Dying a Slow and Painful Death

I love being a mommy. I love the look she gives me when I come into her room every morning to start the day, as if she were to say, "OMG Mommy I was just thinking about you!" It truly is the most fulfilling feeling. I feel like I've been so blessed to have the ability to stay home with Collins for the past 9 months - financially. Sanity's bags were pack looooong ago my friend. I am just out of ideas for shit to do. I'm bored out of my everloving mind. Everything that I want to do to the house requires money and supplies - something that a stay-at-home mom doesn't have an endless supply of. Pinterest gives me ulcers because I see SO MUCH COOL STUFF that I don't have the faintest idea of a) how to do it; and b) where to acquire the resources to get my kid to sit still so I can do it.

I would bake some shit, like really yummy Christmas goodies, but then I would eat the aforementioned shit, and then I would feel bad about myself for being a glutton and continue eating that crap out of self-hatred and humiliation.

Speaking of mindless eating - the manchild pitched this gem of an idea at me as we were grocery shopping on empty stomachs this past Sunday, "Hey why don't we make chili and those amazing oatmeal chocolate chip cookies?" Awww that sounds sweet right? A couple of lovebirds playfully smearing whole-wheat flour on one another's noses and giggling with flirtatious abandon? Except we're married...so..........yeah.

What he meant was, "Why don't I watch football and work while you make chili and those amazing oatmeal chocolate chip cookies - of which I only want one, and then I will conveniently be going out of town on business for  few days, so the entire batch of delicious cookies will be sitting around in front of you, daring you to eat them. If you don't eat them, they will be stale by the time I get back - what a shame, money wasted; however if you do eat them, I will make fun of you for being a fatty. And by make fun of you, I mean gently suggest that you go for a run, no worries, I'll watch the baby, because a moment on your lips is a lifetime on your hips."

Le sigh.

So now I'm stuck with a huge batch of delicious, soft, gooey chocolate chip cookies. After my like, fourteenth cookie (I shit you not) I sealed up the container and put them high high high above the cupboards, out of my reach and out of my eyesight. I wish I would have thought to do that BEFORE I ate fourteen cookies, give or take seven.

Collins is sick of her toys. Poor Collins. No, wait. Poor ME! With no toys to hold her attention, I haven't gotten to blog in like two weeks, which is something I'm sure only I noticed. But whatever. It's amazing how quickly babies develop and learn the nuances of their favorite toys, only to be completely bored of them within just weeks. Collins loved her links. They help with teething, and they link together (duh). A week ago, if I linked them together and jiggled them in front of her, she would kick her legs like she was jumping, her eyes would get wide as saucers, and she'd start squealing. Today I tried to get her excited about them, and she PUSHED THEM AWAY from her, with this snotty look like, "Mom those are so last week, get with the program. You bore me."

Then I tried to get Maestra to play me some songs on her little piano thing - but she kept getting pissed because it kept playing She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain. By the sound of her jibberish, I could tell she was berating the piano as if to say, "Damnit I want you to play Rockin Robin you amateurish, elementary piece of crap!" She's really nailed down the yelling tone in her jibberish and squeal language. I think we have a bossy, impatient, opinionated little pistol on our hands. I can't imagine where she gets that.

All of her new, exciting toys are waiting for her, wrapped nicely under our Christmas tree, and I'll be damned if I didn't slave over wrapping those oddly misshapen children's toy gifts. Why are children's toys always nicely tucked away in the most unwrappably-shaped box? Have you ever tried wrapping Christmas presents with a baby who wants to eat the paper, a manchild who is engrossed in his fantasy football leagues, and dog who thinks he's a flying squirrel, jumping to and from the furniture pieces all nimbly-bimbly like - all at the same time? Judging by the amount of four-letter words flying out of my mouth, our child may or may not get expelled from daycare - if I ever get a job that requires me to brush my teeth before ten.

Stage 5 Clinger

What's that sound?

Is it the sound of the dog scratching impatiently at the door?
Is it the sound of an 8 month old screaming bloody murder for my attention?
Is it the sound of my Manchild (a very clever yet slightly derogatory name a fellow blogger gave her husband in her blog), asking me questions that have obvious answers?

NO.

It's the sound of me, eating my feelings, bent over a plate of pizza in a catatonic state, covered head to toe in spit up and pureed mixed vegetables. I have spit up IN MY HAIR.

Ugh what a stressful day, capped off with my Manchild enthusiastically asking me if I heard about Mike Leach getting his job back?

Who the shit is Mike Leach? And how would I know that? Do you think that I have time to check ESPN every 15 minutes? Do you think I periodically refresh the page so I can stay updated on the most recent coaches to be accused of unthinkable acts? Do you think that I purposely ignored shampooing the spit up in my hair so I could sit at the computer reading ESPN online?

My patience is being tested. This is a test. This is only a test.

Two weeks ago Collins was a sweet giggly litte baby girl who enjoyed playing with her toys, bouncing around in her Exersaucer, and sleeping for long stretches of time. Something happened.

She's a Stage 5 Clinger now. And let me tell you, she better drop that shit like a bad habit by the time she gets to college because nobody and I mean nobody likes a clinger.

Now, she's a sweet giggly little baby girl who wants nothing to do with her toys, her Exersaucer, or napping. All she wants is me to hold her. At all times. If I even think of putting her down, she loses her mind. I had to hold her while unloading the dishwasher, putting Christmas ornaments on the tree, folding laundry, etc. I didn't even get to make the bed. I hate not making the bed. I always make the bed.

I don't know what to do. Do I let her cry it out and stay firm? Why does she just want me to hold her 24/7? She's just being so needy. She's so happy but then I can't put her down for a split second. All hell breaks loose. I haven't gotten to take a shower since Monday MORNING. It is now Wednesday night. You don't even have to tell me how disgusting that is.

To add insult to injury, Clayton wants to use the small bulb Christmas lights on the roof. I only like small white lights for interior Christmas decorating. I have told him multiple times that I would prefer to use the large bulb white lights, because they look more professional and streamlined. The small bulb lights are stupid and so amateurish (no offense) and they always point in different directions, and they never align right and how can I enjoy the lights if they aren't in 100% perfectly accurate alignment????

The way that sounded in my head sounded so familiar to Gretchen Wiener freaking out about Regina George as she read her essay about Caesar. WHAT'S SO GREAT ABOUT CAESAR????!!!!

Sometimes I think he does this crap to watch me start itching uncontrollably as I get increasingly uncomfortable and anal-retentive with imperfection. I think it's entertaining for him, kind of like watching sports. Its like soccer, and I'm the goalie. He kicks all these balls at me (metaphorically, thank you very much), and usually I just kick them right back (literally). But every once in awhile, he gets one past me and I freak out like the OCD sufferer I am, and I can hear him internally yelling, "GOAAAAAAAL!"

Fighting the Plague

The Fox family has had our butts kicked by cold and flu season. Currently we are under quarantine, and our belongings are being burned in a controlled fire in the backyard. Just kidding. But seriously. It all started with the apple of our eyes, little Collins. It was the strangest thing. Clayton got home from San Antonio Tuesday night at 8. Shortly after he got home, I jumped in the shower (you're welcome, world) and Clayton put Collins down. She was perfectly fine, no symptoms, nothing. By the time I got out of the shower, she was screaming, her nose was running, she was all stuffed up and just miserable. That night she slept (I use that term loosely and ironically) in her bassinet, next to the bed.

Since then, Clayton and I have both gotten sick. Poor Clayton, he won't stop talking about it, either. Guys are so helpless and pitiful when they don't feel well. I feel so bad for him, but come on...just because my pain and sickness tolerance is exponentially higher than his doesn't mean I want to do everythinggggggggggggggg around here. When the sutures on your tonsilectomy open up and you start throwing up blood and have to be rushed to the hospital, let's talk about "not feeling well." When you spend an entire day tailgating for the Big 12 Championship game in Dallas while simultaneously pregnant and passing a kidney stone, then you can talk to me about not feeling good. When you didn't realize you were in labor and three hours later deliver a baby, doing crossword puzzles and napping in  between contractions, then we can talk about pain. When you pee out a metal sea urchin, come tell me about pain, alright?

