Genius Child

We haven’t baby-proofed our house much, trying instead to teach Vivi boundaries and to let her explore any place it’s relatively safe. When she crawled towards something off limits, we’d both taken to saying “Vivi… noooooo”. It seemed she understood, because she would stop and change course, leaving the forbidden fireplace/cat/shoes/chainsaw alone. Husband and I applauded her (and ourselves) for reaching the developmental milestone “understands the word no” quite a bit ahead of schedule. Such a smart and obedient baby, we said! And (silently to ourselves) such superior parenting!

Children have a way of teaching you humility.

Vivi still understands no. But apparently free will has entered into the equation. Case in point:

Vivi crawls towards shoes.
Mommy: “Vivi…noooooo.”
Vivi: (stops, thinks, parrots back) “Nooooo…..” *big grin*
Vivi places SHOE IN HER MOUTH.

I’ve been all over BabyCenter and I can’t seem to find which month includes the developmental milestone “flips Mommy the metaphorical bird”.

I’m certain my child is way ahead of schedule on this one, too.

A Very Educational Post

Dearest Blogites… I have an awful confession to make. I fear many of you will think less of me afterwards, but this ugly secret is weighing so heavily on my heart that I have no choice except to let it out into the light of the Intraweb. *SIGH* Here goes…
I love the hell out of some Dancing with the Stars.
There. I said it.
I am NOT a reality television fan. I hate most of it- Survivor, Big Brother, blah, blah, blah…soul-sucking mindless drivel that caters to the very worst and least intelligent parts of us. But C and D list celebrities ballroom dancing? That’s just good clean fun, folks.
The latest DWTS cast was announced today. My take? *YAWN* I found myself repeatedly saying “who??” and “where is my vodka tonic?” But I did a little research (for you guys, of course) so that I could offer this highly educat- wait. … no… um… reasonably conscious guide to the cast. So without further ado… (Was all that before this “ado”? What is ado? Anybody?? Beuller? Beuller? )

Lauren’s Guide to the Newest Cast of Dancing with the Stars:

Susan Lucci- They’re calling Lucci a “Daytime Television Icon”, but I prefer to think of her as the patron saint of the mercy fuck. After approximately 114 years on Days of our Hospital’s Restless Lives Turning and as many nominations, Lucci finally won a daytime Emmy. Word on the street is that they had to give it to her or all the housewives in New Jersey would simultaneously start up their SUVs effectively suffocating the entire state and portions of New York as well. (Wait… we wanted to AVOID that? Vermont’s been trying to come up with a plan like that for years…)

Toni Braxton- An R&B singer and Babyface Edmonds protégé, Toni joins the cast fresh off her latest album called… um… er… well, I’m sure she’s still singing someplace- she must own a shower. No, actually, she’s headlining in Vegas these days which is like a shower… a very infrequently cleaned shower. Interesting Toni Tidbits: she was the first black woman to play a Disney character lead on Broadway (Belle) and she’s currently suing the shit-all-hell out of her former manager. Walt would be proud.

Lance Bass- Baby-faced Lance is a former member of the boy band N’Sync. In the great tradition of baby-faced-boy-band-members, he recently came out of the closet. With that revelation, he also taught millions of adolescent girls the very important life lesson called “Preventing Heartbreak Through Gaydar.”

Cloris Leachman- All together now… “WHO?” You may remember Cloris Leachman from roles such as the gently-wise-but-booze-soaked grandma in the movie Spanglish. Notable about her participation is the fact that she’s 82 years old, which makes her the second oldest participant right behind Susan Lucci at 135.

Kim Kardashian- Kim is famous for… uh… let’s see… no discernable talent… not that smart… no real contributions to society… OH! Yeah! Her butt is GINORMOUS. And she’s dating Reggie Bush, who I’m told plays the foozeball. I have to give the producers props for casting her, though. I mean, how else are Sir Mix-a-Lot and 69 Boyz ever going to earn any royalties?

Ted McGinley- No, really. He’s actually a celebrity. I thought they’d given an extra slot to some guy from Accounting, too. But aside from a lead role on an obscure sitcom (Hope & Faith), our friend Ted seems to be the faceless everyman. He’s been in a ton of stuff, just go look at IMDB. But you’d pass right by him on the street with only faint recognition (“Doesn’t that guy work in Accounting…”) Suffice to say when you see him you’ll go “oooooh, THAT guy” but I don’t think he’s had to learn evasive driving techniques to lose the paparazzi.

Brooke Burke- Brooke is a former (or current- not sure- don’t care) E! personality (and I use that term loosely) who has approximately 12 kids by like 17 different daddies. She is best known for being exotically beautiful, if you’re into all that. (Husband, you are not, FYI.) She is also well-hated among actual women for looking as though she has never birthed so much as a big poo, much less multiple kids. Adolescent boys take note- a quick Google image search will return multiple pictures of her boobies.

Warren Sapp- Warren is a former defensive tackle for the Oakland Raiders and has the second highest career total sacks for that position. (Husband just got a little hot for me there… ooo… talk aggressive defense to me, baby…) Ahem. Warren is a BIG BIG BIG man. And unlike Emmitt Smith, he did not play in a position known for intricate footwork. Warren’s participation will probably be somewhat like a grizzly bear trying to roller skate. Drunk. And blindfolded.

