Captured

It's hard to pick a favorite picture from this Festivus season. If I were looking to adequately capture the bewilderment and gastero-intestinal discomfort brought on by intense holiday stress (not to mention general odd-gift confusion), this one is good:

But then again, this one sums up the whole hit-and-run aspect of the month for me:

You've got the palid complexion, the thousand-mile stare, the brightly cheerful sweater...all the unfortunate side effects of Christmas, especially once one has entered the breeding years of one's life. The person in this picture does not really remember when holidays were more carefree, involving leather pants and fun hats and probably shots of tequila and looked more like this:

But that's okay, because while the person in the festive sweater still owns and plans to wear the leather pants, she is glad to trade in the slightly skanky pictures of her own ass for the much more adorable pictures of this-

- which, along with making the entire season somewhat more of a headache, also makes it nicer. And funier. And cuter.

And less skanky, in general.

more pics at my flickr, if you are interested

Happy Whatnot, everyone!

Dr. Jack Hole

There is not much that can make the entire experience of a one-year old with an ear infection worse.

Except the jackass pediatrician that I had to see because my regular pediatrician was not at the office yesterday. No, I didn't think it was a great idea to let her run a fever for yet a third day in a row, so I got stuck with this guy:

"How high has it been? I hope you thought to give her Tylenol? She has an ear infection. She hasn't had a flu shot yet? Welllll, you need to make that happen. Um, yeah, you can give her a flu shot on top of an ear infection, despite everything you've ever heard to the contrary. Duh. You are possibly the worst mother ever."

Her regular pediatrician is this really nice older man with a gentle bedside manner and a soothing Indian accent who says things like "We are delighted with Wendy. What a happy girl she is! You can tell that she is a secure and wonderful baby!" Hear that, Dr. Jackhole? HAPPY AND SECURE. You can take your attitude and FUCK OFF.

Anyway, for about a week now, Wendy has insisted on draping her body on top of mine (especially around my head area) for every second of every day, waking and sleeping. Somehow this makes the sick-y feeling in her body feel better. (You should try to sleep with 26 pounds of human on your face sometime. Fun stuff.) The whole arrangement makes for rediculous and futile attempts at holiday activities like shopping, wrapping, baking, etc, which in turn makes me all desperate and panicky. Cause if I don't do the shopping and wrapping and baking, it won't get done, people. And then where will we be??? WHERE??? Eating condensed cream of cheese soup for Christmas dinner, that's where!

The most heartbreaking thing is how sweet she is, all drippy and bleary-eyed, but still smiling and trying to give me kisses and feed me Cheerios. Or when, in the middle of the night, she wakes up all feverish, sits bolt-right up in bed, leans in really close to my face, and exclaims, "HI! Mommy!" as if she is so excited and delighted to see me! Here! Of all places!! And after an exploritory poke at Daddy (just to make sure he's still there), she settles down on my shoulder and falls back asleep, patting me on the cheek.

How am I supposed to give a crap about Christmas dinner after that? I like freezer pizzas, don't you?

Just One

Pictures of das partay.

Related to Me

Little Ed: (just got out of the bath; cold, wet and shiverry) Mommy, whats the part behind the pee pee?

Jaimie: That's your balls.

Little Ed: NO, that's nuts. And mine's broken.

Jaimie: ....your nuts are broken?

Little Ed: Yeah, they're not there.

Jaimie: Daddy, explain about his cold nuts.

Big Ed: Testicles. They're called testicles.

Little Ed: Yeah, Mom. Texticles.

Yeah, sis. Everyone knows that.

Deep Thoughts...

Jessica Simpson, c. 2003, on turning 23: "Like, 23 is almost mid-twenties, and that's like, almost 30! Time, you know? Time." Does anyone else expect to see her in ten years on QVC next to Suzanne Sommers, hawking twinsets, doing carrot impersonations, and telling vaguely inappropriate stories about her cats?

Happy birthday to me. 26. It's like, almost 30.

Disturbia

Last week, I was subject to a number of freakishly wrong circumstances. The kind that you hope never to find yourself in, ever. Like on Friday, around 4 in the afternoon, when I realized that the baby had hidden the remote, and that Oprah really did intend to have one hundred Osmends on her show. Singing.

And maybe it was Tuesday last week, when I heard an inordinate amound of cursing and yelling, such as might be inspired by a bad dog, from the backyard. The ruckus eventually migrated to the front yard, where I saw out the living room window that Carl had clipped Duke to the line at the tree. I watched him spray the dog with the hose for a while, then stamp around in little circles, gesticulating wildly and moaning something inarticulate at the sky, then spray the dog some more. This went on for some time, Duke all the while pacing the limit of the rope in a miserable attempt to skulk out of range of the icy hose water, tangling up his legs in the process, and looking generally pathetic.