But I am compassionate. I understand that pain is relative, so Clayton really does feel like crap, and he's certainly not one to complain so I'm going to try to make him feel as comfortable as possible. Collins seems to be feeling a lot better, but seeing as how colds in babies typically last 7-10 days, I'm trying to keep her away from other babies and kiddos so they don't get sick too. When Clayton got word this morning that OSU got beat by ISU, I thought his head was going to explode, leaving our entire house covered in a fine layer of phlegm.

Wanna come over?

Motherhood: Feeling Hungover when you're not Hungover

I used to think that Daylight Savings Time was one of fall's greatest treats. Falling leaves, pulling out the North Face fleece, warm apple cider, and Daylight Savings Time. Some people complain about how it gets dark so much earlier, but that doesn't really bother me...especially now that I rarely venture out of the house except to take the dog out, and between 2pm and 4pm to get a half-price Route 44 Diet Coke (easy ice, please) from Sonic. Wow. Typing that out really drives home the fact that I am a hermit. A shut in. A mom.

The greatest thing about DST was that the bars stayed open one extra hour, and we made the most of that hour. Pounding shots, just because we could. Cramming 4 girls in the bathroom at The Bar so we could tease our hair and talk shit about dumb chicks, pissing off all the GDI's waiting in line to actually use it. The next morning (okay, afternoon) when we woke up and looked at the clock which read 1:00pm, we didn't feel like lazy bums, it was actually only noon - so back off. The sun setting earlier made it acceptable for us to start happy hour at 3. The point is we used DST to our advantage, staying out later and sleeping in later.

I cannot stress enough how having a baby totally effs up DST. Collins didn't get the memo about getting to sleep in. Thanks for getting up at 6:45! Who could honestly get upset at that smiling face, kicking her legs with excitement when she sees me or Clayton coming to her crib to get her up for the day? Not this girl. But her naps are totally messed up now, too, and then she passes out at 7pm because she's so tired and fussy. And then as badly as I want to try to keep her up for a couple more hours, I can't do that because I'm thisclose to passing out as well. Boo.

Just making an observation, but I have seen numerous people doing this stuff lately: posting status updates to their babies, young children, dead relatives and friends.
"Happy 6 month birthday to my little baby! I love you sooooooo much and you light up my life!"
"RIP Jane Doe. I miss you every day."

Honestly, all I can do is shake my head, roll my eyes, and write out a rude, mocking blog post. Heaven doesn't have Facebook. I'm sure Hell probably does though. Is your baby the E-Trade baby? Does he have an iPad hiding under his mattress? I just don't get it, and it makes me feel embarassed for those people who post crap like that. Its like they are just begggggggging for attention. Do they expect that their infant is going to log into their facebook account and reply to their status update, "Thanks Mom! It's been a great 6 months! Hey can you come into my room, I can't be sure but I may or may not have just shat my diaper!" Their deceased loved one is not going respond via FB, "Hey thanks pretty lady! Doing great up here! By the way - you may want to block your photo albums. The Boss up here can see them, and He's starting to get into FB to trim down the number of people He lets through the gates."

Can you imagine if they did get a response from the baby or the dead family member or friend? Hahahaaa I can just see the poster scrolling through the comments, only to see a "Thanks! :)" from whoever they are posting about. Hahaha they would shittttttttt! I guess it's hilarious in my head.

I think that social media is totally undermining the importance of interpersonal communication. No one has to call me on my birthday anymore - they just write on my wall. I admit it, I'm guilty of it too. I rarely ever write on ppl's walls for their birthday, so I'm basically a huge bitch. But I don't mean to be - I'm just outstandingly self-involved.

Trick or treat, you clincally obese young bastards.

All across the world, millions of preteen hearts are shattered today. Some little skankbag who has a three month old baby is certain that her baby daddy is Justin Bieber. I guess she rode the Biebs’s baloney pony in a backstage bathroom after his concert. He told her that he was a virgin (um duh he’s like 14) and that he wanted to “make love to her.” I’m SOOOO sure he said that. Let’s face it, his hand was cramped from holding his microphone during his concert, and he was going to get after it, one way or another. She also said it lasted about 30 seconds (!!!) and that he didn’t use a jimmycap. I’m not sure which he should be more embarrassed about – the 30 seconds, not using a condom, or letting the words, “I want to make love to you,” come out of his mouth directed at a complete stranger.  But awwww, Bieber’s first paternity test! It’s pretty endearing, really.

Don’t even get me started on the famewhore Kardashians…I’ve had 24 hour flus that lasted longer than that “sacred” union.  Justin Bieber’s first time with a chick lasted longer than their marriage.

Ah shit. I got started. Here we go.

Are they really that desperate for money and attention that they would fake a marriage – a union that is supposed to be between two people who promise to love one another til their dying day? Man, that’s really pathetic. Let’s not forget that this is Kim’s second divorce, and she’s 31, presumably old enough to have learned how to make sound decisions. I have a little more compassion for a 20 year old who gets married after a whirlwind romance, only to realize that they don’t really know who they are, let alone how to be the person their spouse wants them to be. I’m not trying to be totally judgmental, but I firmly believe that if you have been divorced two times already, you should probably call it quits on marriage – unless of course you have completed extensive therapy. Let’s face it, if you have been divorced more than twice, you should probably take a long hard look at yourself: maybe you are purposely sabotaging your relationships by picking the wrong type of guys, or maybe you are just a colossal bitch. I’m just sick of reading, watching, and hearing about this narcissistic family. When Kris Jenner says that Kim didn’t make money off their wedding, that it was real and that Kim’s in a lot of pain, why do people believe her? Obviously she’s just lying to generate more attention – more attention equals more cash. And those whores are laughing all the way to the bank. Their wedding guests are probably pissed off that they purchased the $500 Hermes dinner plate as a wedding gift for a marriage that barely lasted past the reception. If I was a wedding guest, or even a human being with a pulse, I’d be a little offended that they even made a wedding registry. They made millions and millions of dollars, and their guests are expected to purchase them a gift to help them “get started?” Please. If they weren’t self-absorbed narcissists, they would have asked their guests to make donations to a charity in lieu of a gift.

Damnit. I got started. I’m done now.

Clayton has been in San Antonio for work again, so I was on trick-or-treater duty by myself on Monday. And 24/7 baby duty. And 24/7 puppy duty. And 24/7 laundry, dishes, and cleaning duty. I hate when he has to travel.

Collins and I sat outside on her blanket for awhile, handing out candy to the kiddos. She was dressed as Snow White, after she got confused as what she was supposed to be: I had dressed her as a lobster but she obviously thought she was supposed to be a crab. So crabby! But then we got overwhelmed and annoyed and went inside. I tried the whole “giving the baby a bottle while balancing the candy bowl on my knee, propping the front door open with my butt and using my third arm to hand out candy, but after one particular encounter, I said EFF IT and left the bowl outside.

Let me preface this encounter by mentioning that I love my daughter. I love my nieces and nephews and cousins, and kids’ kids. But I don’t particularly love random kids in general. I don’t hate them. I just don’t really like them. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that it seems like manners aren’t being taught they way they were when I was a little kid. I was terrified of being impolite to adults because I knew my mom and dad would chew me out big time. I am used to being put in my place, and so maybe that’s why I have no problem putting little brats in their place.

This little (the term “little” is fraught with irony) douchebag goes, “Trick or treat!” I said, “Happy Halloween! Only take one piece okay?” Kid goes, “Only ONE?” I reply, “Yeah, I’m already running out, and there are a lot of kids in the neighborhood!” He whines, “Yeah, but I’m ONE of them!!!” And I said, “Well tough nuggets kid. If it’s a problem, then you can have none.”

I highly doubt that taking only one piece of candy is going to prevent you from inhaling two weeks’ worth of calories, refined sugar, and fat in one night - which you will follow up by playing hours upon hours of World of Warcraft. All in the lifelong hope of contracting Type 2 Diabetes.

 “A minute on your lips, a lifetime on your thighs.” Ahhh damnit! Kardashians, you win again!

Twice in one Day???