Misty May-Treanor- In a testament to the American attention span, Misty May will probably be the best known dancer as she is fresh off Olympic gold in beach volleyball. I’m looking forward to her spiking Len Goodman’s smarmy British head when he gives her one of his notoriously low scores. Oh, and she’s the automatic winner in my book if she uses that buff body to beat the ever-lovin’ crappola out of Brooke Burke.

Maurice Greene- Maurice is an Olympic medal-winning runner. He’s no stranger to reality television, having appeared on Blind Date. He recently retired from running, saying it was because of injuries. But we all know the truth… he’s dating Claudia Jordan aka Case #1 Girl on Deal or No Deal and how on earth would anything he ever did compete with her success?

Rocco DiSpirito- Celebrity chef Rocco can be described in one word: YUMMY. Both the contestant and his cooking. God help us all if we find out he dance, too. I mean… can you imagine the triple threat? A hottie man who cooks AND dances? (Wait… I can imagine that. I married that. Eat your hearts out, bitches.) Anywho, ol’ Rocco will be the eye candy for the thinking women fans of DWTS.

Cody Linley- Unless you are the parent of an adolescent girl (looking at you CCW), you are probably not familiar with Little Lord Linley. I tried my best at deductive reasoning. With a name like “Cody”, probably very young. Clearly not a Jonas brother unless he’s the illegitimate one. Kathie Lee’s kid? No, that would be a Gaffer or a GIF file or what the hell is his name- Gipper.. I finally had to Google the little bastard. Get this- he’s HANNAH MONTANA’S love interest! He’s probably going to regret that role later in a very Mark-Paul Gosselar kind of way a la “Hey… what’s Zach Morris doing on NYPD Blue?”

Jeffrey Ross- Jeffrey is a comedian. But sadly, he lacks some kind of incredibly clever and relevant catchphrase like “git ‘er done” or “you might be a redneck”, so he is not as well known as some of his colleagues. He is apparently an “insult comic” so perhaps that’s why they’ve asked him to roast Bob Saget. I can’t think of much more insulting than that.

So there you have it! The cast of DWTS fully illustrated for you in my always demure and subtle fashion. Next week we’ll talk about who I’d like to see on DWTS. But for now I’ll run along home to my wine. And my child- yeah, her too.

OMG ppl i suck

My child? She crawls. And claps her hands. And bobs her head to music.
But dear GOD… the CRAWLING. The cat now lives in a constant state of fear. My house looks like we’re preparing for flood waters with everything elevated and such. And I think someone should have told me that children develop the urge to stick little pointer fingers in electrical outlets VERY VERY EARLY.

In non-baby-related news, it has recently come to my attention that I’m the only living person who can’t bear to use text message abbreviations and lingo. I am physically and psychologically incapable of hitting the “send” button on something that only vaguely resembles the English language in written form. I blame college. Pesky college! I earned a BA in English only after living through courses like Advanced Grammar in which Dr. Sadist had us DIAGRAM THE PREAMBLE TO THE CONSTITUTION. It’s clear to me now that I didn’t really need that course to successfully write for a living. The only real purpose could have been to instill in me a phobia of modern linguistic shorthand and a crippling inability to relax where sentence structure is concerned.
But seriously… my text messages? They contain semi-colons where appropriate and capital letters and completely spelled-out words and entirely too much information for what should be an abbreviated form of communication. Let’s look at an example:
A normal human’s text message:
“r u @ work?”
Lauren’s text message:
“Are you at work or at home? If you’re at home, call me, please.”
*SIGH*
I’m well aware that I am unforgivably anal retentive and geeky.

Denial- it ain't just for Egypt.

A few days ago, my daughter WAVED HELLO AT HER FATHER. And she’s been waving ever since- at me, at the baby in the mirror, at the grocery store clerk, at the pediatrician…..
Of course, I’ve been all *hands over eyes* “LA LA LA!! What? I didn’t see anything? No, I did not see my tiny tiny BABY wave! Silly you, she’s just a little bitty BABY- she can’t do that or sit up all by herself or say haaaaay Dad-dee when her father comes in the room or play peek-a-boo or …. LA LA LA STILL NOT BELIEVING YOU!!”

Self, meet reality.
Reality, self.

*SIGH*
I can’t take it, Blogites. I truly can’t. I swear to you I’d put the kid back in the womb if I could… ok, so maybe not. But I’d surely have stopped the clock around 3 months. At least for a little while. I would certainly not have a twenty-pound eight-month-old with a four word vocabulary who gets up on all fours and rocks in a manner that suggests she might crawl at any second. And I certainly wouldn’t let my kid get so big for her britches that she asks for “nuh-nuh” while simultaneously pulling up my shirt.

I am fragile these days. Sleep deprivation and employment uncertainty will do that to a gal. So you’ll understand why I cannot possibly entertain any thought in which my child grows up and no longer has sweet baby milk breath or neck rolls.

Well, color me shocked!

Seems UF was once again named, essentially, the country's largest permanent kegger.

What cracks me up about the article is the caption on the photo stating the students are holding "a multi-person drinking apparatus known as a beer bong".