Carl finally came in, still muttering to himself. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID!"

"no. what." He had his really really crazy eyebrows on, so I knew it had to be bad. Probably something to do with Dog and cat shit.

"HE ROLLED IN THE GROUNDHOG!!"

"...um...what?"

"That groundhog I buried. Something. Dug it up. Rotting. Carcass. I didn't see what it was in time. He Just Had To. And then he shook himself off! disgusting! gore! flinging! F***ING DOG! HE JUST ROLLED IN THE FETID DISGUSTING GROUNDHOG CARCASS! OH MY GOD DOGS ARE DISCUSTING F***ING DOG!! DOG!! DISGUSTING!! DOOOOOGGGG!!"

".........."

"I'm getting the dog shampoo."

So yeah. I know. Donnie and Marie singing "Paper Roses" to Oprah versus rotting groundhog bath. It's a close call.

My Peep

Before we get to far away from the event, BEHOLD!! THE CUTENESS!!!!

The conversation wherin I suggested that I would purchase Wendy's first Halloween costume for ten dollars at Old Navy, Carl suggested that I make her a costume, and I suggested (using only my left eyebrow) exactly where he could put that suggestion? Well, that conversation was completely and absolutely over as soon as he saw how totally devistating to an adult's central nervous system a chicken outfit coud be.

And not that I really have a moral quandry over using my baby to extort candy from

strangers, but I thought it would be nice if I showed some effort toward the haul that I would be gorging myself on later. Yes, it's a mommy-baby theme. (The sad part is that my little farm girl outfit is comprised of items that I actually wear. I mean, I hardly ever wear them together, and hardly ever while carrying a bait bucket, but...um, yeah. My hick/trailor is showing. I know it.)

Anyway, I went over to Bethany's neighborhood, and she even accompanied us around a couple of blocks of trick-or-treating. (I didn't quite have to yank her away by the collar when some 9 year old uncouthly called her clearly Roman period outfit Greek, but almost.)

As it turns out, 11 month olds don't really know how to trick-or-treat (damnit!), so my arm was falling off by the time we filled our bait bucket. It was definitely worth it, though. Free almond Snickers and Dots, just for owning a cute kid in a chicken suit. Can't beat that.

Also, the look on her face when the wearwolf with the candy bowl wandered up and petted her was priceless. (She wasn't scared, just kind of incredulous. Like, "Is this one of those Plushies and/or Furries you were talking about?" I told her it was a puppy dog, but she didn't buy that either.)

Yay First Halloween!

Things About Carl

He looks nice whilest walking through the rain in a kilt.

He has an affinity for strange little critters.

He's helpful with babies.

And today's his birthday!

Happy BD, Lov.

Wherin I Calibrate My Fat

Technically, I had my fat calibrated for me. Because I joined a gym. A yuppie, upbeat kind of gym where they offer lots of services so as to make you feel like you are getting your money's worth, and one of those services happens to be fat calibration. This is immediately followed by goal assessing.

It is a hand-holding kind of gym.

Happily enough, one of the other services they offer is $1/visit daycare. I actually went to this gym on Friday to look into getting Carl a membership for his birthday. After getting the walkthrough tour, and seeing the happy little daycare room with it's pleasant (though surprisingly butch) daycare lady, and after realizing that the two of us would actually cost less, I wrote a check for us both. (I really do not envision Carl putting up with the fat pincers and Q & A stress evaluation. I predict he will buck the system and walk their treadmills with his fat unassessed. Cause he's a rebel like that.)

Now I'm all starry-eyed with visions of zoning out for a few hours a week with very little baby attatched to my hip. This is extremely exciting to me. Rejoice.

waiting...

The Thing She Does

I am seriously considering a store-bought baby-chick costume from Old Navy for Wendy's first Halloween. The magnitude of unoriginality that this suggests will also suggest to you how far beyond caring I am concerning quippy blog titles.

So there's this thing she does now, where she flops over on top of and cuddles all things soft/fluffy/cute/small/in her way, and I'll tell you what. It is the frigging most heart-melting thing to watch. She even has this little lilting "ahHH" sound that goes with the cuddling, as in, "ahHH, little stuffed whatever-you-are, I love you so much. There, there," while she gathers it to her neck and snuggles it's worries away.

We were out on a random mental-health stroll through the strip of shops between Toys R Us and Old Navy yesterday, and found ourselves in a Carter's baby clothing store. It is a store. With clothes. Just for babies. This is fun for me, shut up. Anyway, I was looking to my left at a display of baby shoes, when Wendy suddenly tried to pitch herself out of her perch in my right arm. We both wobbled to the right, and crashed into a wall display of forty different kinds of smushy soft cute fluffy toys, where, unfazed by our near floor-eating experience, she attempted to cuddle them all at the same time.