I am, of course, referring to blogging. I have no idea what you're talking about. Collins was conceived immaculately. Just like I was, and just like my sister and brother were.

I just want to know why in the HELL E! is still airing Kim K's wedding special? Talk about beating a dead Armenian. Jesus, they got married like 4 months ago, pretty sure they are already calling it quits.Why remind us? I don't have to watch the 17-hour "special" to know everything about this wedding. Tacky? Check. Over-the-top? Check. Complete lack of humility? Check. Glaringly obvious noveau riche celebretards? Check.

How many times do you people have to air this "special" to convince yourselves that it was money well-spent, and that they aren't actually "Living Separate Lives!" It's like when someone continually makes a point to talk (when no one asked) about how perfect their life is, and how perfect their marriage is, and how they pity anyone else who doesn't have their life. Its so obvious that they are insufferably miserable. No one's life is that perfect. Anyone who says it is, is trying to convince herself that her life doesn't suck. I'm not saying that it isn't possible to be truly grateful for everything in life - but its like, who are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?

Clayton has spent the better part of the decade, I mean evening, replacing all the polished brass knobs and hinges in the bathroom and pantry doors and cabinets. Wow. What  a job. Who knew it would take FOUR friggin HOURS. It looks so much better though.

Well it appears that Carlisle has taken his relationship with his hump bear public. Some people complain that their dog humps anything it can. I don't really have that complaint. Carlisle doesn't hump anything except hump bear. I appreciate that. I don't want him out there being a player pimp. I just think he's getting too serious with this bear. He's been monogamous with this bear since we got him, but she was always downstairs. We would come home from Lincoln and he would hightail it downstairs to get a little sweet lovin. That was fine. Like a friend-mom - if you're going to do it, do it under my roof.

I don't need to see my sweet little 4 pound dog hump himself inside out. Well now he drags this bear with him everywhere he goes. The bear is bigger than he is. Carlisle is a chubby chaser apparently. I'll be playing with Collins, or sitting with her on the floor playing with her and her toys, and Carlisle will bring us his bear and drop it on my lap. Like, thanks bro but I don't want to play with your disgusting jizz bear. But he's persistent that I embrace this relationship. I think he's going to be bringing her around a lot more regularly. He certainly has the basic positions mastered. I bet you can guess which one is his favorite.

Well now that we are all thoroughly grossed out, Clayton is telling me to come check out "how amazing these oil-rubbed bronze hinges and cabinet pulls look!" Gotta go congratulate him on a 4-hour job well done.

Why God, why did you invent cookie dough?

Seriously, I can feel my thighs flattening out further and further with every spoonful. I think I'm just going to throw it in the dumpster. Those damn tubs of raw cookie dough are the devil. There is no reason why I should be eating that delicious shit. Alessandra Ambrosio doesn't look like she eats that shit, and she could stand to gain a few pounds.Collins and I are never going to be able to share her clothes if I eat that crap. Okay I just threw it in the dumpster.

I don't feel like I have that many vices, aside from swearing, watching reality television, makeover shows, the occasional bottle of wine, and the hidden pack of cigarettes in the console of my Jeep for really horrible days, but ever since I got pregnant with Collins, I have an insatiable sweet tooth. My early pregnancy cravings were lemons and fruit roll ups. I hoped that those cravings would go away. Uhhh nope.

Since I mentioned cigarettes for really terrible horrible no good very bad days, I should probably mention Friday. The day that will live in infamy as the day I plowed over Clayton's Honda lawn mower. Not once. Not twice. Three times. I don't even want to get into it, but suffice it to say that the wheel of the mower was perpendicular to where it was supposed to be.

When I'm in a panic, I have this superhuman strength that somehow allows me to safely move a 200 pound hutch from the dining room down the stairs into the garage; likewise, it allowed me to lift the lawnmower (which Clayton initially needed my help with a few months ago) and put it into the back end of my Jeep. When I explained to Bob at Home Depot that I needed this fixed before my husband got home from work, he goes, "Who got this in the back of your Jeep?" When I told him I did, by myself, without help, he looked at me like I had two heads. Look, Bob, you sweet, portly sweaty old man, I carry around a 15 pound baby all day every day. I carry 3 heavy loads of laundry up and down the stairs every day. I get my squats in lifting Collins off her playmat and scrubbing the dog's piss marks on the carpet. I'm no weenie. I'm no pampered princess. I don't lay in a hammock all day with handsome Latin American men fanning me with palm leaves and feeding my grapes.

Anyways, he fixed it! It took awhile, but he only charged me for a new wheel, which was $10. Clayton wasn't thrilled when I told him, but he wasn't super upset either. He was just shocked that I lifted it. That's all he's talked about for the last few days, too. "Babe, I just don't believe you. You had to have had a neighbor help you." Whatever dude. Keep underestimating me, you'll see.

He's a She...

I'm not talking about Chaz Bono...or Khloe Kardashian...

When a woman walks into home depot to buy a rake, carrying a baby dressed head to toe in pink, with a pink headband, don't stop her and jokingly say, "He looks a little young to be raking leaves." This man was old. Old old old. Like one foot real deep in the grave old, so I was a good sport. I said, "Yeah, SHE is a little young...good thing her dad is just old enough!"

This is not the first time someone has assumed my femininely dressed child is a he. I would rather someone refer to her as an "it" than as a "he." There's nothing wrong with being a "he," except for that she's a "she." It never fails, it's always an old person.

"Ohhhh how old is he?"
"SHE is 7 months."
"Ohhhh 'she?'"

No, old man, Collins is a boy. I dress him head to toe in pink and purple in public, because I desperately want to saddle him with a socially debilitating gender identity disorder. Good lord. And they say our generation is chock-full of degenerates? At least we understand the implication of context clues. There's a reason why she's wearing a "Daddy's Little Girl" onesie and not a Bob the Builder tee shirt, got it?

"Well what if she likes Bob the Builder?"

Likes? She's 7 months old. Aside from eating, pooping and the sound of her own voice, she doesn't know what she likes. The day she decides what she likes, as long as it's legal and morally sound, I'm right there with her...cuz God knows that's a step above some of the things I've liked in my day.

It's Been Awhile!

Last week was a rough week. If you've ever had a panic attack, you know how it feels when you can feel one coming on. You talk yourself out of it, telling yourself that nothing is bigger than yourself, nothing is too big to handle, nothing is too difficult to withstand. What's frustrating is when you realize that maybe you are your own problem.

I am not sure that being a full-time stay-at-home mom is the right choice for our family. A stay-at-home mom doesn't necessarily ensure a happy mom. When 5 pm rolls around and Clayton looks at me the wrong way and I fly off the handle, it might be time to reconsider this situation.

Okay so you know when you get acrylic or gel nails? I am NOT an acrylic nails type of girl, but I decided to try a Shellac french manicure like 2 weeks ago, and it looks really pretty. But now it's super annoying because now they have grown out to the point that it is hard to type, and it make an obnoxious clicking noise when I type, which is soooo acrylic-y. The lady said I had to come back in like 3 weeks to have them soaked off. I was like, "OMG you sound just like my daughter!" She asked how old my daughter is, and I pretended I didn't hear her/couldn't understand her, because I didn't want to be rude. So I just ignored her.

So last week some little punk bitch stole my Halloween headstones from my yard. WTF! Who does that? Not only did they really make the display cohesive, but they would kind of sway in the wind. When I took Carlisle/Carlos/Napoleon out, the swaying would scare the shit out of him.

I mean literally scare the shit out of him. The only way to get him to do his business in a timely manner is to scare him or get him really excited. If he sees a squirrel, or a stranger, or another dog he goes ballistic and promptly dumps. Otherwise, he will take you for laps around the house, unable to decide whether he is prairie doggin it or just has to fart. One time I took him out for like 15 minutes, begging and pleading him to just dump already so we could go back inside.

So this perpetrator not only totally effed up my Halloween display, which now looks piss-poor and pathetic, he or she has also constipated my dog. All I can say is that karma is a bitch - a bitch who probably has loose bowels.

