Musings and Drool

Your Kid Annoys the Crap Out of Me. Heck, My Kid Annoys the Crap Out of Me.

2011-07-18T14:54:00.000-05:00

Toddler Death Match- Vacuum Attachment Edition

Toddlers are weird little people.

One minute, they are amazing you with some new piece of profound knowledge- a keen observation of the great big world around them. However, before you can finish gushing with the pride that you feel at that moment, the toddler-person begins doing something incredibly inappropriate and/ or horrifically mortifying. The older they get, the more exasperated you become, because it becomes increasingly clear that they know better and they are doing (insert weird/ bad thing here) on purpose. I wouldn't go as far as to say that parenting a toddler is a love/ hate relationship, but there are definitely times that the overwhelming love takes a back seat to the feeling of, "If someone doesn't get over here to take this kid and give me a chardonnay break in the next 5 minutes I'm going to be rocking back in forth in a corner, probably permanently." Or maybe it's just me.

Because my boyfriend is apparently missing the FBTA (Frazzled By Toddler Antics) gene. Maybe it's only passed down to mommies on the X chromosome- I dunno. Maybe it's because he shares 50/50 custody with his ex, and approximately half his time is spent being an actual autonomous human being, rather than a toddler-wrangler. Or maybe he's superhuman.

All I know is that with two little toddler-people running amuck, it would be nice to have someone on my side to share in both the joys and the exasperation. But noooooo. When my admittedly mostly-brilliant kid insists that he reallypromiseshedoesn'thavetogopotty as Operation Code Brown commences in his pants, The Boyfriend gives me stern lectures and points me to yahoo! advice on potty training *rolling eyes* Meanwhile, his kid is off humping things indiscriminately (although admittedly less now that he's about to turn 4). Of course I am not allowed to point that out though, because anything his kid does wrong is simply "age appropriate," and "I'll see one day."

So here's my point- wait, I really didn't have one. I guess my point is that sometimes, kids suck. They all do. Yours, mine. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Sometimes, we all have those moments when we feel like failures as parents. Fortunately, those other moments when the kids are being sweet, adorable, brilliant, hilarious and loving make it all worthwhile. Otherwise, no sane person would ever reproduce.

It's not just me, right?

Holy Smokes! Church-hopping review #2

2011-07-07T18:57:00.000-05:00

Church Name: Kairos (hosted at Brentwood Baptist Church)

Brand of Jesus: Their website says they are a "non-denominational worship experience" that meets at a Baptist church, and is led by a Baptist minister. It's hard to escape the Baptists around here (unless, of course, you are at a Church of Christ).

The Pros:

The coffee was significantly better than that at Woodmont Hills family of God. Yes, I know this is not the criteria on which one should choose a religious experience, but hey- it's the first thing I noticed. Plus, I really needed the caffeine that night if there was to be any taking in of the Good Word.
I actually really liked the message, led that night by the assistant pastor.
No weird shenanigans in the name of the Lord (as mentioned previously, defined by me as laying-on of hands, speaking in tongues, handling snakes, etc.)
Attention to detail- they actually had a life-size replica built of the Ark of the Covenant, carried out by 2 scruffy youngsters.

The preacher was pretty funny, for a preacher.

It was dark, which hid my rather condescending glances around during the concert/ praise/ singing/ what-have-you.

The Cons:

Luckily, I happened to be wearing flip-flops, or I wouldn't have fit in.
The music was seriously over the top (and, in my opinion, lasted way too long). The drummer was behind a screen (with extra mics), they had full concert lighting and backdrops (including the big side screens with rotating colors and backdrops), and a freaking smoke machine. I mean, really? REALLY? I think they might have taken the phrase "Jesus rocks" a little too literally.
Diversity? Nope. Unless you consider the fact that I counted at least 1/2 a dozen different Hollister shirts diversity. The guy sitting next to me was probably 40, and I felt a little awkard for him, seeing as how he was probably the oldest dude there and all.
It was LONG. From 7:00- 8:30 on a Tuesday night? I guess that's why they have good coffee.
There was this one couple that was all over each other pretty much the whole time (at least during the worship songs). Quite frankly, it was gross. I seriously thought they were about to "know" each other Biblically- right there in the floor seating (oh yeah- as any good concert should have, there was both stadium and floor seating. My friend and I lucked out with like 5th row seats!). Ironically, the song that was playing when I first noticed this creepiness had lyrics saying something like "There is no greater love than Jesus." Maybe this couple was trying to prove them wrong?

Speaking of the music, there was way too much of the forced, awkward "rhyming" typically found in so much modern praise music. Blech.

Bottom Line:

When I first saw the "Kairos" link on the Brentwood Baptist website, I assumed it was some kind of African mission ministry. Turns out that it's pretty much just Southern Baptist catering to today's (white) youth. This was definitely a "Rocker Jesus" crowd. I thought someone should be passing around a beach ball in the floor seating, especially with all those raised praise hands. Interestingly, though, the message didn't sell out (it was on the Fear of God). I would go back, but I think I'll go late next time and skip the rock concert.

More info about Kairos can be found on their website:

http://www.brentwoodbaptist.com/kairos/

Church-Hopping: Review #1

2011-07-07T18:18:00.000-05:00

Church Name: Cross Point Church

Brand of Jesus: Jury is still out on this one. I think they are technically non-denominational, but it felt a little Baptist-y to me. I believe they label themselves as a "community church."

The Pros:

I didn't burst into flames (as previously mentioned here- http://musingsanddrool.blogspot.com/2010/11/on-jesus-and-drool.html)
They have a 20 minute interactive children's church thingy before regular services (which I didn't know beforehand, and therefore didn't personally experience)
Good message
Aesthetically pleasing backdrop
No one did anything weird (defined by me as laying-on of hands, speaking in tongues, handling snakes, etc.)
Nice multi-media experience, which appeals to the younger generation, but also to my inner teacher, who strives to deliver lessons geared towards different learning styles (visual learners, auditory learners, etc.)
When I went to the nursery to pick up my kid, he was smiling and unscathed

The Cons:

The pastor flat-irons his hair and was wearing skinny jeans
I felt super-overdressed in a black skirt
Pretty much complete lack of diversity- the auditorium was chock-full of trendy 20somethings
Today's message was "something a little different," which consisted of a video interview between the pastor and some former NFL player dude. This immediately made me feel like I was watching ESPN, which immediately made me zone out.
It's one of those mega-churches where it is really easy to be lost in the crowd (actually, I can probably count this as a pro, too...)

Bottom Line:

Not bad, but maybe not entirely for me. These people definitely cater to Trendy Jesus (I bet this Jesus has an iPad and hangs out at Starbucks, and he wears skinny jeans instead of that white tunic thingy). I'll probably give it another shot before making a final decision.

More info about Cross Point Church can be found on their website:

http://www.crosspoint.tv/

Weiner Comes Clean

2011-06-06T22:03:00.002-05:00

In recent news, Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY, pronounced WEE-ner) has admitted to wrong-doing. In the name of journalistic integrity on this blog, I researched by googling "exposed weiner" (I don't recommend that you do the same).

During this probe, Weiner's cocky attitude has not won him public favor. As Weiner continued to be grilled, he was reluctant to rise to the level of integrity demanded by his constituents. His lies thus far could be indicative that criminal complaints will follow, leaving the distinct possibility that Weiner will face the U.S. penile system.

Rep. Dick Johnson (R- CA) commented, "Let's be honest- he's been caught. Weiner will have a hard time getting off." Others disagree, admiring Weiner's forthcoming honesty. "I don't know why everyone is so hung up on this. He shouldn't be condemned. In fact, Weiner should have a statue erected in his honor," stated Jimmy Wood, president of the National Foundation for Ethical Behavior.

Although Representative Weiner may or may not be up for re-~~erection~~election, preliminary talks have begun for him to become the new face of the Oscar Meyer corporation, which would carry a hefty paycheck.

Penis.

Watersports and Freedom, -or- Things Not to Try When One is Pushing 30

2011-05-31T15:53:00.001-05:00

I think I celebrated Memorial Day in one of the most American ways possible. In memory of our fallen soldiers, I fell,while celebrating my freedom, and consequently memorialized the official loss of my youth. Pretty darn patriotic, right? Here's what really happened: I tried to learn to water ski and busted my butt (quite literally). I'm not sure what is more damaged- my ass or my ego.