After prying every one of her eleven hands from the curly tails and floppy limbs, rehanging several questionably neon elephants, and digging a sodden chunk of paper tag out of her mouth, we discussed the purchase of one of these items.

"Do you like these guys here?"

"awwwhhh!" *reaches for white puppy*

"Ok, the puppy?"

"AAAWWWHHH!!" *reaches for green horsey*

"The horsey?"

"dibbledibbledibble" *puts finger in nose*

"Your nose!"

"leebblelebblelebble" *puts finger in my nose*

"My nose! very good!"

"aaaaHHHHHHWHH!!" *lunges for pink bunny*
"Right. The matter at hand."

After some deliberation, we decided on a pink and brown teddy bear that plays the same tinkleing lulleby that this other teddy bear we have used to play before it had it's unfortunate accident involving Mommy's last nerve and a short airborn adventure into the wall.

She fell asleep neck-snuggling her new lulleby bear in the car seat on the way home. We both feel very good about this purchase.

Tales From the Park Side

So, here's me, pushing the baby in her stroller through the park which is beautifully situated around the resevoir about five minutes from my house. I am wearing jeans, a three-quarter tee shirt, white sneakers and a ponytail that suggests I am a perky and playful young mommy, out doing healthy Mommy things:

La, La, stroll, stroll. I can't believe I don't do this more! I could really get in the habit of doing this! What a great day to be outside! What a great day to take advantage of this great park! I think I'll stroll all the way across the bridge to the other playground, that's how great I feel!

Oh, lookey! Other mommies and thier kids! They look kind of nice! I really need to meet more moms. Maybe I'll make a friend! Ok, lets just use this baby swing that just so happens to be near them...

Wholesome Other Mommy #1: I mean, when it comes right down to it, women just need to feel secure in a relationship, period. Like, no matter how burned the food is, or how nutty she gets, she needs to know she is loved.

W.O.M. #2: Totally.

Right, right, I'm with you on that...

W.O.M. #1: ...and what I didn't understand before is that the man just needs to know that he is respected.

W.O.M. #2: Right!
W.O.M. #3: Right!

...Ok, we all want respect....

W.O.M. #1: I mean, I know the whole "he's the head and I'm the heart" thing-

uh-oh.

W.O.M. #1: -but what I really had to understand was that he will only feel safe giving me the unconditional love that I am waiting for, and I will only really deserve it-

-wait-

W.O.M. #1: -if I just let it go, break the stubborn cycle first, and unconditionally submit.

Oh no! STEPFORD! UTAH! LOVE-HONOR-OBEY-BOTS! HOLYFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!

W.O.M. #2: Wow. What a great blessing that God has given you the opportunity to learn that now, instead of later, when it's harder.

W.O.M. #1: Oh, my gosh. So. True.

W.O.M. #3: And it's such a comfort when you finally accept that. Like lately, I've been pushed so far with Mike, like, we don't want to do things together, or watch the same things or eat the same food, and I've even had all these thoughts like, are we even compatable? But finally, I had a breakthrough, when I realized that, like, we're married! It doesn't even matter!

W.O.M. #2: Right! You make this committment, and that's what that means. You have to make it work, one way or another, so all of that stuff-what he wants, what you want- it doesn't really matter!

It'll matter when, like, Mike leaves your ass for someone who does want to see the third Resident Evil movie while eating pulled pork out of the pool boy's belly button, or whatever it is that Mike has in mind...

W.O.M. #3: I tell you, it's just ME that gets in the way, and there is such peace in getting my whole...self...out of the equation.

Yeah. That kind of peace is called being dead.

W.O.M. #1: Knowing this really makes you greatful for all the blessings we have, right?

Actually, it really makes me want to go put on my Betty Paige shirt and burn some bras or something. C'mon Baby. Lets go over there where you can eat some leaves and I can read you a few Vagina Monologues.

Constructive

It has been a whole month since I've posted. A lot has happened in that month, including a Jaimie's visit, reading Harry Potter, and taking an eight month old (and my mother) to Pennsic. Boy do I have some pictures to show you.

Pennsic was over a week and a half ago, Jaimie and Eddie left yesterday, and today I finally finished (and savored oh. so. deliciously.) the last chapter in HP. I feel like I'm kind of bobbing to the surface for breath after swimming a long way. Through seaweed. Like some sort of porpoise, maybe?

After finishing HP this afternoon, I was having a hard time deciding what to do with myself. It was too dreary for the park, or for doing anything that required being cheerfull. So I spent a very constructive hour sorting through my underwear drawer. Here's a picture of Wendy helping me decide which lacey panties, matching bras, and other vestiges of my youth I could probably do without. She disapproves of my professed need for seven black thongs. The whole ordeal turned out more stressful than constructive, so I went to the store and bought myself some pop tarts, chai tea and expensive cookies.