*Disclaimer: I just reread this entire paragraph below - and it's pretty dark - you might not want to read it. I'd delete it, but I sacrificed like 5 minutes of RHONJ reunion, which is not recording, and if I delete this paragraph, I will have nothing to show for it, damnit! Damn, Tree is one crazy bitch, am I right? Can I get a hell yeah?

Sad story about that Indy 500 racer, Dan Wheldon. These cars are going about 200 mph. I understand adrenaline and that kind of thing, but can I just say one thing? There is a good chance in any race that there will be Miller High Life tallboys, mullets, crop tops, cutoff jorts, and fiery deadly crashes. I don't want to encounter ANY of those horrific scenes. Now, a few weeks ago when that air show crash took place in Nevada, I got curious about where the body of the pilot was. That is to say, what happens to a body when you get in a high-speed crash? I asked Clayton, and he said something like, "I know...but it's disturbing and as much as you think you want to know, you don't truly want to know." Well yes I did. Just like I wanted to know what was wrong with my foot, and lo and behold, according to WebMD I have terminal advanced joint cancer.

Well Clayton couldn't stop me and neither could Google. Now I have a breadth of information that will forever haunt my dreams.

Basically, most of your body's organs virtually liquify. This driver's body was still travelling 200+ mph when it crashed. His organs might not have been going fast enough to have liquified, but most plane crash victims' bodies do. Innnnnnnnnnnn fact, usually what is left of people's bodies is severed by their seatbelts. And apparently a long time ago (I don't know if this is still the case, my info is only as legit as wikipedia) instead of taking Air Force members' fingerprints, they would take footprints, because in the event of a crash, the only identifiable body part would likely be the foot, which would still be found in the boot.

Okay so let's all regret reading/writing that, and let's also regret Googling that. Clayton warned me. I should have listened. *bawling and rocking in the fetal position in the corner* why didn't I listeeeeeeen?

Appropriate Isn't Exactly My Middle Name, but...

...is it inappropriate for a married mom with a college degree to be a bartender at a dive to have some extra cash? I'm trying to get life set up so that I can started teaching and working towards my restricted teaching license, so that I can teach high school business, coach cheer, do something that makes a difference for someone. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to lose my mind being a stay-at-home mom, which makes me feel unbelievable selfish. But I talk to one human being all day, and she isn't old enough to talk back. Anyways, the program doesn't start until July, at which time I have to secure a teaching position and take a few online classes. Once I get that done, if I take 15 more credits I'll earn my Masters.

In the meantime, the budget we have doesn't really allow much freedom. Like, I could not go to Nordstrom and buy a pair of jeans on a random Tuesday without having to check first. And when Old Blue bites the dust, which will be sooner than later, I won't be able to go buy a car...or even take on a car payment until we pay off the Camry. We are NOT credit card people...Clayton uses it but he pays it off in full every month - and I am certainly not comfortable with having any kind of credit card. I had a meltdown and started crying to my mom because I racked up $123 on my Gap card and had no idea where I was going to come up with $123 without Clayton knowing. He doesn't have the most realistic idea of how much clothes cost. I don't have the most realistic idea of how long it takes to make the money used to purchase the clothes. I'm more of a Dave Ramsey cash kinda girl.

Why can't I just be rich? Why couldn't I have been born into a Southern old-money family? With a house on a plantation and peach trees and servants and hundred dollar bills to wipe my ass?

It could be worse. Right? I mean, I could be like a girl I know who uses food stamps to buy Red Bull instead of food for her three illegitimate children.

Anyways, onto something else. Can I just say right now how much I despise people who think they are better/cooler/more entitled than me? Because we all know I am the coolest, most entitled person ever and I deserve everything. I'm KIDDING.  I'm actually referring to one person in partick, who I don't actually see often anymore but used to see allllll the time. I used to dig this individual's sense of humor because I thought it was a lot like mine: blunt, somewhat snarky sometimes, sarcastic, but good-natured. But now I hope it's not like mine. Like, at all. Because now I think this person has crossed the line, to be callous, mean-spirited, and basically a total effing b. And I certainly did not appreciate the bitchy attitude this weekend. Oh well - it's not like we were total besties to begin with - more like convenience friends. Ya know where you have lots of mutual friends but really don't care a whole lot to be close with the person?

I have way too much going on in my life to give a damn what someone lame like that thinks anyways, I just think it's funny how you think you know someone sometimes, and then they turn out to be so polarizing. Actually I think it's sad!

Anyways, is it inappropriate for a married mom to work nights at a freakin dive bar where all our married KC friends go for beers? I really need to know, so that people won't judge me as being a white-trash mom.

Is It Weird that I'm Thankful it's Monday?

I would just like to preface this entry by citing my last entry regarding how my mom dressed Maggie and me up as twins - and in all sets of twins, there is always an evil twin and a good twin. The "good twin" is usually the evil twin, and the "evil twin" is usually the good twin, and the other twin purposely made her look bad.

Well my lovely mother wrote some snotty facebook remark about how I actually WAS an evil twin, and Maggie was so sweet.

All I have to say to that is FALSE. Was I a snotty bitch? Um no surprise there, always have been, always will be. Embrace it. Love yourself. However, Maggie always got what was coming to her...she deserved it every time, she started every fight we ever had. Basically, she was a conniving little whore, painting me as the Bad Guy.

When I die, my tombstone will read, "She started it!"

Partly why mom sides with Maggie is because like Maggie, she is also a younger sister. I'm sure Mom played Grandma and Grandpa and everyone in her family like a fiddle (except for her older sister Tish who was too wise to fall for that shit, and Tish probably got in trouble for calling her out about it, only to be labeled a demon child). So, when my feelings were hurt for a split second regarding my mom's comment, I had to stop and consider the source.

Thank God Maggie grew out of that stage, mostly. Well somewhat. KIDDING.

This weekend taught me a number of things.
1. Collins can and will survive being without me for 12 hours.
I, on the otherhand? Well I had Clayton take me back to Nebraska City Saturday night. Now I realize that I have been taking the blessings in my life for granted, ie., my husband and baby girl, and how hilarious she is and how she likes to grab my face and give me her version of kisses, which is just her breathing heavily with her mouth wide open on my cheek.
2. I can still be counted on to pull a Houdini around mindnight.
Clayton happened to be right outside the Rail when I was talking to him on the phone after he left the game, and I decided I was ready to go home and see Coco. One one hand, at least I know when to say "when"...on the other hand, it's usually several drinks later than when I should have said "when" in the first place, and I usually don't know to tell my friends that the time has come for me to make my exit.
3. Lincoln is the cheapest place to drink in the world. Nay, in the universe.
I spent $14. For an entire 10 hours of drinking.
4. It is possible to eat Lazzari's till you puke.
I obviously don't need to elaborate on this.
5. Just because Kari did it, does not mean I should do it.
In fact, it probably means that I should NOT do it.

As we were walking to the Red House, we were outside the stadium and some gentlemen offered us pieces of meat on toothpicks. I guess they were touting it as Nebraska corn-fed beef. Kari takes a piece, and starts raving about how wonderful it is, and how I have to try it. So I look into the plate this guy is holding and it's now clear to me why everyone in America is fat. Honestly, a 1/2" X 1/2" cube of meat would have been sufficient. But no, everyone is bigger in Nebraska. I get the smallest piece on the plate, which is about 3"x3". In my whole life, I have never had a piece of meat that big in my mouth. If you just said "that's what she said," I award you no points and may God have mercy on your soul because that was way too easy and obvious.

Well, I will never just stick a piece of beef in my mouth ever again. As we are walking up the hill over the train tracks, I'm like, dry heaving because I couldn't swallow this piece of beef. My eyes were watering, the smell of beef is flooding my olfactory senses, and it was just a mess. Eventually I swallow this shit down, but once we get to the Red House, it becomes clear to me that I have the smell of meat on my breath. I've had beer breath, hell, I've even had barf breath. But beef breath? That was a first - and a last. So I do what any normal person would do - make a whiskey and Dr. Pepper, and do a beer bong, obviously.

All in all, Saturday was a good day. Sunday of course sucked. Mom hangovers are especially painful, mostly because my baby A) is not hungover so she wants to play and squeal and B) hasn't mastered the motor skills to hold my hair back and rub my back at the same time.