Can't you just imagine some poor young staff writer trying to figure out a reasonably intelligent way of describing a giant drinking cup fashioned from a 5-gallon bucket and duct tape? Even if you're working for CNN, it can't bode well for your career when the words "apparatus" and "beer bong" appear in your copy.

But I'm running with it. From this point hence, my margarita glasses and blender shall be referred to as my "external dual-component tequila delivery system".

Natural Selection

We have an automatic shower cleaner in the master bath. The other day Husband noticed that on the back of the cleaning solution bottle, it says “NOT A BODY WASH”.
..um…
Took me a few minutes to compose myself after that one because you know… they wouldn’t HAVE to put that warning on there unless….yes, unless some mouth-breather actually washed in the stuff and peeled away several valuable layers of skin.
Look, I have an eight-month-old baby, which any parent will tell you is the equivalent of having a frontal lobotomy. I certainly don’t profess to be the brightest match in the box. Hell, in the last three weeks I have put the cereal away in the freezer, tried to unlock my car doors with a Baby Einstein radio, and worn my shirt inside out to the grocery. Clearly my mental acuity ain’t what it used to be.
But seriously? Seems some things should be relatively obvious.
Another case in point- the Today show had a big expose, the gist of which was this… in summer, stuff on a playground gets really really hot.
Again... um...
Dear readers, raise your hand if you’ve ever singed your derriere on a slide? All of you? Ok, hands down. And now who has ever given themselves a nifty cattle brand by letting their upper thigh bump into the chain on the swing? Everyone again? Gee, go figure… All right, who has ever stepped out onto hot pavement barefoot only to go hopping back to the bench like a meth addict Easter bunny? Wow- EVERY LIVING PERSON WHO HAD AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD?
So tell me, then, how it is that we now require a full-scale “investigation” and we need cities to do something about the hazards of hot playgrounds? The Today story featured a little boy who had burnt the bottoms of his feet on those recycled rubber squares used as playground padding. Because he was allowed to go barefoot. In the middle of summer. On a CITY PLAYGROUND. Where the hello kitty were his parents? I mean, I’m all for experiential learning, but I’m not sure third degree burns are developmentally appropriate teaching tools.

What's the HCPCS code on a junkache?

Husband: “GAAAAAAH!!!”
Me: “What? What??”
Husband: “The baby head-butted me in the junk!”
Me: “Oh… is that all.”
Husband: “ALL? It hurts! My junk hurts! I have a junkache! Do they make a medicine for that?”
Me: “Yes, it’s called suck-it-up-ital.”
Husband: “Nice, thanks for your compassion.”
Me: “Seriously? That head came OUT OF MY VAGINA. You want sympathy for a little love tap?”


Viv is also teething, so you can only imagine the context in which I referred to her as the Ambassador of Abstinence. To which Husband shot back:
“I thought that was Pat Robertson…"

The End of an Era

My father is one of six siblings, three boys and three girls born into an Irish-Catholic family in the tiniest of towns in Ohio. They grew up working-class (very) poor, my grandfather and grandmother getting by as best they could after the Great Depression financially devastated the family. By all the children’s recollections, they had very little, but were a soundly united front. True, they would scrap like all hell amongst each other. But if an outsider dared to go after one of them? Well. That poor bastard would soon find themselves reckoning with the entire fiery brood, don’t you know. They continued as adults to sometimes scrap amongst one another on occasion, but always came together for the good times and the bad to support each other. Family weddings are the stuff of legend- good drink, lots of music, and lots of loud laughter. Odd as it may sound, my grandmother’s funeral is one of my best memories. It was a fitting tribute, in our own twisted way, when the grandkids slipped a cigarette and a beer into the casket with my grandmother. After all, those two things were favorite pastimes of Grandma's- you know, like knitting or something in other families. Now that she was comfortable after years of her body failing her, she’d certainly want a smoke and a drink for the journey. I don’t remember our parents even trying to feign anger. Hell, they’d probably have done it too if they’d thought of it.

Last night, my father lost his brother. Years as a diabetic had sent him into kidney failure some time ago; he’d been on dialysis for a while, ineligible for transplant because of his age and other health problems. Finally, his body simply surrendered. Even the heart of a wild Irish son can only take so much.
Uncle Skip was my favorite of my father’s two brothers when I was growing up. He was always good with the kids- quick with the hugs and songs. He had a great voice. My father’s family is divided into “the singers” and “the hummers”. Daddy and I are in the hummers. Uncle Skip was very much a singer. I remember when I was in high school, my grandmother’s mind was failing as quickly as her body. She needed a family member with her around the clock in the hospital. It was summer and I was out of school, so I volunteered to spend the night. Uncle Skip took me home the next morning and I remember how sweet he was to me on the ride, doing things like going out of his way to make sure I got exactly what I’d like for breakfast. He was clearly relieved and touched that I’d taken that night shift. At the time I hadn’t thought much of it, it was only one night- for family, you do these things. No thought, no question. What I hope he knew is that I learned that lesson partly from watching him, my father, and the other siblings. As Uncle Skip got older and his body failed, he got a tad less patient and perhaps a tiny bit grumpy at times. But everyone knew it was the pain talking. Fortunately, his wife, Aunt Kay, is one of the funniest and kindest women you’ll ever meet. Just before he died, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. I have a feeling he was hanging on for that, God love him.