And ate them.

The end.
(more pics to follow soon.)

Priorities.

I'd like to tell you.

There is so much to write about. About Wendy, and her new sharp little fang. About how suddenly this week she decided that crawling really is the most efficient mode of transportation, especially toward cats. About how a few days ago, just as Carl was saying "I bet if she just got her hands up on the rail, she could stand..." she did just that.

I'd like to write about how excited I am to see Jaimie and Eddie in a few days, and how he is going to be three soon and how breathless with vertigo that makes me, seeing as it was only a few weeks ago that he was born, right?

I'd write all about the financial miracles that have been serindipitously bestowed upon us to allow us all to go to Pennsic this year, and the mad frantic sewing that I am trying to do beforehand.

But I just don't have the time. Because right now, I am walking out the door to go pick up the LAST HARRY POTTER BOOK, and that just takes prescedent over everything.

I know you understand.

I'll curry you.

Look. It's the sleep deprivation that really makes you lose your f***ing mind.

It makes harmless phrases like, "Ok, I have to go to work now" sound exactly like "Gee, I know you were up seven times last night, and I'd really like to stay and help out, I would. I'd love nothing more than to stay at home all day and play baby games and spoon out mashed sweet potatos, or even just watch her for a few hours while you get some rest. Heck, if it were possible, I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat! But gosh, darlin, that just isn't the way the world works. So, sadly, I have to go to work now, and leave you to all the fun."

Sleep deprivation also leads to really lame, really housewifey revenge for these imagined condescentions, like slipping jalepenos in the lime chicken, making curries and hot italian sausage and nachos full of peppers and so on until he begins suddenly disappearing for lengthy spans of time, only to reappear in the doorway completely naked, sweating, and disturbed. It's the "shock and awe" portion of our meal. It comes about ten hours after desert. Don't look so bewildered. You know what you did.

Party Life

When Wendy saw the size of the bed in the room at the Raddison (roughly the size of her room at home), she shot me this "Hell yeah!" look, and immediately called dibs. Here, she is pictured with my cell phone in one hand and the remote in the other. She is having trouble ordering room service because she does not wish to take the binky out of her mouth.

Her sleep number is 60.

Here, she can be seen on the arm of her escort. She approves of his clean-shaven good looks, and recomended that I take him for a whirl just as soon as I had the chance.

She wonders why I have taken this long to put her in a pretty dress and take her to a formal dinner, an activity which she was obviously born for. She wonders why Daddy doesn't wear suits more often, cause he looks so nice in them. She wonders why we don't go to parties and have fancy chicken served to us and dance under disco balls every f-ing day of our lives.

By the end of the evening, I wonder these things as well. Because all of these things were not the trainwreck disaster that I was bracing for. Because all of these things were actually a lot (a lot!) of fun. AND because that night, her Royal Wendyness slept for 7 hours in a row. SEVEN! IN A ROW!!

My sleep number is 55.

She hasn't done it since, but my god, those seven hours were so beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as her fuzzy little head.

Mostly, I'll remember that unfinished Cake...

It's been two weeks since the wedding that officially took Steph off the market. That's right, our little girl, once full of the blushing innocence of maidenhood, is now a woman of the world.

She was forked over to the domestic sphere by her friends and family before the great sweeping staircase of the Civil War Museum in Harrisburg. (She was supposed to be trussed up and placed on the sacrificial domestic alter at the scenic overlook there, but it rained.) No, they did not appear in period Civil War wedding costumes.

The ceremony was sweet, the dresses were pretty, the hors d'oeurves were memorable. It was a great wedding. Despite the rain, despite the MOB theatrics, everything went smoothly. The bride brushed aside every minor obstacle in her headlong march down the aisle with grace befitting her tiara. We two Maids of Dishonor (and the one Punkass of Honor) behaved ourselves well enough. I only made helpful suggestions, like "nobody fart" as we stood waiting in formation for Steph to complete said march. We were all respectable grown-ups about it. The best man and I both made awkward speeches before dinner and everything. Then we listened to Frank Sinatra and other smooth oldies as we ravenously consumed our chicken (or pork) and delicious, delicious cake. The guy next to me didn't eat all of his cake, and man, did I want to finish it off for him. I didn't cause that would be wierd, and also because I wasn't sure if he was really done with it or just saving it for later.

If I had my speech to do over again, there are a lot of things I would say, like "remember, Steph: kitten in the kitchen, tiger in the bedroom."

And I might have also thrown in my uncomfortable commentary on when and how they should start giving us grandchildren. You know, like everyone else seemed to want to talk about. But I didn't. Because I'm a good friend. And because Ryan was sweating enough that day.