TGIF MFs!

I just put Collins down for a nap. Since she screamed at the top of her lungs for the entire time I was in the shower, I thought maybe she was hungry. I was like, Collins, I don't think you understand how badly the world wants - no, NEEDS - me to take a shower. Well for some reason, the past couple of days she hasn't really had much of an appetite. I wonder if that's from the teething. Poor baby. Well, now she's passed out. I guess she'll eat when she's hungry.

It's been SO beautiful out! You would never believe it's October. Low 80s during the day, 50s at night, love it. I know it's coming to an abrupt end shortly though. As I sorted through Collins's clothing the other day, I realized that we are pretty short on cold-weather gear (save for her North Face vest, true Theta-in-training). At Buy Buy Baby, also known as The Most Overpriced Friggin Store Aside from Neiman Marcus, I browsed the baby clothes. I have come to a very profound conclusion:

What we dress our baby in today has implications on their personality later in life. I haven't done any studies on this, because studying isn't really my thing - I'm much more comfortable making blanket statements that have little to no factual information to support them. But I think I can come up with several categories for the future personality of a baby, depending on how their mom dresses them today. The following are some baby clothes I found that illustrate this hypothesis:

iPood
A white onesie, with headphones and an iPod screenprinted on it. The little boy who wears this will one day become the boy on the playground surrounded by friends, teaching the dirty words and showing them the Hustler magazines he found under his dad's bed. He will grow up and become a handsome young man, whose friends' moms secretly crush on. Girls will be attracted to his naughty sense of humor, and guys will willingly participate in the pranks this guy sets up.

This Thanksgiving, Everyone is Thankful for Me
Designed for the narcissistic baby, this little girl is mostly likely the oldest or intended to be the only child. Her parents will cater to her every whim, and according to her parents, she can do no wrong. She will be the little girl in class who always raises her hand and smiles smugly when she gets an answer right, alienating herself from the other little girls who want a chance at the spotlight. Chances are, her mom was either raised the exact same way, or was raised in foster care with no one to love her and enable her.

Career-Oriented Onesies
This little boy's parents dress him exclusively in career-geared onesies, such as the doctor, the mechanic, or the suit-and-tie onesie. This kid's parents are going to push him incessantly toward higher education, but all this little boy really wants to do is be a dancer. Eventually, his parents' well-meaning pushing is going to send him into a tailspin of drug and addiction, at which time he will have an epic meltdown resulting in him expressing his lifelong desire to be a ballet dancer, followed by an inspiring recovery. His mother will support his decision, and his father will distance himself, biting his tongue and trying not to turn up his nose at his son's choice of career.

The Princess
My least favorite of all personalities, the little princess will be babied her whole life by parents who cannot say "no" to their little miracle. She was probably born into a wealthy family and will grow up to be a coke-addicted little snot, much like Paris Hilton. Her entire room is floor-to-ceiling pink, with lime green as the accent color. (I have nightmares about this kind of color scheme, yuck) She will carry around a purse dog and turn up her nose at anyone who doesn't carry a Birkin bag. She idolizes Suri Cruise and is pretty sure that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is a lesbian.

The Baby Lesbian
This onesie is simple and to the point. It says: Born To Play Softball

The Cool Baby
This baby doesn't give a eff...she's happy-go-lucky, mellow, easygoing, doesn't take things too seriously, and is charismatic and funny, but also slightly aloof and standoffish. She probably comes off as bitchy to people who aren't lucky enough to know her. She isn't really concerned with the Princesses or the Narcissists, as she can see right through their insecure little facades. As she grows up, people will be drawn to her devil-may-care attitude. She will try cigarettes for the first time as a junior in high school, but quickly be disgusted with them because people expect her to be a rebellious smoker. She enjoys defying others' unfounded, judgemental expectations of her.

Where does Collins fit? Definitely the Cool Baby. Note that I didn't expand too much about the little boys...I don't have a little boy, thus I don't feel like I'm authorized to make many more hypotheses about them.

Oh, I forgot a very important one.

The "We Aren't Twins but Mom Dresses Us Identically" Girls
There is always an evil twin. It's usually the oldest. The oldest gets blamed for everything, gets chewed out for being such a huge bitch to her younger sister, who pulls the "Sophie is so mean to me!" card at every opportunity - when in reality, the younger sister was a conniving, manipulative little snot who figured out this good sister/bad sister act way more quickly than the older sister, seized upon the good sister role and forced everyone into believing her older sister was the devil's spawn. But noooo, no one believed me when I argued that Maggie started shit nine times out of ten, and knew what she was doing! "No Maggie is too sweet to do that. She looks up to you!" Yeah, she looks up to me as the person she's going to royally eff over.

Deep breath.

Thank God those days are over.

The truth is, in most cases, perception becomes reality. It takes me back to sophomore year Honor's English. Mrs. Hunnicutt rudely told me I reminded her of Phoebe on Friends. I took this to mean that she thought I was stupid. Yes it was ten years ago. No, I'm not over it. Everyone knows Phoebe as being the friend who is dense, naive, quirky, and has no common sense. Maybe she meant in endearingly, but I find nothing endearing about someone who's effing stupid.

So that made me feel like maybe I truly was stupid, and who wants to be the stupid girl who thinks she's smart? Ummm Sarah Palin, maybe. I sure didn't. So I played up the airhead, ditzy act, because it's what people expected of me. Therefore, perception became reality. And I was MISERABLE. Then I got to college, dropped that pathetic act and embraced who I really am - an intelligent, witty girl who says out loud what everyone is thinking but no one else has the balls to say, likes to have a good time and occasionally get loaded beyond all recognition.

I have to be extremely careful about what Collins wears. Usually when we are bummin around the house, she's just in plain white Garanimals onesies (they are waaaay thicker and softer than Gerber onesies, crazy I know!) because she's just that cool and doesn't give a crap.

Hopefully no one was offended by my offhand Hitler remark yesterday. I totally disagree with everything he ever stood for. Anne frankly he was a cowardly, closeted gay Jewish guy who despised every innate quality about himself and he's lucky he off'd himself before any one else could get to him.

Toodles.

Attention Everyone: My Baby is My Own, Stop Looking at me Like I'm a Kidnapper

I have been to multiple places today, Collins is having what we like to call a "Good Day." Her teeth aren't bothering her, and she doesn't have a chip on her shoulder, so we set about town to accomplish the things I couldn't get done yesterday because she was possessed by the Tooth Devil. Believe me, we tried, but it looked pretty bad because everytime we changed her outfits, she would barf on herself. I guess that's an indicator of teething (or an exorcism of the Tooth Devil), along with a fever, runny nose, and diarrhea (hope you are eating right this second.) So in an effort to avoid looking like a shitty mom with a sick baby, we stayed home and watched the America's Next Top Model marathon.

Back to the point of this entry: I am perfectly aware that I have the quintessential Aryan child. Beautiful little girl. Hitler, damn him, would give Clayton and me a high five. Well, he would try, but we would leave him hanging because he was a total dick. Dark blonde hair, huge navy blue eyes, two teeth sprouting up on her bottom gums. The beautiful little baby girl, Lisa, who went missing the other day in the Northland is also blonde/blue eyed with two bottom teeth. I feel for the parents of this little girl, and I prayed for this little girl and her family so hard last night that I began to cry, just imagining an iota of the pain and anguish they must be feeling.

But to people who see Collins and me at Pottery Barn, Victoria's Secret, and Price Chopper, please stop looking at me as though I swiped this kid. Collins's face is NOT on the back of a milk carton.

For one, Collins is almost 7 months old and when people first see her they guess that she is about 4-5 months old. She's a petite, tiny little thing...odd considering that Clayton and I are 6'2 and 5'10. Clayton is very very slim due to his anorexia, and although I see myself as the size of a pregnant wildebeest, from what I hear my build fits somewhere between Giselle Bundchen and Rosie O'Donnell. We are not huge people, so maybe that's where her petiteness comes from. Regardless, she's nowhere near being the age or size of your typical 10-month old baby.