The unthinkable happened this weekend: I actually found myself childless, physically healthy, and responsibility-free, and all on a holiday weekend! So, in typical me fashion, I took what could have been a perfect weekend of relaxation and turned it into OvercompensationFest 2011. "I can sleep in!" I thought to myself. But did I stop there? No. Noooooo.

"I'll have champagne for breakfast! It's a celebration!" said my internal monologue.
"An impromptu boat trip? Great idea!" it soon repeated.
"I think now would be the PERFECT time to try waterskiing!" I heard that pesky inner voice say. Oh wait- no, that was my actual out-loud voice, as spoken to my friend (and boat owner) Bruce, over a few domestic beers.

Bruce, who is younger than me and childless, decided to humor this obviously ridiculous idea.

Someone should have stopped me before the rope was ever thrown out. I managed to accomplish donning the skis and getting into position with all the grace and aquatic finesse of a 1-flippered manatee with an inner-ear infection. Bruce informed me that the hardest part was getting up, and that a good strategy was to keep my legs together. Lord knows I have plenty of practice doing that, so I thought I was in the clear.

Then came the motor. Did I manage to keep my legs together? No, no I did not. Picture a strong toddler who is determined to see just how far out of socket Barbie's leg will bend. That should give you a pretty good picture of the resulting movement of my left leg (albeit with a flabbier, less-shapely leg). I knew I had hurt myself, but my pride hurt more. So genius me, now stubbornly pissed off, got right back up and did the exact same thing again. I realized very quickly that it was over. At least for now.

Today I went back to work, hobbling around and trying to think of a clever lie to tell people when they ask me why I am limping. I can't bring myself to say, "I dislocated my butt trying to learn to waterski over the weekend." It's just not dignified. A least not for a woman my age.

I officially have item #1 on my "Things I should have attempted over a decade ago" list.

Valentine's Day Cards that Can't Quite Commit

2011-02-09T20:10:00.002-06:00

This is a V-Day card MADE for men. My "friend" just got this card in the mail:

"Because You Mean So Much"

Valentine's Day/ is a day for telling/ those people we care about/ just how much/ they mean to us.../
So I couldn't/ let this day go by/ without you knowing/ how very much/ I enjoy being with you./
The times we share/ are very special to me.../ and so are you.
HAPPY (all caps) Valentine's Day (obligatory scroll-y script).

Somebody actually got paid to write that. I read the fine print- yep, it's actually from Hallmark.

Now- my translation:

"Because You are Putting Out on a Semi-Regular Basis"
Valentine's Day/ is a day/ that I don't give a crap about/ but I know you expect something from me/
So I couldn't/ let this day go by/ without you thinking/ I acknowledge this/ so I can still get laid./
The times we share/ are sex/ and therefore I like them.../ and you're ok, too.
Again with the "HAPPY Valentine's Day."

Although the quality of their writing has obviously gone down, I will hand it to them: they are tapping into their niche markets. Hallmark: Not just your grandmother's greeting card.

Sometimes, Words aren't Enough

2011-01-30T11:37:00.000-06:00

So, I just got this handy reference brochure in the mail from the public school system for which I am employed...

Great! A new employee assistance program! How thoughtful. But wait- let's zoom to the fine print on the back...

Brilliant. Thank you, public school systems of America.

On Jesus and Drool

2010-11-28T14:23:00.002-06:00

I'm not a particularly religious person at this stage in my life (I'll stop and wait for the audible gasps to subside...) I believe in a higher power and the Greater Good, but I don't want to be one of those douche-baggy people who say, "I'm not religious, I'm SPIRITUAL."

I grew up hardcore COC (Church of Christ, for you lay people), and then immediately rebelled against it upon being subjected to daily chapel and Bible classes at Lipscomb University. To be fair to Lipscomb, I was already leaning away, but that was the Jesus-straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

Now that I'm a mommy, I am revisiting the whole religion thing. I have fond memories of church as a small child (it's when I became old enough to ask questions that things went sour), and I think it's good for kids to grow up with that moral compass and community. Therefore, I'm trying to find some happy medium for A. You know, somewhere in between Sunday pagan sleeping-in rituals, and Shoving-Jesus-Forcibly-Down-Your-Throat-Old-School-COC.

So the question becomes, what kind of church fits my little family? It needs to be strong enough for Austin, yet pH-balanced for Mommy. Liberal enough to accept that I'm an unrepentant single mother/ recreational alcoholic, but not so liberal as, for example, the Unitarian Church fairy walks (no joke- a teacher down the hall from me last year did that shit.)

I actually tried a new church today, and it was ok. You can click here for the full review. I didn't burst into flames, so that was good. A was also super-smiley when I picked him up from the nursery, so that was good, too. I didn't rededicate my life or anything this morning, but at least I had A mingling with a morally superior group of tots.

So far, so.... so...

2010-11-28T09:18:00.001-06:00

e-Dating.

Interesting.

I feel like I can't give an impartial review, and here's why:

I tried it on a whim,
I really don't give a damn if I meet someone or not, and
My ulterior motive is writing material or a funny story or two for dinner parties.

That being said- I can't decide if I am awesome or the biggest loser ever (in the improper noun sort of way- not in the Capitalized/ Jillian Michaels And Allison Sweeny Just Handed Me A Grand Prize Of $250,000 sort of way.) I hear complaints from various friends about not receiving enough matches, or not getting any dates from the 2 particular sites that I have joined (the other shall remain nameless to keep my last shred of dignity somewhat intact-ish). Me, however- I get plenty of matches. These matches have included gems such as:

A cattle farmer
An avid self-help book reader and collector (Grrreeeat)
Men who I consider "geographically challenged"
A couple of guys who, judging from their pictures, I am pretty sure had parents who were related
Fatties. eHarmony clearly didn't listen to my particular deal-breakers.
And this one guy who sent a message to introduce himself with the subject, "Let's F@ck." Except he didn't use a euphamistic symbol. And he didn't actually introduce himself. That's all there was to it.

Between these 2 sites, there are 3 or 4 guys that I find interesting (But one of those is un-datable- he's overweight, has a creepy beard, and lists his profession as "the pursuit of happiness." He also included an FBI "person of interest" picture. He's hilarious, though). Of the potentially datable ones, one seems a little too young, one is a little too old, and one looks just right (and he's hot!), but he uses bad grammar.

My initial screening process is twofold: once through where I am too nice, and then through the list again later, armed with chardonnay and a girlfriend to make the harsher but inevitable cuts. I haven't met anyone yet, but I am working on being less judgmental.

On Dating (and Drool)

2010-11-20T17:31:00.000-06:00

I hate dating. Hate, hate, hate it. I always have. Perhaps that's why I habitually date guys I work with- because I already know them, and I get to skip the whole awkward, "You like horses? I like horses, TOOOOO!" part. However, I am growing increasingly concerned about the level of co-dependence that my roomie and I seem to be slipping so easily into. She fixes things while I cook dinner. I take out the trash while she does dishes. Yesterday, I ordered for her before she got to happy(ish) hour.

One of my BFFs, Misty, has been in a co-dependent relationship with her roommate for about 4 years now. They are an old married couple- I swear it. D and I have not been cohabiting long enough for this. It must stop now, before it is too late!

So, now that I have taken a good hard look at my current life, I see pretty clearly that my most likely future includes me, D, and about 20 hairless cats. I'm not math-savvy enough to run the actual statistical analysis, but I'm pretty sure that the odds aren't good. Although I love my roomie dearly, I am not quite ready to give up yet (after my recent for-real 29th birthday, I consider it a waste of my last good trophy-wife years). On that note, I have decided to do the unthinkable...

I am going to consider the possibility of dating. Like, really dating. And on that note (and also on Ambien), I have signed up for 3 months of eHarmony at a "limited time special price." I never thought in a million years that I would be at this point: yet another single mom on a dating website. Stay tuned for results- I expect hilarity to ensue. If nothing else, it could make for good blogging, no?

"Are You My November Daddy?"

