Holla If You Think She's In For a Rude Awakening

Pregnant Neighbor: I don't understand these women with new babies who say they can't get anything done.

Me: Mmm. Yeah. (thinking) You are speaking to one of them. We meet for biscuits and Valium on Tuesdays. How may I enlighten you?

Pregnant Neighbor: I know one girl who said she didn't shower for, like, two days because she was so distracted taking care of her son! Can you believe that?

Me: Wow. (thinking) Two days? I can totally top that.

Pregnant Neighbor: Seriously! Just put the kid in the swing, y'know?

Me (aloud): Right. The swing. (thinking) I dare you to try it. But before you try it, make sure you haven't slept in at least 48 hours. Oh, and I hope you get a baby that would rather poke toothpicks in his eyes than sit in the swing. They make babies like that, you know.

Pregnant Neighbor: All my girlfriends who have kids tell me that after I have the baby I'm going to lose myself...

Me: Check.

Pregnant Neighbor: ...and that I'm going to lose control of the house.

Me: Double check.

Pregnant Neighbor: And that I'm going to stop paying attention to my husband.

Me: Yep, probably. Poor bastard.

Pregnant Neighbor: I just don't get how that happens. I am not gonna let that happen.

Me: Well, it uh, it all depends on the person.

Me: (thinking) It happens because humans? We kind of need sleep. With a new nugget in the house, you won't be getting whole lot, or at least not as much as you're used to. So when you have the choice to eat or sleep, clean dishes or sleep, converse with your husband or sleep, you will always. choose. sleep. You'll either be sleeping, or you'll be awake and focusing all your energy on someone else. And then you start to wonder, hang on, what about all the stuff I did before this kid came along? If I can't do that stuff, then who am I now? IS THIS IT?? From there, things sort of go all to hell.

Pregnant Neighbor: Oh, and this same girl didn't shave her legs for six months! She claims she just didn't have time! Isn't that ridiculous?

Me: Yes. Gross. I would, um, never let myself go like that. Never. Not me.

*Slamsheadontable*

He'll Always Have a Place in Our Hearts. And Possibly Our Sewer System.

Dearly beloved, we gather today to mourn the loss of Bob the Fish.

Bob passed away two days ago at the ripe old age of 9 months plus however long he festered at the pet store. He died gasping for air as he apparently suffocated on something he definitely was not supposed to eat peacefully in his sleep and leaves behind a bowl of water that went months without a cleaning a loving family of four.

Bob's sister discovered his lifeless body lying sideways on the bottom of his bowl, with mysterious blue fibers tangled around his gills and head like a tiny Egyptian death mask. At this time, authorities do not suspect foul play. Authorities suspect that Bob was stupid.

She immediately notified their mother, who spent ten minutes insisting that no, Bob is not stuck, what do you mean "Bob can't swim," Bob is probably just sleeping and no, you cannot brush his teeth. However, upon entering the scene, she concurred that Bob was very much not swimming and she felt kind of relieved, actually became distraught with grief.

Bob enjoyed swimming, eating on the rare occasion we remembered to feed him, and cowering behind his plastic seaweed plant when little people banged on his bowl and screamed "ARE YOU SLEEPING, BOB?!" playing with his sisters.

Services were held at the potty. In a touching memoriam, Bob's sister asked if she could pee on him and then laughed like a maniac.

Memorial contributions may be made to The Get A New "Bob" Fund, or at least that's what we'll tell people as we pocket the money for the next Starbucks excursion. Cash only, please.

Rest in piece, Bob. Don't worry, someday I'll tell the Munchkin the real reason why you "got sick" and had to "go back to the ocean to be with your mommy and daddy," which is of course that you just wanted some effing piece and quiet, already.

Your secret's safe with me, buddy.

This Post is Brought to You By My Fourth Pot of Coffee

Wow. Is it really November?

Which, let's face it, in Retail Nazi terms means, IT'S CHRISTMAS, GIVE US YOUR PLASTIC. Ugh.

My dad came into town for a few days last week and gave me so much time to myself that by the end of the second day, I could barely remember the girls names. Or their birthdays. Or the fact that I had children at all.

I shopped. I drank lattes at odd hours of the day. My girlfriends and I ate sushi sans children, without once having to say things like, "Sit down. Sit. SIT. Sit down. SIT. ON. YOUR. BOTTOM," or "Take that spoon out of your underwear right now."

All while my dad, like a little House Elf, went around fixing things I didn't even know were broken. I came home and suddenly that door didn't stick anymore, that baby gate got remounted, all my dishes - and I mean even the dirty ones, in the dishwasher - were organized by size and shape.

It was wonderful.

