Katrina and the Unfortunately Named Oceanic Phenomenae

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

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"

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing Nachos Can't Fix

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

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

(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)

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

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.

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

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

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

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.