2010-10-31T15:53:00.000-05:00

I have officially found something that sucks more than dating as a single mom- breaking up as a single mom.

So now, on top of the suckage that automatically ensues in a breakup, I have the added guilt of potentially causing my child psychological trauma. Sure, anyone who knows me knows that I could never be truly happy forever with a man named Larry who lives on Bland Drive (no joke- and his dentist's name is Dr. Downer), but my kid doesn't understand that. All A knows is that he is around a lot, has really cool toys at his house, and has way more follow-through than Mommy when it comes to disciplinary action.

How do people do this? How the crap does this dating thing work with a kid? There are so many new levels (and it's not like dating wasn't hard enough before.)

The way I see it, here are the options:

A) Keep a steady stream of men around so that A is accustomed, but not attached (November Daddy, anyone?)
B) Settle for a man with good bone structure and a W2 (hey, I've done worse)
C) Give up entirely, -or-
D) Win the cosmic love lottery and have Mr. Right show up on my doorstep, sweep me off my feet, and turn me into one of those women who actually live in dual-income households (without making A get a job making Nikes or sewing for Kathy Lee's clothing line)

I'm thinking 'C'.

Bitter, Party of One

2010-07-20T22:08:00.000-05:00

So I just watched this birth slide show by some Orange County photographer on Facebook, because one of my friends posted it, and then about 30 of my other friends commented on how beautiful it was, and how they all cried.

Here is my take on it.

This gorgeous chick and her super-attentive husband had a natural home birth, complete with midwive, grandma, and expensive photographer (who set the slideshow to a musical background of Enya). I can only hope that mom's legs and body were photoshopped, because no human being is that hairless- even the tiny one that she pushed out in her inflatable birthing tub, set upon immaculate yet really cool hardwood floors. This really good-looking couple's hip tattoos would lend one to believe that they had crappy jobs, but at least they had each other- but their Orange County home, apparently remodeled and filled with understated modern artwork, screamed otherwise. They have money, too. Bastards.

So let me recap: Gorgeous couple, trendy enough for me not to hate, nice home, apparently head-over-heels in love, perfect naturally birthed baby with cool name- all set to aforementioned musical backdrop of Enya.

And yet all I, with my overly cynical mind and chubby Baby Daddy who doesn't want to pay child support, could think was this- Haha, I had an epidural, biotch. Who's in labor now??? Mwhahaha. Epidurals are better than world peace. My epidural kicks her lovely and thoughtful birthing present (a probably really expensive necklace with the baby's initial as the centerpiece)'s ass.

Maybe I'll have my upcoming child support hearing photographed by someone artsy, and set it to a musical backdrop of Yanni (or some such nonsense). Stay tuned- and please try to post on how beautiful it was.

Men who Want Minivans and the Women who Love(d) Them

2010-06-29T14:21:00.000-05:00

   Mom friends, countrymen, suburbanites, lend me your ears: I come to call your attention to a hidden U.S. epidemic-- More and more men are secretly wanting mini-vans.

   But are these men- our husbands, fathers, and businessmen- caravaning in suited droves to the local Dodge dealership? No. No, they are not. Instead, they are trying to seduce us, their women, into the test driver's seat of Siennas and Odysseys. They are luring us into believing that we need a minivan to properly fulfill our suburban destiny. They casually drop amenities like "extra cabin space" and the "convenience of sliding doors" into any and all auto-related conversations. And be sure that every time we bitch and moan about some trivial problem with our sensible mid-sized sedans, these men latch on, minivan wheels spinning in their heads.

"But why are all these men suddenly wanting minivans?" you may ask. I have no idea. But alas, it seems that the days of domestic bickering over mid-life crises and sporty convertibles are soon to be long gone. And as they go, so too go oversized pick-up trucks and chest hair. It's simply un-American.

What I do know, however, is why these men are trying to fulfill their minivan fantasies vicariously through us, their unsuspecting female companions. It is simple: Pride. They are ashamed to admit that inner longing and drive, that desire for extended drive-train and sensibility. We, ladies, are the cover. This way, they can play the "I had to appease the wife" card over the water cooler as their masculine friends snicker at the new purchase. But be sure when it is time for the next family outing, your man will "offer" to take the wheel so you can relax. He can always nod to you if another man driver casts him a condescending look at a traffic light.

I ask you this: If our men are too good to be seen driving mini-vans, aren't we? I submit to you that we are. Beware the closeted minivan wanter. The next time hubby casually leaves out a copy of Motor Trends opened to the latest review of the Chrysler Town & Country, close it, or better yet, cover it with Cosmo. The next time he looks at you with that baby-making gleam in his eye, ask yourself exactly where he plans to have you put the extra car seat.  Check out this gem from a popular minivan manufacturer's website:

"Sure, function led you to Grand Caravan, but when you change from errand clothes to evening clothes, it's nice to navigate shiny chrome and a crosshair grille up to the valet with pride."

Who wrote this? A man did.

Resist, reach within, and seek out that sexy inner you- the one before salaried jobs and mortgages, when the souvenir from a hot date was a hangover, not a balloon for the kid. What will it be- MILF or mom jeans?

Stand for what you believe in, or else go ahead and proudly don those jeans in all their high-waisted glory.
I say we leave the minivans to caterers and home-schoolers where they belong. It's a little thing called dignity. It's time to rise up and fight for womankind- and for manhood.

Application for Step Dad

2010-06-17T13:22:00.000-05:00

Repost- trying to consolidate some blogs. Still relevant, though! :)

Application for Step-Dad
Current mood: cantankerous

Announcing vacancy for Step dad for Austin, trophy husband for Erin (11/04/08)

Please answer the following questions truthfully and honestly. Please attach a separate page if you feel any answer needs to explained more thoroughly.

Basics:

Name:
Age:
Sex: (One can't be too sure these days)
Occupation:
Approximate salary: _______ yearly
Marital Status: if divorced, how evil is your ex-wife? 1(least evil- 5 makes Satan look like a Girl Scout) 1 2 3 4 5
amount of alimony/ month? ___
Children? y / n if yes, how many?
amount of child support/ month? ____
Do you like children? y n
Do you want to have more children? y n if yes, how many? ____

More questions:
Are you a musician, or do you plan in any way to one day support yourself by being a professional musician instead of your current job as a waiter? If yes, thank you for your interest, but your skill set is not a match for this position at this time. Y/ N

How crazy is your mother? 1 2 3 4 5
How involved is she in your life? 1 2 3 4 5
Do you work out? Y/ N
Please list your hobbies:

On a scale from 1-5, how much rage would you have if I asked you to take out the trash? 1 2 3 4 5

Do you drink? Y N
If yes, what is your drink of choice? Beer __ Whiskey __ Martini __ Something Fruity__ Jagermeister__
If you answered "Something Fruity" or "Jagermeister," you do not need to answer any more questions on this application. Thank you for your interest.
Approximate of drinks per week? 1 or 2 ___ 3-5___ 5-10___ I don't remember ___

You would best describe your perfect date as:
A. A couple of drinks, and a professional sporting event
B. A candlelight dinner and scenic walk
C. Doing repeated shots of Jagermeister at a dingy sports bar, followed by showing me videos of episodes of Reality TV that you appeared on
D. Just hanging out at home talking and watching movies
E. Something so strange and disturbing that it would never ever make this list

What is your credit score? ___

Approximately how many hours per week will you be willing to help me with the baby? ___

What would you want your role to be in Austin's life?
A. A strict disciplinarian
B. A friend and confidant
C. A role model
D. I want Austin to be my golf caddy
E. Mortal enemy
F. Other (please explain) __________

Why do you want to be considered for this position?

Thank you for your interest. Candidates who are determined by HR to be matches for the position will be contacted for follow-up interview.