Now he's gone, I've resumed my role as the kids' Designated Activity Coordinator, and I confess it feels equal parts lonely and exhausting. It's funny, you get so used to doing everything yourself, then you get a break and suddenly you realize that you've literally been too tired to realize how tired you are.

Oh, and Daylight Savings Time is not helping. Kitt is so messed up by it that she sprouts devil horns at 4:45PM, and is down for the night by 5:00.

And of course, early to bed means dear-lord-you-cannot-possibly-be-awake-I-still-hear-crickets-it's-too-damn-early to rise.

Mommy officially needs a caffeine IV. Maybe I should put that on my Christmas list.

Gonna Sit Right Down, Write Myself a Letter, Tell Myself to Chill the Heck Out

December 7, 2006

Dear Self,

Right now you're lying on your bed, bawling your eyes out because you have no idea why your week-old Munchkin will not stop screaming. You are rethinking your decision to procreate. And you feel like you can't do anything right.

I'm writing to tell you just this: it's going to be okay.

Because in about three years, that squalling baby will grow into a preschooler. Her class will have a Halloween parade. It will be the cutest thing you have ever seen. And suddenly you will realize that all those horrible, desperate moments - like the one you're in right now - were totally worth it.


Wait until you see how her face lights up when she spots you in the crowd. Your heart will just about explode out of your chest. Wait until your hear her sing along with her class and watch her follow the choreography. Holy crap, you will think. She can follow directions! She's not crumpled in a heap on the ground screaming for me! It's a freakin' miracle!

Oh, yes. Despite all your neuroses, new-mom hangups and attempts at sabotage, this baby will, in fact, become a functioning member of society.

For now, at least. I hear the teen years get a bit hairy. I hear her head might spin around like Linda Blair. But I'm not there yet.

So, relax. Stop crying. Go take a shower. Just give her the pacifier, fer Chrissake. Despite what you've read, it's not going to cause learning delays or make her hair grow sideways.

She's going to be okay. And so are you.

Love,
You

PS: I mean it about the shower. Go.

Wordless Thursday. Because This Level of Gifty Awesomeness Deserves its Own Special Day

Look what the mailman dragged in! Do you SEE this??

This is what happens when my friend Becky (you may remember her...she makes bean dip) reads a post about my hankerin' for a Snuggie.

Tomorrow I shall write about my desire for a million dollars. Wink, wink.

Not surprisingly, that little gem is currently the most-viewed post on this blog. I like to think it's because of the, uh, exceptional writing and not because the title contains the word "breasts."

I really suck at wordless posts. Shutting up now.

Leopard print!

Ahem. Sorry.

My General Stupidity is Always a Good Fallback Topic

Ever have something happen during the day that makes you go, "ooh, there's my blog post for today," but then by the time you sit your ass down at the computer you can't even remember your own name, let alone a minor event that happened fourteen hours ago, before you even had your first cup of coffee, that no one else would even find funny or amusing by now?

I'm so there.

I do remember this one thing: as suggested by one of the comments on the post about my visceral hatred for running, I decided to check out the "Couch to 5K Running Plan." I liked it immediately because it gives very specific instructions on you, too, can go from bon-bons at midnight to sleek, svelte, badass 5K goddess.

I'm on the second of five weeks, and I'm proud to say I have not died yet. Not exactly a goddess yet, either. My chariot has wicked shin splints.

In the second week, the instructions are to alternate 90 seconds of running with two minutes of walking for 20 minutes. Sounds doable, right?

It is.

Unless you can't count and sweat at the same time.

Before I started the second week, I made up a handy chart to tape to the treadmill so that I could keep track of when to walk and when to run. Genius, right? There's no way I could screw up now!

Then yesterday, as I slogged my way through a running interval, I started thinking, gah, I am about to keel over on this thing...how long have I been running? I'm supposed to run for another (pant pant) minute, right? Better check my (gasp) chart....two minutes....minute and a...carry the four...

...F*CK, I F**CKED UP MY CHART.



Doesn't it make your brain hurt just to look at it? And this is after I tried to fix it. Apparently I'd been running for, I don't know, three hours. Apparently basic arithmetic does not agree with me. And thats why I gotz me an Inglish dagree.

Anyway, thanks to Jennifer for the suggestion. Now, can someone find me a math tutor?

And I Haven't Even Started Drinking Yet, I Swear

The actual line in tonight's bedtime story was, "Alice watched the Rabbit run through a tiny door in a hallway."

But Mommy has had a long week, could barely keep her eyes open long enough to read the words, was thinking about the insane laundry pile waiting for her downstairs and, in general, could not seem to fire up even one stinkin' brain synapse.

So what she accidentally said was, "Alice watched the Rabbit run through a tiny whore in a dollway."

Just when you thought that classic story couldn't get any more surreal.

Happy Friday, internetz.