Secondly, most people have seen the picture of this little missing baby. As cute as she is, she looks nothing like my Collins. Collins isn't fair-skinned, and she sure isn't close to standing or walking. Hell, I can't even get the lazy girl to sit on her butt without her toppling over. We're working on it. So, point being that on paper, every blonde/blue eyed baby girl with two bottom teeth is going to remind you of the missing baby. But my child is the spitting image of Clayton some days, and me on other days (usually on what we like to call her "Bad Days.")

Third, Collins and I venture into this particular Price Chopper about 2 days a week. Same staff every time, they always recognize us. So, to the New Girl, unless baby Lisa's mom is Casey Anthony, I've been bringing my kid to this store for 4 months longer than this sweet baby has been missing.

I don't mean to be hostile. If it was my baby that was missing, I would probably want everyone on high alert as well. But come on, don't point and whisper in the dinnerware section of Pottery Barn and then come up to me and say, "Your baby is so cute! She looks an awful lot like the missing baby. (waits an awkward second and examines Collins further) She's too small though, to be that baby." Uhhh, YA THINK? Hopefully my appalled look and response of, "Thanks...I...think?" was good enough. Because there is only one blonde/blue eyed baby girl in the entire Kansas City metro area?

I really did pray last night, so hard, for this little girl to be somewhere safe, someplace warm, with lots of warm milk in her tummy, and that she gets back to her mommy and daddy. Only a mommy and daddy can snuggle a baby exactly how she wants to be snuggled.

I had to make an appointment with a pediatric ophthamologist for Collins. My mom confirmed what I suspected all along, but never verbalized because I hoped I was imagining things: Methinks Collins's right eye is a tad lazy. Its most noticeable when she is tired, but sometimes it wanders off when we are playing or just hanging out. Luckily it is easy to fix.

But now I'm constantly on high-alert for karma to zing me again. I knew I shouldn't have made fun of Vienna from Bachelor/Bachelor Pad. It always comes back to bite me in the ass.

Let's Talk About Teething.

Also known as The Worst Effing Thing in the World, teething is a pain in the ass. Why can't they all come in at the same time and just make it 3 days of pure hell? Instead, they come in one at a time - the tooth moves up and down, causing pain and anguish. They finally break the skin (I shudder just thinking about it) and slowly rise up. I felt Collins gums today, and lo and behold, she's got another one right next door, about to pop out. I don't know how long the teething phase lasts, but Maggie Seitz told me Emery had a tooth coming in recently, and she's almost 2. I would take 2 days - even 2 weeks - of constant torture over 2 years of intermittent hell. It's like ripping off a bandaid or tweezing your eyebrows.

Not that I would know much about tweezing - I look like Groucho Marx right now. It's on my list of things to do, okay? Lay off me.

Not that I blame her, but this kid has a big chip on her shoulder today. I finally got her down for a nap, so the screaming has ceased, if only for a couple hours. Well now, I have a big chip on my shoulder too! Her agony is contagious.

Clayton had to go to Lincoln for a career fair, to represent Burns and McDonnell. I will say this again, "Where is HR for this kind of shit?" I need my husband HOME. I could never ever ever be a single mother. If I was a single mother, I would be an alcoholic single mother. Just 5 or 6 shots, just to take the edge off. I don't know how they do it. At night, especially! Don't make fun of me, yes I know I'm 26, but I'm afraid of the dark. It feels really good to get that off my chest. I would rather the dog lay his tootsie-roll size turds on the floor (sometimes he eats them, which works out really well for me) and then have to clean it up, than take him out in the pitch darkness.

Add to that the fact that a 10-month old baby girl from KC got kidnapped from her crib the other night, and you have a bunch of on-edge mamas. Before I had a baby if I heard a story like that, I would think to myself, "How sad, I hope they find her soon!" Now, hearing a story like that makes me jump at every little sound, get up to check on her constantly, and double, triple, no quadruple check the locks. It also makes me cry and feel terribly sad and afraid for that little girl and her family. I read the KC Star website story, and it said that the search team ended their search for the night at 8:30 and will resume in the morning.

May I just say, that being a public service, you do not have the right to "take the night off" from searching high and low for this little baby girl? I understand exhaustion and fatigue, but get other shifts to take over. How many hours is that, that this baby girl is unaccounted for and not being searched for? That's like 12 hours of a free-for-all for whoever has her! That's a 12-hour head start, and that makes me really mad. If, God forbid, anything like that ever happened to my daughter or anyone I know, you bet your sweet ass every second of every day that child would be searched for until that little baby was found.

I just pray that they find her alive and well, and that law enforcement's "break" doesn't turn out to be a big mistake.

I Got Robbed

Not literally robbed. So don't go freakin out. What I mean is, I got robbed because I was in college at Nebraska during the four most embarassing years in Husker football history: The Callahan Era. Every game day, Clayton and I fantasize about what it would have been like to be a student at Nebraska during the golden years - ya know the nineties. We always talk about having a 1994 party, complete with the National Championship game on loop on multiple rear-projection tube televisions. We would wear multiple colors of neon socks with our white Keds, black bike shorts underneath neon Umbro shorts, cropped tank tops, terry cloth wrist sweatbands and tease our bangs. Perhaps we would crimp our hair (Clayton included, he is a whiz with a crimping iron) or even get a perm. We would also have celebratory Nebraska earrings that looked like corncobs.

Seriously, we really missed out. I know I had entirely too much fun in college and probably would die if I went back to redo it...like, I would probably actually die. With a funeral and everything. But I wouldn't mind risking it. I would seriously consider paying another 40K to go back to school at a time when our team was back-to-back dominating every other team and conference. I was pretty fortunate the first time around, what with not having any student loans or anything, but I would consider making the investment, especially now that Slimy Steve is out of the picture. I love Creepy Carl and Bi-polar Bo, and I have a real soft spot in my heart for Tom "Octogenarian" Osborne.

Last night we went to the American Royal BBQ festival thingy out at Kemper Arena, which I didn't know existed. Its located in the butt-ugly industrial part of Kansas City. Great scenery. Lots of rusted train parts, crushed vehicles and meth labs. Beautiful round them parts. Well get this, its $15 per person to enter...for all living, breathing human beings. That means we had to pay $15 for our SIX MONTH OLD to enter. I contemplated just leaving her outside the fence and checking on her every couple of hours but I relented and shelled out another 15 bucks, but not before semi-chewing out the box office personnel and looking at them like they had three heads.

So we stroll up to the box office, which is fashioned out of a lifted double wide trailer. She sees Clayton behind me, manning the stroller, and this lady says, "Forty-five dollars please." I said, "It's $22.50 per person?! Are they serving BBQ on fine china and beer in Waterford crystal???" "No it's $15 per person and there are three of you."

My jaw hit the floor.

"She's 6 months old. Unless you have a food processor handy, she ain't eatin. And she's driving, so she's certainly not drinking."

Homegirl gave me a blank stare.

"Wait a minute. So you are seriously going to charge me $15 to push her around in a stroller? You have got to be kidding me. You have  alot of nerve! I am not paying $15 for an infant!" I looked at Clayton who just shrugged. We'd already paid $20 to park, and considering this part of town, I was pretty sure that when we left and went back to the car, we would find it completely stripped. So what are we gonna do? Burns and Mac was kind enough to give Clayton an invitation to an invitation-only event...so I handed her my debit card through the tiny slot in the bulletproof glass.

I just cannot believe the nerve of the American Royal. The BBQ at Burns & Mac was ahhhhmazing though. We had to leave right around 8:15 - just when all the good-looking people were entering. When we got there, the only people that were there who weren't working it were morbidly obese people who wanted to get their fill before the rations ran out at all of the 4000 BBQ exhibitors. I felt like a supermodel walking around.

Thus I have decided to befriend only morbidly obese people in an effort to raise my stock value.

And I don't mean stock as in livestock however that may also apply here.

I have the diet of a six-year old...

If anyone follows this, its been a couple days since I last got my blog on. I haven't been feeling really well lately. I think I have a bug. I've just been physically and mentally exhausted and my stomach has been upset. I know what you are thinking, and the answer is an emphatic NO. I think it might have to do with six months of my body playing catch-up - not getting enough sleep, but being too tired to work out - combined with my diet of granola bars, toast and Diet Pepsi...although I did get spoiled this week with my delicious KC Chiefs birthday cookie cake purchased at 7pm on my birthday from Price Chopper. Yeah, my cookie cake did not say Happy Birthday - it said KC Chiefs. Festive.