Read more: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAll#ixzz0r8QnzVaN

Kissing Frogs: A Thinly-Veiled Metaphor

2010-06-16T13:09:00.000-05:00

There once was a young woman who would sometimes think back to her childhood. She remembered, quite vividly, catching tadpoles in various neighborhood bodies of water on those long, lazy Southern summer days. It was such a small thrill- the chase, the competition, the catch. There was strategy and risk, triumph and defeat. The neighborhood kids would boldly venture through unexplored woods, on a quest for the perfect pond- the Holy Grail of Tadpoling. Sure, there were tangible risks, like poison ivy and Copperheads, but that was all part of the allure- that element of danger lurking at the edge of almost stifling normalcy. Sometimes, some of the kids (those that were louder, braver, or more apt to prove Darwin right) would get side-tracked and try to catch the usually poisonous water snakes, but not her. She was smart enough to know when it was all for show, and besides, she wanted something attainable. And she always got it. At the end of the day, those other kids would count her amphibious conquests with envy, as they returned empty-handed to stretch tales of the deadly snake that got away. She would emerge from the forest sweaty, mud-stained, and victorious. If only she had outgrown it.

Of course, while catch and release was great fun, she was sometimes left wanting more (as children and sportsmen often do). Twice she made a valid attempt at keeping the tadpoles. In her first attempt, she tried to turn their captive environment into something cute and girly- a well-decorated trophy case in which to display her shrinking-tailed glories. Naturally, they soon died. Not being one to easily accept defeat, the girl learned from this attempt, and the next round of tadpoles were welcomed into a terrarium as close to their natural habitat as possible (however stagnant and un-color coordinated it might have been). She nurtured them, and took pleasure from watching them grow as a direct result of her time and attention. However, as the tadpoles realized their full potential and turned into frogs, she quickly came to the realization that she really had neither use nor desire for frogs. They were smelly, ugly, and loud; not to mention she had to actually procure food for them. She could have released them into the wild and set them free, but instead she chose the path of least resistance- leaving all but their most basic needs untended until the frogs grew big enough to escape their cage, hopping away to an uncertain fate.

Some things never change.

On Birthdays and Self-Loathing

2010-04-28T23:36:00.001-05:00

My birthday sucks. It has for many, many years. I've come to expect it. However, I now have a toddler. A sweet, innocent, wide-eyed child, for whom birthdays are still new and magical, and without disappointment. This post should be about how magical A's birthday was, and what it meant to me as his mom- but it's not. I have that one in his baby book. The other side of the story is...

Yesterday was my baby's birthday. I had to work, and Tuesdays are my long day. You see, I work an extra job one day a week to help make ends meet. I do this not because I want to, but because my baby's daddy decided that helping with those ends wasn't so very important to him. So after my 12 hour day, my "family" went out to eat to celebrate the rest of the birthday that I had to miss. We never do anything together anymore, an after all, it was a special occasion. GRANTED, it was my bright idea, but...

The three of us go the restaurant. We sit, we order, we bicker like always, and we eat. Austin, in true celebratory mode, proceeds to throw all his kids meal (which we NEVER order him, because he just wants to share... but it was a special occasion!) into the floor in true baby gangsta fashion. You know, like those rap guys popping bottles of Cristal champagne just to pour them out over the hoochy back-up dancers. What a waste.

But I digress. Let's fast-forward to the check. The server brings it. Baby Daddy has been working for over a month now, so I make no move for it. Neither does he. It was like a classic game of stare down without the staring. He knew the check was there; I knew the check was there. He knew that I knew, and vice versa. But neither of us made a move. Finally, he cracked. He picked up the check, pulled out his wallet, and I began feeling victorious (which never, ever ends well for me). I thought that this, THIS, was the moment. The moment I had aspired to for over a year. The moment that I was validated not just as an incubator and ATM, but as a mother and human being. But alas, the moment was quickly crushed when he pulled out a single bill and passed the check to me. He wanted to split it. I was livid.

Before you pass judgment, let me mention that this restaurant was Logan's Road House. And we ordered off the "2 for $14.99" menu. Granted, we both had soft drinks, and we did splurge for that special kid's meal. I realize that in the grand scheme of life, it's not such a big deal- but really? Really? This is the thanks I get for carrying his child for 9 months (3 of which were spent on bed rest), giving birth, and busting my ass to single-handedly support our family? I'm not worth 2 for $14.99?

Insanity has been defined as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

And the moral of the story, kids, is "Don't get knocked up." And if you do, be sure to either run his background check and FICO score first, or be prepared to lower your standards- significantly.

At least Logan's has good rolls.

On Dating and Sleep Training (Especially Sleep Training)

2010-04-12T23:28:00.000-05:00

There comes a point in every previously knocked-up woman's life where she reaches a crossroads. The single (or in my case, single-ish) mommy thing is a delicate balance- does she continue with the currently working formula, however precarious it may be; or does she risk tipping the scales and upsetting the balance to find a chance at new and possibly everlasting happiness?

Whatever the path this nurturing, overworked, and under-appreciated purely hypothetical mother might choose, one thing is certain: I Need To Freaking Sleep.

"And exactly how might this relate to dating?" you might ask. Imagine with me, if you will, exactly how a woman like me might begin a dating relationship.

**********Scenario*************
Boy sees girl in a crowded public place. Boy and girl make eye contact. Eye contact becomes flirtatious. Boy decides to approach girl. Conversation goes something like this:
Boy: So, come here often?
Girl: Back off buddy, I have a baby.
*Now, we have 2 options.*
(A) Boy flees immediately, or
(B) Boy doesn't see the big deal, and pursues the conversation.
Boy: So, what part of town do you live in?
Girl: I live in the suburbs, with my Baby Daddy.
*Boy becomes concerned*
Boy: So you guys are still together?
Girl: No, but I fully support him financially, and have for a very long time.
*Boy's ears perk up, thinking he may have found the independently wealthy golden ticket*
Boy: So, what do you do for a living?
Girl: I am a teacher and full-time grad student.
*Boy realizes the error of previous logic*
*And again, we have 2 options*
(A) Boy immediately runs away and warns his friends along with every other eligible bachelor in the bar, or
(B) Boy is genuinely interested in Girl, and a relationship ensues.
***************************************

Let's assume that Boy chose option (B) on the latter. At some point in any serious adult relationship, an overnight visit is bound to occur. So in our scenario, Boy has chosen to overlook all the other baggage, only to find a crying toddler in Mommy's bed by 11:00. And we are not just talking whimpering- we're talking wailing and gnashing of teeth. Not just tonight, but every night. Maybe even every night forever (Don't believe me? Just ask my friend, whose 7 year old step-son still sleeps in the bed with Mommy at night. I, for one, would be willing to bet that Mommy is single). This does not bode well for Boy and Girl.

Of course, if you know me at all, you know that I would never expect a man to come sweep me off my feet and make life super grand. So let's explore, more briefly (due to the fact that I'm crashing from aforementioned lack of sleep) that the mother took the other path: The overworked single mom is juggling a career and a child, and putting in extra hours to make ends meet. Toddler doesn't sleep, toddler keeps not sleeping, so Mommy doesn't sleep- ergo, sleep-deprived Mommy botches something important at work, gets fired and replaced by a younger, more put-together toddlerless woman without the ever-present stains on her shirt, bags under her eyes, and coffee pot in her hand.

And now to the point, for which you have surely been eagerly awaiting: I say all this to justify ignoring my kid's sobbing pleas for me currently coming from his room. The way I see it, he will be far more damaged in the long run from the lack of a stable and loving step-daddy (path 1) or the loss of a roof over his head (path 2) than from the lack of instant gratification in the form of coming to my bed. Of course I tell myself this now, but that doesn't currently make me any less tired. If this scenario ("Mommmmmmmmmmyyyyyy! Daaaaaddddddy! Why don't you LOVE me? WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!") continues to play out tomorrow, Mommy might have to rule out medical reasons, like Austin's genetic susceptibility to my terrible seasonal allergies, for which Children's Benadryl is clearly the best treatment. This pollen is ridiculous, and if marked drowsiness is a side effect, so be it.

It's all about what is in the child's best interest.

Targeted Marketing Gone Too Far

2009-10-08T18:47:00.000-05:00

Targeted advertising freaks me out. I google one thing out of curiosity, or update my Facebook profile, and I get super specific ads popping up on my sidebars for weeks (P90X, Online Education Degrees, ShamWows...) "They" know too much, and to make matters worse, I don't even know who "they" are. It's creepy.