My father and his siblings are so fortunate, to have been a complete set for so long. Very few big families can say they were all present and accounted for until the youngest is in her sixties. And while I know how lucky they’ve been, I find myself so sad for my father and my remaining aunts and uncles. My cousin pointed out that the longest relationship you have is with your siblings. I can’t help but think that Uncle Skip’s death must feel like the beginning of a different and very unwelcome era in their lives, where they begin to face the inevitability of slowly losing their original family circle.

Tonight, I will celebrate Uncle Skip in fine family tradition- by drinking and telling stories. I will shake off my sadness and raise my glass to a good man whom I am honored to call a relation. And I will raise a glass to my father, and to the rest of that clan full of stubborn, funny as hell, unruly souls with hearts of gold. Mar sin leat, Lawrence Patrick.

Funny Husband Moment #1,225,846,759,356

Me: I washed our bedsheets. They smelled like sweaty sick chick. And baby butt.

Him: *in a sultry whisper* Let yourself be captivated by a scent inspired by the family bed…sweat… ass…breastmilk… Funky Bedsheet by Calvin Klein…

I love him. So much. Any man who can make me laugh that hard after two days of stomach flu… well, he’s a keeper.

SONNUVABEEYATCH!

Husband and I worked hard to pick a name for our daughter that we felt was classic and beautiful, that reminded us of a wonderful person in our lives (she’s named for a dear friend), and (this was important) wasn’t tremendously common. We did not pick Madison or Emily or Anna because while those are perfectly lovely names, she would have been one of about 10 in her grade at school with that exact same name. Every time I tell someone her name is Vivian, they say “Oh! That’s so pretty! And you never hear it anymore!” SCORE!
So imagine my distress this weekend when my Mom called me from her vacation in Pennsylvania (she understood the significance) to tell me Angelina Jolie had named her baby Vivienne. Now, I realize the spelling and pronunciation are slightly different. And I certainly don’t begrudge Angelina giving her daughter a name she also thinks is classic and beautiful and pays homage to her recently departed French mother.
But still. DAMMIT.
Because you know that now a bunch of TMZ-addicted-People-magazine-subscribing-Perez-Hilton-heads will start naming their babies some variation of Vivienne. And they’ll klass it up, too, with stripper-esque spellings like Viveaynne. And now every time I tell someone my daughter’s name they’ll make some asinine comment.
“Oh! Like Angelina Jolie’s daughter!”
And I’ll be all like, “No bitches, that kid is named after MINE!”
‘Cause my baby was here first.
So there.

Say it with me now, folks...

DUH!!!

As dutifully reported in the above article, teen pregnancy rates are UP for the first time since 1991. What's that old saying? An ounce of prevention...?
PREVENTION, folks. Which in this case, translates to CONTRACEPTION. 'Cause you can't cure teen pregnancy. And you sure can't "cure" teenagers of the urge to have sex. And teenagers are not tremendously obedient types...so...

I nearly choked when I read that "Federal health experts said they don't know why the teen pregnancy numbers went up from 2005 to 2006". Blip in the data, my ass! How many low-birthweight unplanned unhealthy babies get born before we stop insisting that antiquated abstinence-only programs are the way to go? Oh, how I miss the Clinton-era health programs... when we had our heads up out of the sand.

Inappropriate, Inc.

Recent Phone Conversation with a Friend Regarding her GYN Appointment:

Her: Is it wrong of me that I took some pleasure in the fact that, after looking at my business, the nurse says “oh… I need to get a smaller speculum…”

Me: Hell no! I’d be all like “yeah, you do! ‘cause my petite dainty ladylike va-jay-jay needs it!”

Another Conversation (this one with a co-worker about a sad, sad, failing project):

Her: There are just… no words.

Me: And that it is why God gave us cocktails- for when there are no words.

And yet another workplace conversation (actually about a flashlight during a power outage- really, I promise):

Co-worker: Wally’s got the big one!

Wally: That’s not the first time I’ve heard that… heh heh…

Just another day at work… cocktails, big ones, and itty bitty vaginas…

Putting Noggin on Notice

***HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM! Sorry about being such a pain in the ass for the first 25 years or so! Love you!***

So… thanks to Husband and a cast of about 30 stuffed animal characters (all with their own voices and personas, thank you…) I was able to color my hair Sunday. It’s …um…interesting.
See I bought this color. It’s supposed to be a nice normal golden blonde.
What I got was a little closer to Moe from the Doodlebops. Don’t know Moe? Behold…













Ugh. My first impulse was to buy another box of color and try again. But then I thought to myself “Self… you got yourself into this mess- now for the love of God, call a professional to get you out of it!”

And while we’re on the subject of creepy television programming…scene from this morning:

Me: WHAT! THE! HELL!

Husband: (Running in from bathroom, shaving cream dripping…) What?! What?!

Me: I just turned on Noggin to watch The Upside Down Show. And IT’S NOT ON. It’s stupid-ass Blue’s Clues!

Husband: (Both relieved and annoyed now…) Oh. Well, that sucks. What happened?

Me: I don’t know. And it’s a really old one with Steve in that damn rugby shirt! It’s not even Joe- the new guy who at least had some variety in his wardrobe!

Husband: Well, I know a certain children’s network that will be getting an email from an angry Mama today.

Me: Damn skippy!