The other day I got a wild hair up my ass (read: I got bored sitting at home and decided to go shopping) and went shopping for Halloween decorations. I got some really awesome stuff that I had to return 12 hours later due to the backlash from the Financial Gustapo. I shouldn't say that - my husband's frugality is going to make us millionaires in about 50 years. With me not working outside the home (notice the emphasis on "outside the home") I can't just go nuts at the mall, ya know? Necessities - sure that's understandable. But try convincing your husband that your $200 7 for All Mankind Rachel Zoe bellbottom jeans are a necessity.

*Sidenote- I did come up with a very compelling argument. An argument so compelling that he was left speechless and decided to let me keep them.

Unfortunately, I couldn't really come up with a convincing argument for why we needed the black crushed-velvet pillows with skeleton faces embroidered on them. I appreciate his fiscal responsibility, mostly because I don't have much myself, but I'm not too excited about finally being able to spend a lot of money on stuff I have always wanted when I'm senile. Somehow I don't think the entire J. Crew cashmere collection will look as good on me when I'm drooling and have my boobs tucked into my jeans.

Luckily we have all the Halloween decorations I bogarted from my mom last year, or we would have the sorriest decorations on the block.

Must go. The velociraptor beckons. By the way she is cutting her first tooth on the bottom left side...yesterday I could just feel it, and now I can see it coming up. Thank God I stopped nursing. She's already a dinosaur and a Vietnamese nail tech - I don't think I can handle vampire.

Birthdays and New Years - Yuck

I've never been a huge fan of two annual events. Both are supposedly monumental events that we build up in our fantastical minds to be the greatest day and night of the year. Both fall short of our expectations every time.

New Years Eve is precisely one of these huge letdown causes. I have never woken up on New Years Day and felt like I had done anything worth remembering or looking back on with the foggy fondness that you experience the morning after a really amazing night. Typically I spent those few minutes before and after midnight with my head buried in the toilet, or holding back the hair of a good friend whose head was buried in the toilet. Most likely, I was walking around with one high heel, crying about something I couldn't recall the next day. I never fell in love with a tall dark and handsome stranger at the stroke of midnight, I never had any kind of revelation about my future as the ball made its descent.

Speaking of balls making their descent, the other huge letdown event is birthdays. You never wake up the morning of your birthday and think to yourself, "This is going to be a great day! I feel wiser, enlightened!" If you do, I hate you. I've never wanted for anything in my life, and for that I am very grateful. All I wanted for this birthday was to take a nice, long relaxing nap. I was hoping that I would wake up feeling refreshed, and that Clayton would have taken it upon himself to do the laundry, do the dishes, clean up the kitchen (which stays clean for a grand total of 10 minutes after I clean it), ya know? Vacuum. I told him not to wake me up for anything. My exact words were, "I don't care if the house is on fire, don't wake me up. I'll go down with this ship. Just don't wake me up."

My nap went a little bit something like this. I laid down, fell asleep. About an hour later I hear the neighbor kids outside on the big wheels and 4-wheelers, racing around the street like a goddamned Nascar track. The dog is standing on my bed, in between my knees, barking nonstop. Downstairs I can hear football loud enough to give Helen Keller a headache, along with a 6-month old blabbering on, sounding like a Vietnamese nail tech. After about 45 minutes of trying to gently kick the dog off the bed and perhaps knock him into permanent muteness, I decided to give it up already and I go downstairs. The only evidence I have that Clayton moved from the couch is the open jar of Gerber prunes and a crusty bowl of baby cereal sitting on the kitchen table, some of it smeared on the kitchen table. Good. Thank God. I was concerned that he spent the whole time fermenting on the couch.

Last night we watched another shitty movie. What is with us and picking shitty movies? We need to have a movie-picking intervention. We watched The American, with George Clooney. Basically he's a mysterious American living in a small town in Italy, is making a gun for his boss who actually is planning on killing him. Meanwhile he makes friends with a priests and takes a couple hookers to Pound Town. In the end, I was more entertained by the straining faces Collins was making in her Exersaucer as she tried desperately to poop. Have you ever watched a baby and known instinctively that the baby is currently pooping in her diaper? Its actually really funny to watch...she bears down, grunts and her faces turns all red for a few moments. Then she lets up and carries on with her toys. Until she realizes that she isn't done, and she continued this trend on until I thought, "Hey it's been like 10 minutes, I'm pretty sure the coast is clear to change her diaper." You have to wait out the grace period to make sure that all dumping has been executed. You never want to open up a diaper mid-dump. Well that's what I did. I'm in the middle of changing her diaper when all of a sudden, BOMBS AWAY. "Happy Birthday Mommy! I poo on you!"

Six Days till the Halloween Decorations Go Up!

If I had it my way, my house would be perpetually decorated for whichever upcoming holiday is closest. It would be amazing. But to save my neighbors the stress of being "That House," I decided its appropriate to decorate only 31 days before the event. That makes spring and summer pretty boring in terms of decorating (Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day - its all red, white, and blue) so this is my favorite time of year. October 1st I will begin decorating my house in spooktacular fashion, hopefully scaring the living shit out of every kid on the block. I wouldn't be upset if I saw tears in the kids' eyes. Then November 1st, I will proceed with Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then Valentine's Day! I get giddy and tingly inside when I think of how much holiday decorating is on the horizon.

Something strange has happened the past two days. Middle school and high school-aged boys having fundraising car washes. Why they would choose to have a car wash is my first question, my second question is why they would want to have it in September, when all their tans have faded and they just look like scrawny pre-pubescent boys with back-ne. I mean, who do they think they are? I can tell you who they aren't: Chicks (although they sound like girls, being as their voices haven't changed yet), and thus they are also not an organization who is going to make any money.

Everyone knows the cardinal rules of fundraising car washes.
1.You pick a date in the mid-to-late summer...summer meaning before school resumes in August, preferably a Saturday that there's some sort of citywide function going on, ie. Kearney Cruise Night. Every retard with a car older than 10 years old thinks he has to spruce up his "classic" 1997 Monte Carlo and cruise down the strip with a trashy looking girl in the front seat, wearing a halter top, jorts, and a really tight pony tail held in place by a scrunchie. Bonus points if their illegitimate child is in the backseat. Extra bonus points if she's drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade. For some reason that I cannot comprehend, the entire town congregates downtown to watch this trainwreck. The people who are cruising the strip think that the people pointing at their cars are impressed by their sweet ride, but really people are pointing out douchebags to one an other. Much like the slug-bug game. Point is, don't do the 3rd weekend in September. Its chilly, it rains every third day. And let's call a spade a spade: No one wants to play the "Is it a goosebump or a whitehead?" game.

2. I don't care if your fundraiser is to support your boy scout troop, you never ever EVER have boys wash the cars. A car wash hosted by boys is going to attract one specific type of clientele: Their moms. Their dads won't even go, for fear of being labeled as a creepy pervert who likes young boys who don't have any chest hair. They would be more likely to just hand their kid a couple dead presidents or write a check to this doomed organization and skip the car wash altogether. Is it sexism? Sure. But is it true? Absolutely. No, I am not a lesbian. I am just being reasonable and honest, fair and balanced. Because no one goes to a car wash to get their cars washed. Guys go to a car wash to see a bevy of beauties shake their stuff, hoping to witness their lifelong fantasy of girls sudsing their car windows with their boobs and spraying eachother playfully. Then ending the day with a rousing down-feather pillow fight in white cotton bras and panties. It's a pedophile's dream come true. Thus, car washes hosted by girls is likely to attract a wider array of clientele. Moms, dads, sisters, brothers, sistas, brothas, boyfriends, band geeks, and registered sex offenders all come out of the woodwork in hopes of donating to the Kappa Alpha Theta Spring Break in Cancun fund. Did I contemplate having a car wash to help pay for my spring break trips? Yes, but only during the summer that I subsisted only on Barton's vodka and baby carrots and ran 5 miles a day on the treadmill at the Kearney YMCA while following the Natalee Holloway coverage on Greta Van Susteren. I didn't actually do it though. Somehow I convinced my dad that I badly needed and deserved a vacation from my strenuous life as a CBA student - basically that's equivalent to a narcoleptic complaining of needing a nap.