I am thankful that I know that it happens, although I'm not particularly clear on the how part. In an online group that I am a member of, a young mom once posted that she was furious that her very young daughter's favorite educational website was displaying "adult" themed advertisments. Other moms posted advice ranging from "Call and complain!" to "Call a Lawyer!" No one had the heart to mention that she should talk to her husband about viewing porn on the computer. I sure didn't. I hope she was let down gently, whatever route she chose to take.

However, this week, targeted marketing has gone too far. It was bad enough when Ladies' Home Journal showed up in my mailbox, but now... tampons? Really? It's even creepier that I just recently got my monthly visitor back (the one and only greatest thing about pregnancy and extended breastfeeding, other than a happy little baby, of course). HOW did "they" know this? Tooooooo much information! Sure, maybe it's just a crazy coincidence that this is the time that a Playtex sample box showed up in my mailbox, but that doesn't make for a very good blog post. I maintain that it's super creepy.

The creepiest part was the literature that came in the packet. There was a postage-paid card to send in for a chance to win a $250 Visa Gift card. I was reading the fine print (I'm a freak), when this sentence popped out at me- "We will contact you within a few months to see how you enjoyed your Playtex tampons." What?!?! There are several verbs I could think of to associate with tampons, but enjoy? What kind of freak enjoys a tampon? Who are these people? And how did they get my address?

Yep, targeted marketing freaks me out.

Move Over "Biggest Loser"

2009-05-13T19:34:00.000-05:00

Meet Erin, diet guru and founder of The New World Diet.

I personally used this diet to lose the last of my stubborn baby weight, and now I want to offer this tested system to you for the low price of $19.99. But wait- order now, and I'll slash $19.99 off that payment! That's right! But you must act within the next 3 minutes!

Here is the rundown of my patented system, which combines science and pop culture to get you results you never dreamed of. First, you need to catch Swine Flu. Kiss a pig, lick a Mexican, play in a ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese- do whatever it takes! This is the "jump start" portion of my system, and will kick your weight loss into high gear. Once you see the immediate results, you will be encouraged and motivated enough to enter into phase 2 of my system: Have someone in your household lose his or her job. It can be you, your significant other, your child (please obey applicable child labor laws) or even a very close roommate. What matters here is that in this economy, a new job will not soon be found, and it will take weeks to get an unemployment check in the mail. By the time money starts to flow in again, you will have been unable to afford food for weeks! No temptation for you, my friend! (It is very important to follow my program in this exact order, since you need to be in a healthy state prior to contracting Swine Flu, and have health insurance just in case.

With my system, H1NE1can get results! So don't wait, pick up the phone and call today, before it gets disconnected!!!

My Kind of Kid

2009-03-13T01:23:00.000-05:00

It's so rare lately that I get inspired, that I thought this deserved a mention.

Not long ago, I was substitute teaching. I must have been doing something right, because the science teacher pulled me out in the hall and asked me if I was comfortable supervising my kids with lasers. It might sound easy enough, until I add that I was subbing again for special ed that day, and the kids had been fighting the whole day. The teacher, obviously torn between her initial assessment of my competence and the look of fear in my eye, decided to leave me in charge of my group, but also to add one "regular" kid.

I went back in the classroom playing it cool, while secretly being nervous as hell. I was scared about being in charge of ornery special needs kids with lasers, but I was even more afraid of which student she would add to our group. There were lots of jock type boys and pretty girls in the class, and this was middle school. How was one of these kids going to react to being grabbed out of his or her group and thrown in with the social outcasts? What if they made fun of my kids? Ornery or not, I had grown attached to these kiddos. Although it would be completely unprofessional, if need be, I could smack a 6th grader down.

The teacher chose one of her weekly leaders to be in the group. I sized him up as he walked over, looking for any negative signs. In spite of his shaggy hair, frail frame, and general preteen awkwardness, I got nothing. He walked over confidently and sat down at the table. He poured and measured, following directions exactly. He didn't stop there, though. He intervened in the constant badgering between my kids, interjecting at exactly the right moments to show them how "cool" the experiments were. He made sure that everyone, physical disability or not, got a turn to hold the laser (the teacher told me that only the leader could hold it, but screw her. The kids were thrilled by it, and I'm not on her school's payroll anyway). He helped draw diagrams and explain light waves, he mediated, and he made sure no one was left out. I think the best part was that he didn't look up once to see who was watching him. Kids can be awesome. I had no doubt that this kid was going to make this world a better place. His parents had obviously done an incredible job, and I couldn't help but fast-forward a few years and hope that this was exactly what my little boy would turn into, even in those clumsy not-quite-a-teenager years.

Thank you, anonymous family, for renewing my hope in mankind.

'Twas the Night Before Due Date- repost for Katie :)

2009-01-26T19:52:00.000-06:00

'Twas the night before due date, and I laid awake dreamless
not a creature was stirring, except for the fetus;
The hospital bag was laid by the front door with care
In hopes that the baby soon would be there.

The baby was nestled all snug in the womb
As I frantically struggled to finish his room
And I in my mu-mu, and BF, full of crap,
Had just settled down for a short useless nap,

When I felt a kick so strong on my bladder
I sprang from the bed to take care of the matter.
Away to the bathroom I flew like a flash,
Sat down on the toilet and heard quite a splash.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But part of my mucus plug, both yellow and clear.
And then I saw him! So fat and so hairy,
I knew that it must be... The Labor Fairy!

More rapid than eagles his contractions they came,
And he grunted, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now weight gain! Now stretch marks! Now cravings and swelling!
On Cankles! On Nausea! On uncontrollable yelling!"
"To L&D! To the doctor on call!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard my reaction
to the squeezing and cramping of each contraction.
As I drew in my breath, and waited for more,
In came The Labor Fairy, straight through my door.

He had a swollen face and a giant round belly,
That shook on its own, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right crabby old elf,
Yet I cheered when I saw him, in spite of myself.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work-
And that's when it all stopped! No way, what a jerk!

And giving me the finger in front of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his car. He had pulled off his caper.
I knew in that instant that this was false labor!

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"HAPPY LABOR TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"

I'm Overqualified, So Shut the Hell Up

2009-01-25T00:50:00.000-06:00

"If you made it here tonight, you are lucky," the man in the center of the room said. "Just think of all the people out there right now without a job, and remember what you have."

I cast a sideways glance around the room full of grownups in penguin apparel, wondering what was so wonderful about being forty years old and showing up to work in a vest and a bow tie, preparing to pass shrimp and grits to a room full of unappreciative morons for eleven bucks an hour. One of my old friends had called me out of the blue earlier in the afternoon, and asked if there was any way I was free to tend bar for him in a few hours. "Yes," I said, instantly knowing better. After all, I have a child to support, and I am closing on a new house this week (God willing). I asked for the details, and found out that the pay was $14 an hour and I would have to wear a white button up shirt. I knew the button up was a bad sign, seeing as how I have sworn off any and all jobs that require wearing a bow tie or a polo. A white button up means they are going to slap a bow tie on you when you walk through the door, and wearing a bow tie means- without fail- that you are someone's bitch. It was too late, though- I had already accepted the assignment.

Fast forward to the speech. I had shown up to this event as a freelancer, so I really didn't have a clue what was going on. After this touchy-feely moment of wonderfulness was over, and I had thanked my lucky stars, I was directed to my bar. I was to tend bar with an older gentleman- we'll call him Wayne. I walked behind the bar and introduced myself, and asked all the appropriate questions. "What's your name? Who do you work for? How long have you been bartending?" Blah blah blah, bartender comradity, us against them, blah blah blah.

Wayne answers my questions, and mentions that he is good at wine and beer. To those of you who don't bartend, if this were a wine bar, that would mean something. Wine is a very difficult subject if you delve into its complexities. This was not that kind of event. There were about 5 beers and 4 varietals of cheap wine. So already, I'm confused. Then, THEN, he tells me that if someone asks for a "specialty drink," he will ask me what to do. He mentions that he doesn't know what is in a whiskey sour, and stares at me questioningly. At this point, I think he's being a condescending asshole. Because of his age and demeanor, I think he's obviously been doing this a while, and thinks that the young(er) girl with big boobs couldn't possibly know what she's doing behind a bar. "I'll show him," I thought. I've been doing this for years, and I'm very, very good at what I do.