TV: “Bow!”

Me: Shut up, Blue!

Vivi: *burp* AAAAYAAAApbbbbtttttt!!!

So I get on the Noggin website and just for grins, I check the schedule. Do you know when Shane and David are on now? 11:00 and 11:30 AT NIGHT.

Here is my email to Noggin:
So... I turned on Noggin this morning to catch my- er, I mean, my daughter's daily dose of Shane and David at 7:00 and 7:30. But horror upon horrors, THEY WEREN'T ON! It was Blue's Clues! And not even new Blue's Clues- crummy old episodes with fashion-impaired Steve!
Our family LOVES LOVES LOVES The Upside Down Show and now our only hope is to DVR it late at night. We would turn on those two crazy Aussies every morning as we got ready for work. Their zany hipster brand of imaginative play spoke to every member of our family. My husband’s version of the Happy Fly Ditty dance is the stuff of family legend. We have taken to asking our daughter to press the “go to sleep” and “eat your peas” buttons on her remote. Heck, we’ve even been able to avoid sweeping for weeks- those aren’t balls of dog hair, they’re Schmuzzies!
Pretty puh-lease with sugar on top! Put Shane and David back in the morning rotation! Blue and Steve are nice enough, I suppose, but they’re putting us back to sleep! Zzzzzz.........
Hugs and smooches,
The Smith-Jones* Family

*So very obviously not our real last names.

Contents of your shopping cart: Husband 1 ea.

A friend emailed me after my bad gifts entry and said:

“you mention you met Husband while Walter was away, but you don’t say how”

Indeed I did not! So I will share.
The truth is that I “met” Husband in those two weeks only in the most literal sense- meaning I actually laid … eyes, yeah, eyes (that’s what we’re going with) …on his person for the first time.

The bottom line of our love story is this: you really can get anything you want on the Internet! Yes, I met Husband online. Through Yahoo personals, to be exact. His profile was light-hearted enough to indicate he wasn’t taking himself (or Internet dating) too terribly seriously, but disclosed enough to interest me.We traded messages for a few weeks, then emails. He was funny and smart- both prerequisites for me. He respected all my internet-dating precautionary measures, never pushing to meet or asking for naked pictures. (Seriously. That shit happens. A lot.) But there was something more. Despite just coming off an ugly divorce himself, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of bitterness in him. There were never any games or pretense or hedging, just answers to my questions and (as he demonstrated over and over again) careful listening to what I shared. I’d gotten pretty adept at sniffing out scary guy b.s. and I kept looking for it… and yet nothing. Nothing but this engaging funny man who was so easy to talk with, so compelling to me. Something seemed to be brewing.

Then I called him. It was like picking back up with an old friend… an old friend you flirted with a lot. He was every bit as warm and genuine and wonderful as I’d made him out to be in my mind. We kept talking and I became more and more anxious to meet him. Finally, I broke one of those aforementioned precautionary measures by asking him over to my apartment on very short notice. He brought M&Ms and he was the hottest boy I’d ever slept wi- er, I mean met. We never left the apartment that night. Sitting on my little loveseat, talking over some beers, he reached out and started playing with my hair. That simple little gesture wouldn’t ordinarily have caught my breath… but in that context, with that person, it did. The night that followed was amazing, but the details are for his memory and mine. I will just say it was everything good- sweet, intense, and completely devoid of any of the usual awkwardness that goes with a new partner.

That first night, I thought to myself “Self, you better enjoy this. Because you are not the type of woman a guy like this dates long term…” I thought Husband was too good for me. (A lot of days I still do, come to think of it. I joke that this is the longest one-night-stand I’ve ever had.) But within days it was clear we were both in for the long haul. Yes, only days. We met in June of 2004 and were married in October. Yes, of the same year.

Almost four years, two daughters, and a lot of bags of M&Ms later, he is still the hottest boy I’ve ever met OR slept with. And he still makes me laugh. And he is still the kindest and most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. It still takes my breath when he reaches out to play with my hair.

Set your child to stun...

So… someone should have warned me, I think.
I mean, I heard other parents talk about their babies going through a “stranger phase” wherein they don’t particularly care for people other than parents. I was prepared for that- hell, most people annoy the crappola out of me.
What I was NOT prepared for was my formerly-charming daughter to suddenly react as though everyone except me (and sometimes Daddy) is MADE OF BOILING HOT ACID FROM THE INNERMOST CIRCLE OF HELL!!
Vivi has recently issued a set of rules which (as near as we can tell) read something like this:

1. I want Mama. And only Mama, dumbass. (We forgot this one momentarily. Won’t do that again.)
2. If you hand me to almost anyone but Mama, I will scream. Daddy is acceptable, but only if Mama isn’t in my line of vision. If you hand me to Daddy, I will look around for Mama; if I see her, I will scream.
3. If the pediatrician tries to touch me, even for purposes of my own health and well-being, I will scream.
4. If my loving and doting grandparents who so graciously provide my parents with sanity-saving free babysitting try to touch me, I will scream*.
   *Unless I’m on Mommy’s lap, in which case they will be permitted to touch me in order to play with me until I tire of them.
5. If I wake up and Mama is not peering over me poised to swoop me up for immediate snuggles, I will scream as though I have been abandoned to be raised by wolves.
   