Dress Miscellany, plus a Toast

One week from now, Steph, who has been my best friend since I was a fuzzy-headed ninth-grader and she was a flannel-wearing one, will have already walked down the aisle and said the words that will enter her officially into the ranks of respectable married ladies everywhere. She will then, of course, quit her job, learn how to make her man's martini just the way he likes it, and start hosting the local ladies auxiliary book club. To kick all of this off, you should all be deeply saddened to know that she will not be wearing this dress:

As much as we rolled around on the floor of David's Bridal laughing at it, I am frankly shocked that she didn't pick it. It obviously brought everyone much happiness and merriment. We could have gone for a "Ballerina Barbie" theme for the whole event. Oh, well. (I actually just remembered the phrase "everything a bride should be" as spoken in the dreamy, addlepated voice of the sales lady as she stood back, hands clasped to her chest, trying to ignore the snorts and innapropriate comments from the peanut gallery.)

I do know what the chosen dress looks like, and it's nothing like this. It's also a far cry from the Dave Mathews t-shirts she was into when we first met, and much prettier than the color guard outfits I remember from soon thereafter. (But then, your Uncle Hubert's ugly seventies sofa is much prettier than most colorguard outfits.)

Anyway, here's a pre-wedding toast to Steph and her good taste, both in the un-foofy dress she chose, and the Bridezilla she has (mostly) chosen not to be.

(Note: any appearance or sighting of Bridezilla shall both be attributed to a justified cause and promptly dismissed as a figment of your nasty drug habit. Stop doing drugs, will you?)

WendyVille

"Um. Whatcha doing with my camera, Baby?"

"I'm taking a picture of myself for my blog."

"Wendy, you don't have a blog. I have a blog. It's mine. It belongs to me."

"Mommy. All your base are obviously belong to us."

"But..."

*sigh*
"All your base-"

"Allright, allright."


Like she could keep up with a blog. She's a terrible typer. (She begrudgingly agreed to let me post this one of us enjoying each other's company.)

Have I Mentioned the Woe?

Alas, Wendy has entered into the first phase of teething, which shall henceforth be known as the Time of Woe.

The Woe seems to have decended upon us early, though our pediatrician assures us that many babies begin their Woe at four-and-a-half months; that we might not see an actual fang from the Woeful One for another two or three months; that despite her dramatic proclimations, we should not be alarmed.

I would like at this time to point out that our pediatrician is a man, and unless he has a kinky mistress who is much older than him, he has no idea how it feels to have his nipples clamped in the gnawing vice grip of a cranky infant with itchy gums.

Aside from my very alarmed nipples, there is the whining. Have I mentioned yet that my baby is a very vocal baby? I have no doubt that every squeal and moan describes exactly how she is feeling at the moment, and though it is literally migraine-inducing, I feel horrible for her. I am constantly presenting her with things to chew on that might ease the Woe...a warm gel-filled teether shaped like a foot, a piece of ice wrapped in a washcloth, a carrot, etc. Nothing seems to help that much, and often, her frustration at the unhelpfulness of the object actually increases her Woe, sending her usual litany of cranky whines into furious shrieks of...fury. The only time she ceases her proclimations on the unfortunate state of cutting teeth is when she's in some kind of swing. She really likes the swing.

Well, swinging seems to sooth her troubled soul, anyway. As you can see, a hint of Woe shadows even the Most Fun Activity Ever.

I guess I'll be scouting out some more local parks. Parks with many swings, and in a perfect world, a snack bar that serves booze.

Wholesome Entertainment

In bed this morning with man and baby, watching Big Comfy Couch:

Major Bedhead: I can't believe I lost my bag! (frownie face)
Mo: Heh. Hate it when you lose your bag.
Mollie the Dollie: Maybe it will help if you retrace your steps, Major!
Major Bedhead: Well, I was delivering the mail as usual....
Carl: Ohhh. Mail bag.
Mollie the Dollie: Gosh, Major! What happened next?
Carl: You know the Major is so tagging that.
Mo: I bet he leaves his helmet on.

Mo-On-Time

While Steph was home a few weeks ago, we had a wedding shower for her. It turned out pretty pleasant, especially given that the kind of parties Becki and I are used to hosting usually involve several pizzas and some beer; boxed wine if we're feeling fancy. The whole thing got me thinking that I might want to get married someday, if only for the opportunity to register for really random items like coasters shaped like mushrooms or glow in the dark body paint.

This past week, I finally got around to ordering my dress for Steph's wedding. I told the lady on the phone the date of the wedding (May 26), and after punching in the order, she gave me this little "Whooo!" and chuckle-snorted at me.

"What?"
"Well, it says if you order the dress today, it should be ready on May 24th."