Only Wayne didn't stop staring. It turns out he wasn't kidding. We are standing there behind the bar, staring each other down, when he finally says, "It's gin, right? In a whiskey sour?" I still think he's kidding, and keep staring at him until he looks like he's nervous. "It's WHISKEY and SOUR," I hear myself say, "and if you want to get fancy, you can add a splash of Sprite." Oh.My.Lord. This will NOT be a good night.

To make a long story short, after the whiskey sour incident, Wayne (a) could not find the white zinfandel, because it was not in fact white, (b) whined that it had been almost 4 hours and he hadn't had a break (I've often bartended 12 hour shifts without breaks- shut up), (c) hadn't been offered dinner, and (d) (aka my final straw) told a woman I would have to make her drink because "Erin does the specialty drinks." What had she ordered? Tequila, straight up. That means a shot of tequila, not chilled. Just tequila poured in a glass.

I put up with all of this, bartending in circles around him while he whined about money. If I heard one more thing about a tip jar from him, I swear I would have broken a wine glass and beat him over the head with it. He was JUST like the stapler guy from "Office Space," but I didn't have anyone in earshot to appreciate the humor. That just made it awful instead of funny.

I made it through, though, like a champ. It is always nice to get out of the house and earn a little income. At the end of the night, while we were breaking everything down, I saw a friend that I had worked with a year and a half ago. I was fairly deep in conversation with him when a lady in an awful outfit who must have been somewhat in charge of the event walked up with a totally condescending smile, and said, "We have some trash over there to put up," as she batted her eyelashes pointedly at us. Ok- first off, lady, I am not on your clock, so take 'our' effing trash out yourself. I am not some 18 year old pothead who needs constant supervision- I am a grown ass woman who should probably be running the people who run the people who run you.

Oh, and the conversation we were having? The last time I saw my friend, he had just found out he had cancer. I hadn't seen him since, so I asked him about the cancer. He was telling me that he thought it was spreading, but, as a server, he had no health insurance so no one would do thorough tests on him. He told me that he had spend every last cent of his savings account trying to get treatment, and insurance companies literally laughed at him when he called them asking if there was any way for him to get any kind of coverage (not to get on a political soapbox, but this is one of my main reasons for voting for Obama. EVERYONE should be entitled to health care). So this guy lives day after day, wondering if cancer is eating through his entire body, and not being able to do a damn thing about it. I was trying to tell him every social agency that I knew of for him to call, when we were so pointedly interrupted about the trash. I bet she would feel like a total asshole if she knew what we were talking about, but in her eyes, it was just two kids in bow ties, goofing off on her clock. Whatever.

As much as I like getting out of the house, and as much as I like bartending now that I don't have to do it for a living, this crap isn't worth it. No more bow ties for me.

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Man Poop

2008-12-23T16:31:00.000-06:00

Warning: This blog post is about excrement. If you do not feel like reading about excrement, then you should probably find another blog post without the word "poop" in the title.

Now, moving on...

I have recently diagnosed E with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Every time I ask him for help with a messy or unpleasant task with the baby, he gets irritated, and then says he has to go to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, after said task has been completed by yours truly, he reemerges from his man throne. What really annoys me is that he will then offer his help, knowing full well that I have already done whatever it was that needed to be done. At first I believed that it was merely a coincidence, but now I know better. It happens almost every. single. time. I'm on to him. You can't exactly start an argument about bathroom habits, though- especially without hard evidence. And that's not an investigation that I am willing to undertake.

There is a great deal that I understand about men, having grown up with a father and a brother, and being on my fourth male roommate. However, I have never been able to answer that age-old question- What the hell takes them so long in there? Why do they need a half hour bathroom break? Why are stacks of reading material necessary to eliminate bodily waste? Why can't they just get it over with and get on with their lives? What is up with the man poop?

The best explanation I have gotten for this is from my ex's best friend, Wayne. Wayne explained to me that it was like creating a work of art. You spare no time or expense to carefully squeeze out the perfect sculpture. He told me this over dinner, and explained to me that he wasn't just eating a medium-rare filet- he was beginning the work on his next masterpiece, Vincent Van Wayne's Mona Lisa. Needless to say, Wayne doesn't have many friends, and the ex and I just couldn't make it (not entirely because of his choice of friends, but still...)

So if any of you have any answers to this mystery, I am all ears. Until then, I am going to stock my bathroom with a few good books, bubble bath, and a bottle of wine, and pull the "I have to go to the bathroom" card before he can next time.

A Folley of Errors.

2008-12-11T08:18:00.000-06:00

What a day, what a day. And it's only 8 a.m.

A few weeks ago, I decided with Eric's crazy restaurant management schedule and my negative income (or outcome, as I like to think of it) that I would take up substitute teaching. It's the only way I can think of to make money with zero commitment. Since I have a huge fear of commitment, plus a very demanding and unpredictable baby, nothing could be more perfect for me. Well, except for the small fact that I don't like kids. Especially kids in large groups. I figure that's something I can overlook, though. I've overlooked more major issues at other jobs.

So today was to be my first day subbing. I have been putting it off and putting it off. I've been putting everything off, to be honest. But, I must have money. It's at a critical level. So after paying bills last night (ok, ok- after looking at bills last night) I decided to check the Sub Finder website to see if there were any jobs today. There were two listed: 2nd grade or high school special-ed. I chose special ed. What could be better, right? I could make some money andget that warm and fuzzy do-good feeling! So I clicked "Accept this job" and went to bed feeling hopeful for the next day.

Naturally, that's when it all started to go downhill. Austin has decided that the week he slept in his own crib was just to tease mommy, so he slept with me and kicked me all night. Eric hogged the other side of the bed. The temperature was all wrong. Basically, I slept for about an hour and a half, thinking all night about giving up the job today. But no, I told myself, I must make money for my family (and, again with the honestly, for the new laptop), AND I will be helping special needs kids. So at 5:30 a.m. I roll out of bed, shower, and prepare for my day. I found a pair of pre-preggo work pants and squirmed into them (with a little help from Spanx), I managed to fish out the one sweater I own that pretends to contain my massive mommy breasts, and I completed my teacher ensemble with a pair of fantastic heels that say, "I'm professional, but I'm also hip and a little sexy." (Well, that's what I think they say. To everyone else, they probably say, "Please make this lady stop thinking that Target shoes are fashionable.")

So off I go to nervously begin my time in teacher-land. I walk outside to my car in the cold rainy morning, thankful that I had parked close to the apartment. But wait! Where's my car? Eric had moved it, so I began sloshing through the rain with my silly heels in search of my car. I finally find it, way down the heel, crank up the heat, and begin my journey to school with my head racing. I mean, I have no idea what to expect. And these are rich kids. Really rich kids. What if they are like the rich kids that I went to high school with, with snotty attitudes and a huge sense of entitlement? Where am I going to sit at lunch? I won't belong anywhere! I'm not a "real" teacher, I'm not a student... what if it's like the substitute teacher version of Carrie?

Thankfully I left in plenty of time, because not only was the morning nasty, but a tractor trailer overturned on the interstate near the school. It was all over every radio station. It basically shut the south side of the city down for the morning. Since I left so early, it only made me 5 minutes late, but in those 5 minutes, the kids had arrived. I had to park in student parking and ignore the weird looks from the students as I walked in. I could just feel their eyes on me, thinking, "She's not one of us, AND she shops at Target!" I tried to walk in like I knew what I was doing, and I pretended to know where I was going. I was totally lost. Finally I found what looked like an office, went in, and was told that the real office was right across the hall. The secretaries got to see that small walk of shame from their windows. I went in the main office, they told me to come around, and I couldn't find the door. The frumpy secretary shot me a not-so-amused look at that point. Then, THEN, they can't find me on the sub list. Did I have the name of who I was there for? No. Do I have the job number? Negative. So to save face, I try to make small talk with the frumpy secretary, who is obviously annoyed by my very existence. I knew I should have worn a tacky Christmas teacher sweater. She would have liked me more. The main office lady took pity on me, pulled me in her office, got on the computer, then proceeded to give me a sad smile and tell me I had showed up a day early. Go me.