Did I mention she screams? A lot? To the point that her father and I have considered returning to Catholicism, if only for the exorcisms? (Seriously- a young priest and an old priest are tough to come by in the deep South. I think you have to be an insider.) I’m sure part of her new disposition can be attributed to teething and we’re doing our best to ease those pains, but girlfriend is going to have to pick up some coping skills ASAP. Mama and Daddy can only drink so much…

As you might imagine, this parasitic relationship with my child has put a SERIOUS kink in my beauty regimen. For instance, I am perilously close to finding out what my real hair color is. And people, so far it ain’t pretty. Think dishwater. From a truck stop. There is a box of #83 Sunflower Blonde sitting on my bathroom counter, but it requires 25 minutes to “develop” which is an insanely luxurious amount of time, the likes of which I have not had to myself since…oh, say… December 6th.
And if I had 25 minutes to let my hair color develop, I could also get rid of what my sister affectionately calls “Jiffy* feet”. (*Jiffy is a FL convenience store… like a 7-Eleven, but less klassy.) My heels are dry and cracked. The bottoms of my feet never quite lose that sexy dirty look, even after a shower. (This is due in large part for my propensity to go barefoot and the fact that mopping requires TWO HANDS. TWO.) My toenail polish looks great- in the spots where it hasn’t chipped off and there are more spots where it has than hasn’t. It got so bad last week that I actually threw a coat of polish OVER the three or four existing half-there layers… but ONLY ON THE FOUR TOES THAT WOULD SHOW IN MY PEEP-TOE WORK SHOES. And I had to drive to work barefoot to let that dry to a tacky consistency. That, my friends, is an “express pedicure".

My only consolation in all this is that I am still able to keep up with shaving. Don’t get any big ideas- it’s not because my showers last longer than 5-7 minutes. It’s just that I’m a fair-skinned used-to-be-blonde with very thin hair. I can let it ride for at least a week, usually two before Husband gets rugburn from a quickie. And speaking of Husband, I should tell you that he has been incredibly wonderful as usual. He’s doing much more than his fair share of the household chores and it breaks his heart when Vivi doesn’t settle down for him. So despite his very best efforts all the way around, poor Husband is left with a fairly dirty house (he’s only one man!), a screaming baby, and a wife looking like a Wal-Mart Queen. It’s a wonder those quickies even happen.

Desperation is a funny thing…

Apparently it's not a merit system...

How is it that a smart, insightful, legitimate journalist is gone too soon?

And yet pompous egomaniacal piece-of-shit worthless windbags live on and on and on and on...

Lestat said it best "God kills indiscriminately, and so must I."

*SIGH*

Bad Gifts: Redux

Holy Wrong-Size-Lingerie, Batman! That last post was near-and-dear to many! I’ve gotten several emails from folks telling me tales of gift-giving-gone-awry that make my venus fly traps look like the Hope diamond. And apparently I’m not the only one to have a horrendous gift prompt a sort of revelation about the relationship.
I had to share a few snippets of these stories with certain names, details, and other information deleted to protect the gift receivers. (The givers will get their comeuppance- karma is a beeyatch and whatnot.)

Here are some of my favorite quotes regarding these gifts and the relationship changes they prompted:

“A man who brings PBR to his first dinner with my parents will not have a second dinner with my parents.”

“An IOU coupon for sex should not have an expiration date… and should have clear terms for when it will and will not be honored, especially if the terms are NEVER.”

“Giving my daughter a ton of clothes loses something when you announce to the entire family that you bought them because you know I never do laundry…”

“He gave me a Valentine’s card in Spanish- a language I don’t speak. He thought it was funny. I’m not sure if it was funny because I DON’T SPEAK SPANISH.” *Editor’s note- my dumbass ex did this too- WTF???

And my favorite….

“Enlightenment had come in the form of a 9” hot pink plastic dick.”

Yes, you read that right. I’m still laughing.

And I’ll add a sad gift story to this lot…
Early in our relationship, the ex bought me a long-handled ice scraper. I was touched because he was so thoughtful, you know… realizing I was too short to reach the center of the windshield with a regular ice scraper. For years, I held that ice scraper up in my head and to others as a sign of how the ex as really quite thoughtful, just a practical salt-of-the-Earth (as he liked to call himself) kind of guy.
As our marriage wound down, I realized I didn’t have much, if any, evidence to add to that ice scraper… after almost 9 ½ years. I’d been holding on to that one thing for way longer than it was worth.
Even worse was when I shared that revelation with my Girlfriends and one of them offered up this moment of alcohol-induced honesty:
“He didn’t get you that because he was being thoughtful… if he was REALLY being thoughtful, he would have gotten his pathetic self out there and scraped the windshield himself. He was just making sure you could do it and his lazy ass wouldn’t have to!”

Shit.

Told you I was missing certain skills of deduction.

Ah, young love…

One step below a Chia pet...

Earlier today, I received a request from my one, er, I mean, one of my readers. She got the idea on another blog site. And since I would never alienate a (the) reader, I will oblige. Keep in mind this requestor already knows the story. She is a girlfriend of mine and got the real-time you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me phone call. Girlfriend’s request was this:
“You HAVE to tell the story of the worst gift you ever received!”
Okey-dokey, buckle up kids…

I was newly divorced and newly dating. Please to remember that I had been with the ex since I was 18, so there were certain survival skills I was missing. In those precious formative years when my girlfriends were learning how to weed out the self-centered asswipes, I was stubbornly sticking with the same self-centered asswipe to the detriment of my own development.