Did you know they call me Mo the Punctual? Also, Mo the Expedient and Mo-On-Time. Stuff like this is why Becki has dubbed the two of us the "Maids of Dishonor." Other examples include our extrememly serious demeanor at David's Bridal during the Choosing Of The Dress:

(A very flattering pic of both of us, I know. Still, we were really pulling for tiara-cowboy hats and pink feather boas.) Then there is the traditional Shower Bonnet of Humiliation, carefully constructed to reflect the solemnity with which we regard the proceedings at hand:

Becki has promised Steph opportunity for revenge should she ever decide to have a wedding. I would like to second that sentiment. Steph, please feel free to take it all out on Becki.

One More Step Toward Crazy

I'm becoming one of those women who walk around the house muttering little complaints to herself constantly.

"What the hell is so hard about throwing the tissue box away when you've used the last tissue?"

"Why can't we just throw the afghan back over the back of the couch when we're done with it? Why does it get crammed between the couch cushions and left there?"

"Who made toast and left jelly and crumbs on the counter? Jelly and Crumbs!"

"Who in God's name left a banana peel on top of the trash can lid? WHO would do something like that???"

"I did."

"You know, it was more of a rhetorical question. I know it was me."

"Well, then why'd you ask, you weirdo?"

"I was on a roll. I'm feeling irate. By the way, who ate my Triscuits and left only two in the box? I'm the only one in this house who even likes Triscuits."

"Don't look at me."

"I mean, if you aren't even going to like them, why eat them? I like them!"

"Um...I'm gonna go watch TiVo. You're getting kind of manic."

"Ok. I'll come with."

"Does the remote go here? IN the sofa cushions? Does it??"

I'm Having A Day.

"You look like a time bomb that someone pulled the pin on."

That kind of day. The kind of day where everyone would be better off if I could just curl up in bed and sleep through the whole thing. Since I have a baby now and I can't get away with ignoring the day via unconsciousness, it would be nice to lose myself in any number of unfinished projects or household chores that need to be done. Or maybe if I could go run any of the errands that need running or make the phone calls that need making, or even return the emails that need returning.

But it seems the baby is having a day as well. The kind where someone has definitely pulled her pin and no single moment can go by without her letting me know about it. The kind of day where entertaining herself for more than four minutes is definitely out of the question.

So the only logical thing to do, it seems, is to put her in her Bumbo seat on the counter next to me and let her chew on the bottle brush

while I construct the gingerbread-cookie-Christmas-tree-in-a-box kit that Steph gave me back in November.

As you can see, it came out exactly like the picture. And let me tell you, friends. It is twice as delicious in April as it would ever have been in December.

M is for Missing You

Jaimie and Steph have both been here and gone again.

I only saw Steph for an evening, and most of her attention was diverted elsewhere (it was her wedding shower, after all) but it was a good visit, regardless. There was nice wine and a rediculous party hat and good cake. Becki and I (her maids of dishonor) even went with her to momentarily crash Ryan's bachelor party. We totally busted up their wild night of Nintendo Wii and accoustic guitar, and I have yet to come up with an adequate comeback for "Ugly Baby!" I miss my friends. They remind me what it's like to have a sense of humor.

Jaimie left yesterday morning. I definitely weasled out of the long drive to the airport and the weepy drive home. Having a baby and the sleep deprivation that comes with has made me more emotional than I ever have been, and I just didn't have the energy for it. Two and a half weeks probably seems like a long time to her husband when she is away from him. He should try being without someone he loves for the balance of the year. It is stupid that she does not live next door to me or down the street like she should. It is stupid that she lives many states away.

Bah.

It was a nice visit, too though. There was park-strolling and good dinners and much baby kissing. She's been a mom for two and a half years now, which means she gives extremely useful advice. For example, she helped me develop my use of the "C is for Cookie" song beyond "C is for Cookie" and "B is for Baby." I now rattle around the house singing "B is for Booger," "T is for Titty," and "Oh, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo starts with DEEE!"

It is also good to have another mom to go to the playground with. It's much more fun to mock the herd-moms who hog the swings and talk of potty-training seminars when there's someone around to agree that they have stupid haircuts and probably have boring sex with their boring husbands.

Behold! Wendy's first published writing:

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What Makes Me So Great

• I made an Irish Cream cheesecake with chocolate chips and coffee-flavored whipped cream for St. Patty's day. It was delicious. You wish you were here.
  
• I got bored the other day and painted purple flowers and mushrooms on the inside of the laundry room door. No one has yet noticed it. I am now planning a full-scale secret paint attack on the entire house. Closets, bathroom cupboards, it's all going down.
  