It just HAD to be special-ed I was subbing for when I made such a fool of myself. I can only imagine the jokes they made when I left. The nice secretary told me to stick around and have coffee to wait for the traffic to subside, but I had to get out as quickly as possible. So I drive home, feeling like a fool. When I got in, I changed clothes, and thought I'd step on the scale to make myself feel better. Apparently my 3 tough days in the gym have helped me gain 3 lbs. Well, at least I get to go back to sleep now, right? Wrong. Ze bebe wakes up the second I step foot in the bedroom and gives me a big gummy, "HI Mommy, I'm wide awake, let's play now!" grin. And how can you refuse that?

I have to say, though, it helped put my day in perspective. I might be a moron, fat, and poor, but my sweet baby still loves me. I'm going to enjoy the time I have left with him before he develops a sense of reason.

Help Wanted- PT Domestic Goddess

2008-11-20T12:49:00.000-06:00

After two weeks of not working at all yet still getting absolutely nothing accomplished (except for the lack of major bodily harm befalling the baby- now that he has become mobile I consider this no small feat), I have decided that it is time to embrace my inner domestic goddess. No, there has been no hormonal "must clean... must have order..." shift in me as I had hoped. As all my friends were rushing to sign up for Home-Ec in high school, what with its easy 'A' and baked goods, I was the kid sitting in elective calculus (which I still find fascinating). Day to day routines and attention to detail are not my strong points. My desire to change has been brought about for two reasons: 1. After my illness, if someone does happen to come in my apartment, there is some possibility that they would call Child Protective Services on me, and 2. I am really sick of hearing Eric complain all the time that I don't do anything. Not that #2 would normally inspire me to change- actually quite the opposite. However, I have reached a new level of maturity where I have learned that making him happy makes him shut up, and one whiny baby is all I feel like putting up with on any given day.

So I go about trying to embrace my inner domestic goddess, but so far, it hasn't gone so well. It turns out that she is quite confrontational, and perhaps slightly mentally retarded. The initial conversation looked something like this:

Me: Hello, um, inner domestic goddess? Are you there?
IDG: No, I'm vacationing in the South of France. Where else would I be?
Me: I think we should start deep cleaning the apartment, and planning a dinner
menu.
IDG: No.
Me: What do you mean, no?
IDG: I'm busy.
Me: Doing what?
IDG: I don't like you. Go play Tetris and leave me alone.
Me: Can't you just help me out a little bit?
IDG: I'm not a day laborer.
Me: If you don't help me, you are fired.
IDG: *silence*
Me: I mean it!
IDG: *more silence*
Me: Hello? Hello?

Apparently my inner domestic goddess is angry at me for keeping her locked away for, oh, about 27 years, and the years of neglect have rendered her talents useless. I would like to replace her with Merry Maids and perhaps a part-time personal chef, but these luxuries are not in my Stay-at-home-mom budget. So instead, I have just joined Flylady.net. It is a website geared for people like me! How fabulous! It teaches you how to clean and organize your home and keep it that way. In a nutshell, it turns us hopeless creative types into Martha Stewart! Well, ok, maybe Martha Stewart's redheaded stepchild, but I'll take it. I'm ashamed to admit that I almost teared up reading the welcome letter. Stupid hormones. Fly Lady promises there is hope for me, so if I can keep up with the program, perhaps in a year from now I'll be sitting in my tidy living room playing with my well-behaved toddler as a homemade treat bakes in the oven. If not, there is always Careerbuilder.com and daycare.

Germ Warfare and Lollipops

2008-11-06T06:07:00.001-06:00

Every November, I have a tradition. As the chill sets in the air, I watch the leaves change colors, I freak the hell out about the Christmas music and holiday displays in stores, and I get bronchitis. The bronchitis is a pretty regular thing for me, and as I type, I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with it again. But it's a new ballgame now. I have a baby. A really high maintenance baby. A baby who doesn't break for bronchitis. I thought maybe the universe would cut me some slack this year, but alas, no such luck. "How is it even possible?" I ask myself. I don't go anywhere. I don't do anything. How the crap did I get exposed to it this year? And then it hit me- Monday, I was in the mother of all germy cesspools: the pediatrician's office.

If you don't have kids, and you've never been to a pediatrician's office since entering adulthood, let me tell you- you are one lucky bastard. One mustn't be fooled by the warm, brightly colored waiting room- these are baaaad places. Just one look at the super frazzled receptionist should give you your first clue. Imagine, if you will, Wal-Mart. Now, take everyone with those horrible kids in buggies out of Wal-Mart, and put them into a room about 1/20th of the size. Now, make half of those kids sick. Voila! Now you have a pediatrician's office!

As soon as we entered the waiting room on a Monday morning for Austin's six month checkup, I knew it was not going to go well. The place was packed, the phone was ringing off the hook, and the children were wild. After sitting in the waiting room for 30 minutes, no one had been called back, and the patients kept pouring in. A good hour in this waiting room teaches you a lot about what kind of parent you do not want to become. There is always that one haggard looking mom with "that" kid running around like a ... well, you know "that" kid. At first, you feel sorry for the mom. "No, Parker, don't take that little girl's toy. No, Parker, don't throw that ball at people. No, Parker, don't run out that door." New moms like me look around wide-eyed, fearing that we are looking into the future. A little farther into the wait, you stop feeling so sorry for her. Her commands become more and more disheartened. She is losing the battle and has accepted defeat. "No, Parker, don't lick that baby's forehead. No, Parker, stop jumping on the table. No, Parker, we push our trucks on the floor, we don't throw them at people's heads." So little Parker Pathogen keeps running around like a tiny maniac, being atrocious and spreading pestilence with his germy little appendages. I know it was him. I didn't like the looks of the kid from the time I walked in the door. He had it in for me.

I should have seen it coming. I should have known that I could not have come out of two hours in a pediatrician's office unscathed during cold and flu season. They might as well have wrapped me up in a smallpox covered blanket, for I apparently have no immune system to speak of.

On the plus side, Austin is healthy and happy. He weighs 16 lb 5 # (he is now literally twice the baby he used to be, as his birth weight was 8 lb 2 oz), he is 26 1/2" long, and he got 2 shots. On an even more positive note, the baby was the only one to cry this time. The last time he got shots, he cried for about 2 minutes, and mommy cried hysterically for about 25 (I totally caused a scene. I made the nurse cry, and the doctor laughed at me. I think even the baby was laughing at me by the time I finally calmed down).

So anyway, now that my Nyquil has truly kicked in, I'm going back to bed. I'm sure it will be just in time for the baby to wake up, since it's 7 a.m. and all. Ah, Nyquil- breakfast of champions. Wish me luck this week- I think I'm gonna need it.

An open political letter

2008-11-04T16:37:00.001-06:00

Thank you, thank you- it's Election Day! That means that I no longer will have to endure my inbox being filled with political stupidity day after day. It's even worse for me than most people, I think, because I hail from that great state of Alabama, where the pockets are tight, the shotguns are loaded, and the necks are overwhelmingly rouge. If I have to read one more stupid made up thing about Obama, I am probably going to go crazy (er).

A couple of my favorite idiotic things:

To be fair, this one didn't come from anyone in Alabama. It was forwarded to me by Eric's mom, or, for those of you who have been following my saga with her, the MILTF (Mother-in-law-type-figure). I won't bother to get into the content of the email- you can probably figure it out from the image.

Then an anti-Obama Alabama aquaintance of mine actually bothered to link to a site (now taken down) where some moron compared Obama's campaign logo to a logo of some kind of communist-led Shanghai organization:

So, you see the crap I'm up against. Not that I'm the biggest Obama supporter in the word, but c'mon, seriously? Really?

In retaliation, I finally posted an open letter that also serves as my auto-response for any stupid political fowards that find their way into my email. Here it is:

Please do not forward me anymore crap about Obama. I have already voted. Yes, I realize that he is *gasp* black. No, I do not think he is a Muslim. Even if he is, that's ok with me. Lots of the world is, and I would prefer to have an articulate President who could perhaps speak on some level to that small percentage of extremists who want to bomb the sh!t out of us. No, I do not think Obama is a terrorist. I also do not think he is the antichrist. What's more, I think you are an idiot if you keep sending out Myspace bulletins and forwards about how he is the antichrist. Yes, I realize that all of you will have the last laugh if it turns out that Obama is, indeed, the antichrist. I am ok with that risk. And if you happen to mention something about Obama finishing what 9/11 started, then I have no idea what you mean, and I think you should be banned from posting Myspace bulletins for at least the next 120 days.

