beaver Beaver. This bothers me to no end.

Onto Oswald the octopus, voiced by where-has-my-career-gone Fred Savage. Oswald has a dog named Weenie, which is appropriate because she actually is a hot dog with a tail. I always wonder if Fred couldn't have had a bit more influence and have her named Winnie instead? That would set up a great inter-species junior high hormone fest. Oswald's best friend is an insanely effeminate, uppity penguin named Henry, voiced, as one would clearly expect, by SQUIGGY from Laverne and Shirley. ???? I keep hoping that Henry meets a horrible death but so far, no such luck.

Thank GOD Molly has not yet discovered Dora the Explorer, who, while I'm sure she provides wonderful education to children, makes me want to hurl her off a cliff while screaming both See Ya Sucka and HASTA LA VISTA, BEEYATCH!! See? I learned some Espanol from her.

First of all, where the HELL are this kid's parents??? At this rate Dora's going to become Dori or Candi or Trixi and be a streetwalker by the time she's 15. The other thing that drives me BATTY is when Dora asks her friends at home a question, and then they stand there and stare at you for what seems like 25 minutes while the little characters blink a couple of times and then yell "That's RIGHT!!" How long do they think kids need to answer them?? And HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT'S RIGHT?!?! When Dora asks me if I see her backpack on the screen, I usually yell back something like "SHOULDN'T YOU BE IN SCHOOL!?!?" and am answered, pleasantly, with "That's RIGHT!!!!" ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH.

We love to watch Connie the Cow (also inexplicably British), Miffy the weird emotionless claymation bunny thing, and especially the antics of the cleverly named "Moose A. Moose," Noggin's official mascot. I just love saying it. I plan to name my next child Hearsch A. Hearsch. We are also strangely obsessed with the creepy sing-along songs led by Lori Berkner, and now randomly featuring where-did-my-career-go-too-by-the-way Lisa Loeb. My hope is that they branch out soon -- I would love to see the White Stripes going at it with "When You're Happy And You Know it (smoke some weed)" and some very frightened looking children staring blankly at them.

If any of my readers here can explain to me why Hedgie the Hedgehog in Connie the Cow's neighborhood wears a striped sock on his nose, looking very much like a cross between bad hosiery and a candycane prophylactic, please enlighten me at once.

For now, I have to go. These earnings charts aren't gonna sort themselves, you know.

WELL A LITTLE BIT PLUMP -- arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!!!!! damage done, already stuck for the day. Rassin' frassin'.....

Baby Chicken -- YOU get up.

2005-07-25T10:32:00.000-05:00

We have a lovely tradition in our household on weekend mornings. It starts with the traditional game of "baby-chicken," in which Dan and I attempt to drive the other out of bed to retrieve the babbling, poo-covered screech monkey that inhabits the crib down the hall (a breed of monkey who apparently has NOT been bred to understand that mommy and daddy DO NOT FUNCTION before 9 on the weekends; 10 if drinking was involved the night before). We each crack an eyelid open as carefully as possible so as not to let the opponent know that we actually are awake or are acknowedging the hooting and squawking blasting over the baby monitor (despite the fact that this is what this device was designed and purchased for); we let out a few badly-acted snores and grunts; we flip over violently so that our backs are to each other, making sure to yank the blankets with utter disgust as we both silently curse the neglectful parenting skills of the other who will so selfishly NOT go tend to the racket in the other room.

Finally one of us snaps the covers back with enough force that we hope will mimic a vicious lockerroom towel snap to the ass, and trudges down the hall to get said screech monkey.

I must point out, since it is my blog and I can tell the truth as openly as I please, that ONLY MOMMY seems to ever notice the rancid stench coming out of Molly's diapered area after 10 or so hours of sleep. Daddy, miraculously, who can distinguish between cuts of pork chop in a wok and types of seasoning used in chili from 2 miles a way, cannot apparently smell a thing. It is at this point that whoever got up first usually decides that now would be a perfect time for some family bonding, and so back we go to mommy and daddy's bedroom with (half the time at least) a poop-laden very chatty baby who spends the next 45 minutes standing on the head and attempting to squelch the eyes out of the poor parent who is still trying to fake being asleep.