• I am the only person in the universe who posesses the manual dexterity required for moving hair from the shower drain to the trash. It's a great power, but also a grave responsibility. It's like being the Chosen One. People should bring me offerings of sweets and libations (i.e. brownies and tequilla) to honor my deeds.
  
• Now I have to go make brownies. Maybe I'll even save a few to share with others. Maybe.

The Most Boring Post Ever

At the risk of tediously angsting up the place;

OMG. I am so. fucking. bored.

*heaving sigh*

In other, more interesting news, I watched Little Miss Sunshine with my mom the other day, and I liked it so much that I watched it again with Carl that night. Ok, that was in no way interesting news. But the movie was very good. You should see it, if you haven't yet.

Dear Pregnant Self,

You think you're real cute, dontcha? Well, you are, and you should enjoy it. What other time in your life are you going to gain 25 very noticable pounds and have people telling you how beautiful you look every time they see you? I mean, soon, it's going to be "Don't worry, the rest will come off eventually" from people you don't even know, and then you are going to have to choke a bitch in the diaper aisle and possibly go to jail. Honestly. You're not going to ask the bitch how she thinks you look, cause you think you look good, but she'll tell you "not to worry" anyway. When the time comes, remember: She deserves choking.

Also, I know you have no pretty, glowing illusions about how a baby is going to bring you and your man closer together. From what I recall, you are sure that she will arrive, smash your world into pulp, then eat that pulp for breakfast, and you're not wrong there. She will. The pulp of your former life is her favorite taco topping. And you're not wrong about the other thing either. Right now, you're relationships is all, "Let's learn how to make Thai food!" and "I love making love to you." Well, soon, it's going to be "Please tell me. How do you screw up Hamburger Helper?" and "Um...sorry about that. I'll make it up to you, I promise." But don't despair. The relationship you have built will get you through this.

You will watch Primetime specials on how babies put monumental stress on marriages, then turn to each other, hi-five, and laugh maniacally, "Joke's on them! We're not even married! Suckers!" You will amuse yourselves, not with spontanious and romantic trips to New Hope, but with the ever-critical who-can-shove-the-most-grapes-in-their-mouth contest. (He can. I tapped out at 33 and he just kept packing them in. Unsettling.) True, there will be less Friday nights out at karioke or the movies. But there will be more Friday nights spent clinging to each other under the covers, hands lovingly clamped over each other's ears to block out the crying. You can't get that kind of intimacy anywhere else, I promise.

You don't remember what "alone time" means or what you would do with it if you had it (probably sleep), but you still go to the grocery store together and mock bad Soccer Mom haircuts and grandma-panty lines under velour sweat suits. You still love each other, and in some ways you didn't expect, you are a lot closer. It's going to be okay.

Love,
Future Self

Sugar and Spice

...if the spice is red pepper flakes, or perhaps some lethal curry powder. You know. The kind of spice that keeps you up all night, clutching at your various parts in agony and wondering if the light of day will indeed come again, or if it is just another half-remembered dream you once had...

The sugar part is still sweet though. Makes you briefly forget all pain; Indian-food induced or otherwise.

Just a Little Animosity

Dear Vet Office Receptionist,

Believe me, I realize that it takes a long long time for nails to dry. Please, whatever you do, do not let the fact that my cat is on death's door get in the way of a pleasing, uniform sheen to your now Tinkerbell-pink claws. And yes, the fact that you pulled out Sympathy Card #17, which reads "It's so hard when our pets get older" even though our cat is inexplicably wasting away at 18 months of age, that totally makes up for your complete inability to be bothered by our presence in your fine establishment. Just see if we don't walk out without paying every single time we come her. Just see.

Dear Pediatric Office Receptionist,

Wow. You're right. I didn't know that I am currently unemployed and unable to provide medical insurance for my baby daughter and that she is on county assistance so she can see a doctor and that my last name is different from her daddy's because we are sinners who live together and obviously have SEX without being MARRIED and produce children out of wedlock, children who will no doubt grow up and be financial burdens on your children and maybe mug them in dark alleys too, because obviously children such as mine are no good, NO GOOD from the start, as evidenced by the fact that you cannot type her birthdate correctly and thus cannot find her in the computer. I somehow did not know those things, and neither did all of the people in this waiting room, but they do now. You've been a big help. I feel very recieved.

Dear Dentist Office Receptionist,

You are stupid. You should take lessons from these other bitter old hag receptionists that I know, because, try as you might, your "uninterested and condescending" act just comes off as "braindamaged." Or maybe some previous patient who walked into your lobby was frustrated by your "I just took eleven Xanax" approach to customer service, so they took a brick to your head, permanently altering your ability to write in appointment books and tell me the correct appointment date, and you should just bag groceries for a living.

Dear Special Parking Lot Cart Retriever Guy at Giant,

You are doing a good job, buddy. Keep it up.