I do not have an Obama sticker on my car. I do not think he is the best choice on Earth for the Presidency. I do think that, for me, he is a better choice than McCain. I don't hate McCain. I will not be upset if the McCain/ Bible Spice ticket wins. I do not post bulletins about how we should not vote for McCain because he is old and has yellow teeth. I would appreciate the same respect.

I think that everyone has a right to vote, but I also think that if you are going to exercise that right, you should bother to educate yourself instead of simply spouting off extremist propaganda.

I realize that this probably sounds rather rude, and I'm *a little* sorry, but I'm truly sick of it all.

That will be all, and have a nice day.

It felt really good, and I should have done it much, much sooner. The response has been mixed :)

In closing, I hope everyone went out to vote today, and may the best man win. Happy election day.

My name is Erin, and I approve this message.

Oh please no, not that!

2008-11-04T13:45:00.000-06:00

July 10, 2008 - Thursday (bringing over a few old Myspace blogs)

Something bad happened today. Something very, very bad. I arrived home after a week long vacation and went to the mailbox, expecting to find the usual- lots of junk mail and bills, maybe a Netflix movie. I was not prepared for what I found. I had no idea it was coming. I was blindsided. In my mailbox, lurking in the hot dark space, was.... A LADIES HOME JOURNAL MAGAZINE!!!

Surely this cannot be, I told myself. Surely it is a mistake. Surely, like the child support notices and medical coding newsletters we get, it was meant for a previous apartment tenant. This will all be OK, I told myself, as my trembling hands flipped the magazine over. But there it was, in plain capiltalized Helvitica or whatever that font is, was MY name and address. How, how did it come to this?

My MOM gets Ladies Home Journal. My GRANDMOTHER gets Ladies Home Journal. That's not me! That's not my marketing demographic! One short year ago, I was a "hip young professional!" I was a well-educated, unmarried 20something that marketing machines spend tons of money advertising their tiny overpriced condos to. They told me which risque television shows I just had to be watching. They told me what designer vodka would help me to find my place in life. And now, because one stray sperm found its way to my unsuspecting egg, I am a totally new consumer. I somehow got subscribed to Ladies Home Journal, with such compelling reads as "Roast with the Most!" and the ever dramatic, "Can This Marriage be Saved?" I am not being told which designer handbag I cannot live without, I am now being told which coupons will help me save the most when I prepare my family's nutritious dinners.

Yes, having a baby truly changes everything.

We Wii!

2008-10-31T23:36:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I was having one of those evenings where you just have to put on makeup and get out of the house. So for cheap entertainment in my low-income part of town, I decided what better to do than go and observe the local ne'er do wells in their natural habitat- Wal-Mart.

So there we were... just my family and I amidst a sea of sagging jeans, night-time visors, gold teeth, and bleached blond hair the size of which is rarely seen outside of a Texas trailer park... when I noticed how fat everyone at Wal-Mart is. This train of thought led me to remember a mommy and baby workout DVD that someone had recommended to me. So we walked over to the electronics department in search of the DVD, when lo and behold... the fluorescent lights shone down from mega-store heaven above, directly on to an IN STOCK Wii AND Wii Fit! *insert heavenly music* It was like the low-price-place gods had spoken directly to me, and I had no choice but to listen. Still in disbelief, I pushed my way through the juvenile delinquents crowed around the demo machines, playing Grand Theft Auto 8 or Hannah Montana- Ultimate Rock Star Party, or whatever the heck it is that bad kids these days are playing, and find a Wal-Mart employee to reaffirm my faith and hand over the Wii (Apparently I wasn't the only one in shock- a rather cute girl came up and asked if the boxes truly were Wii's while the guy was helping me. Only, when she spoke to him in a flirtatious voice about her workouts, it became obviously clear that this girl was a man. Eric didn't play that one very cool, but I digress...)

So, instead of a $12 DVD, I am now the proud owner of $400 worth of Wii and Wii accessories.

I have to say, though, this thing is AWESOME. It used to be that watching other people play video games was boring. Not so with the Wii. Watching Eric break a sweat on the Wii short run is great entertainment for me (and for the record, it is scary how much his mii looks like him!), and watching me Wii hula hoop is apparently great entertainment for him. Score 1 for Wii. Plus, there is Wii Zelda. Score 2. Perhaps my finest moment with the Wii came from the initial fitness assessment of the Wii Fit. Eric laughed as I was nervously awaiting my post-baby BMI results. He laughed harder when the ticker went to fairly close to the highest end of the "normal" range. Instead of kicking him in his old-man shin, I let him do the fitness assessment instead. When the ticker went halfway into "Overweight," I got the last laugh. What helped even more was when his mii automatically plumped up. Mwhahaha. Score 3, 4, and 5 for Wii. Sometimes, I love Karma.

I guess I'm not the only one who still has some baby weight to lose.

Notes on Breastfeeding

2008-10-28T14:20:00.001-05:00

When you are pregnant, you are filled with hopes and dreams. You sit lazily staring off into the sunlight, and imagine your relationship with your new bouncing bundle of joy. You have read all the information you can possibly absorb about all things baby related, especially the first bonding moment- breastfeeding. You imagine it just how the books tell you- you and your little cherub will gaze lovingly into each others eyes while he suckles oh-so-contentedly off your ample breasts. Such love, such tenderness.

Fast forward five months.

My child is wailing like a pint-sized banshee. Is he wet? No. Hungry? I don't think so. Cold? Nope. Perhaps if I put him in my lap, he will calm down. Uh uh. What to do? I know- instead of finding creative ways to entertain my baby and stimulate his imagination, I think I'll pop a boob in his mouth and hop on my laptop! Genius! So I ask my baby if he wants the booby (hopefully that won't be his first word) and he gives me a gummy little grin and starts to open and close his mouth like a little fish in preperation for his feast. All is good. Until... it turns out he IS hungry again. And he isn't getting enough milk out, because he just ate an hour before. So what does my little cherub do? He bitch slaps me in the boob. Yep, he's totally like "Where's my milk? I said GIVE ME MY MILK, BIOTCH!"

This seems to be somewhat effective for a moment, until he starts squirming again. So he slaps again, but now he's got a new trick. I have no idea what it has to do with the flow of the milk, but he's discovered (for the first time out of utero, anyway) how to effectively kick mommy and push off her internal organs. So now he has one really strong foot implanted in my abdomen, one on my throat (my baby is quite flexible, and remember... he got steriod shots in the womb), and he has his little talon-like claws out trying to pull on the other nipple (are you enjoying this visual yet?). Like a good mother, I persevere and focus my attention elsewhere. And then, HE BITES MY NIPPLE! You'd think it wouldn't be so bad what with the lack of teeth and all, but I swear this child has the jaws of death. For one tiny flash in time, my subconscious battles between two primal instincts: Maternal instinct, which says to nurture and protect your baby, and Survival instinct, which says to remove whatever is causing you severe bodily harm as forcibly and quickly as possible from your body, and get it far far away from you. Luckily, maternal instinct wins out. Before I've even had time to process this, I let out a loud scream, startling the baby. His death grip relaxes and his little limbs flail in the air, because I've scared him.

And then, he looks up at mommy with a wicked little milky grin, and it's all worthwhile.

Ah, the womanly art of breastfeeding.

Everyone else is doing it...

2008-10-28T14:00:00.000-05:00

I have reached that special time in every cybergirl's life- the time where she spreads her wings and starts her own blog. No longer will the virtual halls of Myspace do to post my ramblings, for I am now a grown up. I am a mother, after all. And as such, my previous keen insight and interest in sociopolitcal, metaphysical, philosophical and other big-worded topics has been replaced by keen insight and interest in baby poop and other baby bodily fluids. For that, I apologize to all my childless friends. Hopefully one day soon I can find some sort of balance. We'll see. Who knows where this blog will take me.

Thanks for stopping by.