I’d been seeing this man child we’ll call Walter, after the farting dog. (And this guy would fart. In front of me. BIG mistake.) He could hold his own in a conversation and be snarky about dumb people, so we had some fun. Unfortunately he was also whiny and insanely narcissistic. Case in point: after I had worked a 9-hour day, only to immediately go and teach for three hours that evening, I arrived at his place exhausted. (As a side note- he never wanted to go to my place. Allergic to cats and “didn’t like taking medicine”. What-ev.) I offered to pay for dinner if he would only go and pick up said dinner so that I might have 15 minutes to decompress. Cue the hissy fit about how he didn’t want to do that because he “expected to be spending time with me”. Seriously. Yes. Another case in point: he called to ask me about my favorite restaurant- a nice place, nicer than any place we’d ever been… so he could take his FEMALE FRIEND there because she “needed an excuse to get dressed up and go out”.

At any rate, even despite my deficit, I knew this particular fella wasn’t “the one”. He assumed from the get-go that we were exclusive, but really? Do I need to explain why I didn’t feel like investing the emotional energy in telling him that not only was he not “the one”, he was one of about six that I was dating/canoodling/otherwise cavorting with?

He’d started doing things like asking if I’d consider raising my kids Jewish (I answered with an abstract ponderance on religious tolerance) and then he said “I love you” on the phone… to which I responded “OK...bye!” So imagine the fear that crept into my heart when he called to say he was on the way over with a surprise for me- and sounded so genuinely pleased and excited. I paced the floor praying to Our Lady of Ann Taylor that this dumbass wasn’t going to propose. He was about to leave on an extended trip and I could just see him wanting to lock me in before he left… I think I threw up at least once, but that could have been the eight vodka shots- I mean, glasses of water I drank to get rid of my nervous hiccups.

He arrived with… (sit down… trust me)
TWO VENUS FLY TRAPS.
Yes, the plants. The ones that eat flies. One for him and one for me. Aren’t you just swooning from the romance? No? Cynic.
Lest you think me some materialistic snob, you should know that I would indeed have swooned over say, a bar of dark chocolate or good paperback- either of which would have cost him less than those … things.
That was the point- this “gift” (term used loosely) demonstrated that not only did this guy not know a damn thing about me, he didn’t care to even try. I make no secret of the fact that I am the evil black thumb of death to all plants. I also don’t try to disguise that I am in no way shape or form an “outdoorsy” type of chick who might put carnivorous botanicals on her amazon.com wish list. If you insist on bringing flora of some kind, I am the type of woman you bring cut flowers intended to look lovely with no expectation of long-term of survival.

The kicker of all this? Dear Walter would like me to keep these atrocious little beasts while he is away on his trip. Yes, he wanted me to FEED the damn things. And let them live in my space. With my cats. This was, as they say, the venus fly trap that broke the relationship’s last straw nerve. I put them on a windowsill in my office and dumped some flat diet coke into them when I remembered. Oh, and I let my student worker stick her pencil eraser into their little jaws every so often just for shits and giggles.

When Walter returned two weeks later, I picked him up from the airport as promised. (I should note that I met Husband during those two weeks. And I DID know he was “the one”. J) In the cup holders of my car were the sad wilting remnants of Walter’s love offerings. We had a 15-minute car ride to his apartment which was just enough time for me to rattle off my “this just isn’t working out… and oh, by the way, sorry… don’t know what’s wrong with the plants” speech. I don’t think I let him get more than about three words in before I pulled in the parking lot of his apartment complex and evicted him, his luggage, and those wretched plants. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even put the car in park- again, it just seemed like too much effort for that relationship.

So that, my friends, is the story of the worst gift someone ever tried to give me. Let this be a cautionary tale: venus fly traps are the sort of present you should give VERY selectively. Really, it’s a very niche market for venus fly traps suitable for gifting. Chances are, if your lady friend shaves her armpits you should choose something else.

Husband arrived for our first date with M&Ms, which I had mentioned in passing on the phone three nights earlier. Hence the marriage and allowing him to impregnate me.

How about you? Worst gift? Best one?

Funny Husband!

*Sitting at the dinner table by front window*

Me: Hey, some kind of little critter just went skittering down the front walk...

Him: What was it?

Me: Not sure- bunny, squirrel, neighbor's cat...?

Him: Fraggle?

*Sitting on the couch playing with his new Blackberry*

Me: Oh, hey, watch this... I can update my Twitter from our phones!

Him: ... does that hurt?...

Me: Not as much as you'd think.

Surfacing

Wow… it’s been over a month. Let me begin by saying I have missed writing and posting here desperately- it’s not for lack of desire. But you know the saying… “life gets in the way”. Well, it has. And certainly not necessarily a bad kind of in the way… just in the way. I am pretty well full-steam-ahead-damn-the-torpedoes from about 5:30 a.m. until the baby beds down at around 8:00. Then I try my best to keep my eyes open long enough to spend some time with Husband. (And let’s face it.. if I’m conscious enough to be up, we’ll both want to have sex- I mean, How I Met Your Mother is a good show.. but not that good.) Then I’ll need to wake up with Baby Girl anywhere from 2-5 times over night. Lately it’s been more like 5. (We’ve had our first experience with the fabled ear infection. That bacteria made me it’s bitch.) And there’s what whole work thing, blah, blah, blah… What’s that? You’re sick of hearing me moan about my great Husband, adorable baby, and good job? Me too. So I’ll quit.