"That's RIGHT! That's MAMA! Say, HI MAMA!!!" pokepokepoke gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghlelelgh as she decides to take a step on my trachea shortly before trying to hurl herself headfirst onto the hardwood floor for the 1000000th consecutive time.

Eventually, the parent who was sucker enough to get up takes Molly downstairs for breakfast and the second part of the weekend tradition -- watching the highly addictive lineup of Noggin's morning shows. More on that next time though...and if you are of the mindset that toddlers shouldn't watch TV, I invite you to try to pry this child away from either Elmo, Miffy the weird non-lip-moving bunny thing, or Ooby the freak show human hand with eyeballs on its "head." Seriously.

Cow, Interrupted

2005-07-22T12:56:00.000-05:00

I suppose before I ramble on any further I should explain the extremely secretive, uncrackable-by-even-the-globe's-finest-spies title of said blog.

1) I have a cow obsession.

2) I have the sense of humor of a 3 year old.

Combine these two highly combustible elements and you get my signature joke, one that I tell on every occasion I get and one at which I cackle and snort like livestock with Turrett's. It's hard to tell in writing, but I will try. You -- do your part and participate where required:

Me: "Knock knock."

You: "Who's there?" (If you said "Whose there," please stop reading now and GET OFF MY BLOG, you grammatically challenged pile of smoking dung.)

Me: "Interrupting Cow."

You: "Interru..."

Me: (YELLED for best effect) "MOOOOOOOO!"

Ya get it? Interrupting cow?? I interru...oh, nevermind. I find it endlessly amusing though. Most people laugh not from the actual joke but from watching me writhe with mirth as though you just told me the funniest tidbit on earth -- like "Tom Cruise has a point" or "The Tigers could definitely contend for the wildcard this year!"

I should probably mention my second favorite joke, so that those of you with children under 4 or particularly dumb pets can pass along something they will appreciate:

Q: What do you call a fish with no eyes?

A: FSH.

hahahaha. Get it? No "i"s??

Wheeeeeeee, and again, SO many people wonder what higher power deemed it appropriate for me to procreate.

Moo.

Funny Ha-Ha

2005-07-19T12:45:00.000-05:00

I have never realized how hard it is to sit around and try to randomly throw out bits of sparkling wit until now. First of all, I am still struggling to figure out what the point of blogging is anyway. Who wants to read this crap?? How do people like Heather Armstrong (my personal blog heroine, dooce.com -- one of the funniest writers currently alive) get started?! And how do they stay funny??? It's not like my friends and family are gonna come on here and catch up on my life -- I see them all the damn time anyway. Like they really need color commentary in addition to the daily play-by-play they already see of my life??

I am basically doing this to succumb to peer pressure, in that everyone always says "ha ha, you are soooo funny, you should write!" and I say "ha ha, I also like money and I should have a job which supplies some!!" So I do (the latter), but I still miss (the former). So there you go, poor denizens of cyberspace, I guess I will have to use this as my brilliant canvas of linguistic creation. Also, I want to impress the cool mommies on my babycenter.com birth board, who all have unending witty things to spew on their own blogs.

Egyptian Hula

2005-07-19T10:58:00.000-05:00

Why is this badly made-up woman doing the Egyptian hula in a white potato sack?

There's no punchline, that's seriously what I was doing in "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" in January 2005. I am a theater geek (as if there was another variety of theater person), currently doing "West Side Story." My "home theater" of choice is Ann Arbor Civic Theatre, which if nothing else provided the setting for me to meet all of my best friends. Oh, and husband, who subsequently hates everything to do with theater. It's not my fault he bound himself to a life of suburban boredom because he found me there but if he wants to take it out on AACT, he's perfectly welcome.