Thanks all,
Mo

Power Testing

Recently Teenaged Psuedo-Stepgirl: OMG I'm totally going to get an F on my math test.
Me: Well, you can only do your best. I mean, it would suck, but if you are really doing your best, it's not the end of the world.
RTPS: Pft. What would you do if I got an F on my math test?
Me: What would I do? Well, since it's not my math test, I'd probably make dinner, eat dinner, watch some TV, and go to sleep.
RTPS: Ok, well what if Wendy was in seventh grade and got an F on her math test?
Me: Oh. Well, I'd probably take her internet away and not let her go to her friends houses untill she got a not-F.
RTPS: .....whoa now.
Me: I know.
RTPS: ...What do you think my dad would do?
Me: What do you think.
RTPS: Probably not much. Probably just say "*grumble grumble* do better in math *grumble*"
Me: Is that what you think.
RTPS: yeah.
Me: hmm. Ok.
RTPS: *blink*
Me: *blink*

Man, is she going to be pissed at me when her internet is cut and she's grounded from friends.

Preserving the Mystique

He's picked up "feminine" products for me at the store. We often discuss the status of our bowels. He has personal knowledge that my claim of "never farting" is, tragically, a lie. He watched me give birth. He's seen me eat things I found in the couch, for god's sake.

And yet I hesitate to TiVo episodes Top Chef and Real World/Road Rules Challange, because he would then see that I watch Top Chef and Real World/Road Rules Challange, and I'm just not sure I'm ready for how that might change his oppinion of me.

Tea for Two

Having now the vast experience of being someone's Mommy for an entire five weeks, I can with confidence give myself the official rating of "adequate."

This means that, while I have poked her in the eye, clipped her finger with the nail clippers, and wrapped her up in a blanket coated in cat hair, I have not yet done anything so horrible as to ensure that she will run away to follow some meteor-worshiping cult when she's fifteen. (Running away to lead some meteor-worshiping cult would of course be perfectly acceptable. Especially at fifteen. Any mother would be proud.)

My mom spent the night last week, so that she could bask in the baby-glow of her Royal Babyness. This is when I learned that in addition to being an eye-poker, my baby finds me an uninteresting conversationalist. This became apparent as Wendy, who usually regards me with all the skepticism and furrowed brow of a nineteen year-old Hot-Topic sales associate, turned to my mom and chatted her up like they were sharing gossip and scones and wearing matching hats at a tea party.

Mom: And what does that little girl think about thaaat?
Wendy: Goo! Goooo! Neh? Geeerrrr! Goo!
Mom: Oh really? Well, I think so toooo!
Wendy: Geeeh! Geh? Geh.
Mo: Yeah, she doesn’t talk to me like that.
Mom: Well, you don’t talk silly to her. Try talking silly.
Mo: HELLO WENDY I AM YOUR MOTHER LOVE ME AND WE SHALL RULE THE DARK SIDE TOGETHER. ALL SHALL DESPAIR.
Wendy, Mom: …….
Mom: Um, you just need practice. ISn’t that right, little girl? Mommy isn’t as talky as grandma, is she? Nooo she's not.
Wendy: It’s ok, I forgive her. What she lacks in the basic human warmth required to make conversation with an infant, she makes up for in copious and generously given stores of mammary treats. I mean, have you seen those things? Acres and acres of boobs, and they’re all mine! …Goo.

New

Last year on New Year's Eve, we went to a big party at a giant rented cabin somewhere in the Poconos, drank a lot of Lambic and Tully, made out with other sexy people, and ate Zoe's spicy noodles. (That is not a euphamism; Zoe made yummy spicy noodles, and we ate some. Thai peanut or something. They were delicous.)

This year, I did a lot of laundry. I had a half a glass of wine, he had a little rum and egg nog, and we watched the ball drop while leaning on each other (soooo sleeeepy!) and holding the baby, just trying to keep our eyes open.

Ahem. Mo's year in review:

1. Started substitute teaching. Five years of college and a note from the government vouching for your non-molester status, and you too can babysit teenagers!
2. Moved in with man friend. Actually, just admitted to having already moved in. I stopped sleeping anywhere else sometime in 2005.
3. Spent a month in Florida doing the Bay Area Renn Faire. (B.A.R.F.) Was this my last hurrah, seeing as I was now cohabitating with a significant other and now held a responsible job like some kind of adult? No. It was far too late for hurrahs.
4. Because I was already pregnant.

Mo's year in review should just read:

1. Got sperm poisoning.
2. Was infected all year.
3. Gave birth.
4. Cure scarier than infection.

Yeah. That sums it up much better. Because years down the line, that is all I am ever going to remember about 2006. Honestly, that is all I'm going to remember about 2006 by next week.