We started the kiddo on rice cereal. Yes, she’s still breastfed. No, I am not supplementing with formula. I try hard to avoid being judgmental of anyone (except for Republicans) but for a relatively well-educated suburban privileged person to have a baby and then not breastfeed even when they are capable of doing so? Well, I think it’s pretty crappy. Even the formula companies, who have a blue bazillion dollars tied up in you using their product, cop to the fact that breastmilk is the absolute best thing for your child. We’re not talking about parenting style or lifestyle choice or anything intangible like that. (Yes, breastfeeding has intangible benefits for bonding, etc. but let’s not even go there.) If we talk just in terms of SCIENCE, of what can be tested and proven beyond doubt, breastmilk is the best thing. Obviously folks will have medical conditions that will prevent breastfeeding- I’m certainly not suggesting someone should endanger their own health to do it. The kid needs you alive and healthy. And it would be insanely obtuse of me to say that a single mother working an hourly shift job in which she only gets two 15-minute breaks a day (or someone in equally difficult circumstances) can do what I’m doing with the pumping every two hours, etc. And having multiples complicates things- especially if we’re talking triplets, quads, etc. I’m just saying that if your circumstances are like mine (meaning none that would really prevent you from breastfeeding) why the hell wouldn’t you except for plain selfishness? As long as my body will comply, there will not be any formula in my daughter’s diet. Does that mean I’m pumping constantly and taking fenugreek and drinking mother’s milk tea and cutting out caffeine and drinking enough water to rehydrate Southern California? Yep. And do I think it makes me a better mother? Damn skippy.

You know, now that I think about it, being a Mom has made me pretty judgmental on a lot of fronts. I guess you get to feeling like you have a right. That’s probably dangerous, but I’m too damn tired to care. So while I’m on this bitchy sanctimonious rant, let’s talk about “crying it out”. If I hear from one more person that I have to let my daughter cry it out so she’ll “learn to sleep on her own”, I may punch them in the damn face. The cry-it-out approach is, in my book, borderline neglect. Letting a helpless infant who is dependent upon you for everything and doesn’t yet fully understand the world around them cry themselves to exhaustion out of fear and loneliness is not “teaching” them anything except that they can’t count on you and they’re right to be afraid and lonely. They’re not learning to self-soothe, they’re learning to give up because it doesn’t matter how much they need you, you don’t give a damn. Yes, they’ll get older and learn to work the system a little bit, and you’ll have to start being firm about things. But before they can even talk? Not possible. There are, of course, modified approaches in which you don’t just abandon them completely to wail until they collapse from the exertion. I find those more palatable. But just straight cry it out? Not at our house.

And speaking of shit I’m tired of hearing about, let me say this: MY BABY SLEEPS IN MY BED. GET THE FUCK OVER IT. But more on that for another time. I’m too grouchy to write a tirade about the anti-co-sleeping zealots.

Ahem.

On to things non-baby-related. Miley Cyrus, to be exact. Miley has been apologizing a lot for those Vanity Fair photos. Miley, sweetie, please stop. Because you, Miley, are the only person whose judgment in this whole debacle was age-appropriate. What 15-year-old girl, newly cognizant of her sexuality (and the power contained therein) and wanting desperately to be a grown-up wouldn’t have agreed to those photos? Poor judgment? Yep, but she FIFTEEN. It’s her job to have relatively poor judgment and to try to be too big for her britches. Now… Annie Leibovitz? She’s an edgy artist, true. And this is her “style” blah, blah, blah… but she’s also a woman. And I expect better out of women for other women, particularly for young women. This includes creating art without turning Hannah Montana into Lolita before she’s even old enough to have READ Lolita, much less comprehend the implications. I think there’s an argument to be made here about consent. If we agree by most courts’ standards that she’s not old enough to consent to sex, shouldn’t we also agree she’s not old enough to consent to having her sexuality splayed on the pages of a magazine read largely by folks too old to date her legally? Vanity Fair? Completely in the wrong to print them- but did you expect less? They’ve got a product to sell. Not an excuse, mind you, but predictable. This brings us to the people who I think should be strung up on a line by their toenails- Mr. and Mrs. Montana. AKA, Billy Ray Cyrus and whoever the hell her Mom is- Tammy Lynn Cyrus? (I don’t know- seemed like a good name for her.) My point here being, her damn father APPEARED in some of the pictures. He and Mama should have been front-and-center demanding editorial and artistic authority and USING IT. The sad part is, they seem to have a product to sell too, and that took precedence. Oh, and Disney, please stop tsk-tsk-ing at Vanity Fair for “exploiting” Miley. Your big concern here is that their marketing strategy was wildly different than yours- and you feel like you’ve got a bigger ownership stake.
*SIGH*- see? Judgmental.

Coming soon... my brush with blogger fame and why I nearly peed myself with excitement while reading this guy...