By the way, the odds of me shelling out cash money to an organization full of boys whose car wash signs are attached to their gold chains is slim to nil. There was one young fellow in particular who had this look in his eye like, "I'm totally stealing her Jeep factory-grade rims." That's how they get you. They steal your rims, take your donation, then sell your rims and like, quadruple their earnings. So clearly they understand the ideas behind profit generation, but they need to go back to Marketing 101. Good luck earning money for your boy scout trip to Deanna Rose Farmstead.

Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?

That would be a no. We don't have drapes yet. However we have carpet. We have 70s porn star carpet. All over the house. The only difference is that instead of high-pile black carpet a la 70s porn stars, we have cheap. builder-grade white carpet. I just want to know who the asshole was who thought white carpet would ever be an acceptable idea - Powder? Was our house built by an entire team of agoraphobics? I don't even have to go outside to track dirt in. In fact, there is a spot on the carpet underneath our sofa that looks like someone was brutally slaughtered. There's chalk outlining the body, seriously. I just don't know what to do about this dilemma - well there is no dilemma. The dilemma is finding a way to deal with this heinous "used-to-be-white-the-day-it-was-installed" carpet until we can afford to do something different. I'm one of those people who goes insane when I can see particles and shit on the floor. Can someone shake me? No matter how often I vacuum, it still looks like someone sprinkled crap through a flour sifter. I guess I just think that white should be white. Red should be red. Black should be black (I'm talkin to you Sammy Sosa). I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

To add to my imending nervous breakdown, I have been outsmarted by banana bread two times in one week. The first time, I followed my Nana's recipe. This woman is like the King Midas of food. Everything she makes is delicious, so when it came out and tasted like cardboard, I figured this cookbook must have had a misprint. So today, I try a different recipe, and I'm really stoked about it. I don't even want to get into how badly I got owned by this loaf of banana bread - let's just say that the center of the loaf looks like what got the Chilean miners stuck.

I'm not a complete idiot. I'm actually a really good baker. By a really good baker, what I mean is that I can follow a recipe really well. I could never make up my own recipe, nor do I care enough to even try. I'm a crappy cook, but a good baker/recipe-follower. I'm just really pissed off about this. That's 4 cups of flour, 4 eggs, 3 cups of sugar and 6 overripe bananas WASTED. I don't get it. I'm stumped, but at the same time I don't really care. Eating banana bread isn't going to help me get back into a size 6 months.

Speaking of size 6 months, I saw Dr. Phil's teaser for his interview with Taylor Armstrong that airs tomorrow. That poor woman. The teaser MADE ME CRY. Granted, I have been extremely hormonal for the past week or so (who am I kidding, I have been hormonal for the past 25 years or so), so I'm not sure if I was feeling worse for Taylor, or for her poor lips. Those babies have been inflated to within an inch of their life. They are like a giant bounce house at a kid's birthday party. I would hate to see what they would look like if they suddenly deflated. Can you imagine? Like my mom said last night, the skinnier she gets, the fatter her lips get. Her abusive husband is dead now, so the only logical explanation for these fat lips is injections or one hell of a yeast infection. I'm not meaning to be hateful. I just am. No, I seriously feel for this lady and for her daughter.

And for her lips.

Collins is blabbering on , and she's just so sweet. I love making her laugh. Kid's got the greatest belly laugh.

What a Pinteresting Day...

Why, oh why, did I ask Emily what the hell Pinterest is? Half a dozen people had sent me shit from this site, and everytime I looked at Pinterest.com, my head started spinning. Literally spinning around on my neck, my eyes would bug out of my head like stretched out springs, and then my head would fall off my neck and slam into the keyboard. It was just too much stimuli for me to handle.

When Emily told me that she spent more time on Pinterest than Facebook, I knew that was the kiss of death. I don't have enough hours in the day for both. I thought I would check out Pinterest with the kind of skeptical disillusionment that usually accompanies my first experience at an over-hyped new trend.

Um. I was wrong. Somehow I am going to have to create like 6 more hours in the day. This is awesome. Its like a virtual vision board - or "liking" a whole lotta shit. You can create different boards and pin all sorts of crap to them. I am pretty sure I neglected my kid for like most of the night. Well, luckily she's been asleep. We are past that first few months of continual doting on my sleeping angel, sighing with contentment at how effing perfect she is. Now I try to use that time productively - facebook, browsing piperlime.com, and of course webmd.com (my foot hurts). Adding pinterest to that just really complicated a lot of stuff. Although it was really fun to make a board depicting my style...well...my style before I became a stay-at-home mom. I used to be decently semi-cute. I at least made an effort. My current style is a pair of baggy Theta sweatpants and usually a tee shirt - currently its my red periodic table of the elements shirt. Tomorrow it will probably be my Oregon State "Beaver Fever...Snatch It" shirt that I would like to be buried in.

Clayton is in Tuscaloosa, Alabama for a career fair. He's out having drinks with his coworkers that went too. Working hard. I guess I thought companies had HR people do the dirty work like this. WTF. I'm not pleased. Its a lot of work caring for a 6 month old and a dog the size of a ferret. That bastard has to pee like every 15 minutes. You don't get a 15 minute smoke break in the morning and afternoon, followed by a 60 minute lunch break. You get NO breaks. I'm a trooper - I can handle it from 7a-7p...But from 7a on Tuesday till 11p on Wednesday? If anybody needs me, I'll be in the garage...with the car running and the windows down...I'm totally joking and I know that's totally not funny. I think to even out the score, I will take him up on his passive-aggressive, insincere offer to watch the baby for the weekend of the Ohio State game so I can go on a bender with the girls in Lincoln - ummmm yes please.

Watched the premiere of Glee tonight. I don't know if it was the sound of my retarded dog barking at the falling leaves, the sound of my baby girl constantly spitting out her pacifier and then wanting me to put it back in her mouth, or a really dumb storyline, but I just could not get into it. I think Lea Michelle's faces when she sings are just painful to watch. And how she generates that one tear to fall perfectly on cue during the final note of every frickin song...like, why? She could be singing Bootylicious and she would still have that one sole crocodile tear roll down her face.

Speaking of shows that kind of sucked, watched Public Enemies the other night. I decided to give Clayton the opportunity to redeem himself after his failed attempt at picking a good movie for our anniversary. He picked Captain America - F*** Yeah! I think every guy in the theater got a hard on for this comic book movie with crazy (read: completely unbelievable and farfetched) special effects. Too bad we were at the theater on the Plaza, TSA searched my bag and confiscated the razor I was going to use to slit my wrists. That would never happen in Leawood. They don't have to employ TSA in movie theaters on the Kansas side. The riffraff tends to stay on the Mizzou side.

Well anyways, Public Enemies sucked also. I love Johnny Depp, and I love Christian Bale. I think the problem is that I would rather look at them than hear them act. It was slightly disturbing that Collins was in her Exersaucer, watching it also. And she was engrossed. Jaw slacked, eyes glued to the TV. I think we have a budding bank robber on our hands. If anyone needs ideas for Christmas gifts for Coco, I think Baby Einstein: Learning about Bank Heists would be the perfect gift.

Jumping on the Blogging Bandwagon...

I'm following in the footsteps of my already-blogging friends. Call me a sheep. I've never been a trendsetter.

Insomnia is the bane of my existence. Seriously, right when I fall into my ever-so-light slumber, I am awoken by the sound of jabbering 6 month old on the baby monitor. The funny thing about this age is that Collins has found her voice, and she really likes it. She likes experimenting with volume, tone, inflection, tempo, the whole bit. I was in the middle of a great dream about me and Don Draper when I suddenly hear my baby delivering MLKJR’s “I Have a Dream” speech. She was freshly diapered and fed 2 hours ago and now sound asleep, here I am wide awake.

I think the problem is two-sided.

1. I haven’t started taking my Adderall yet since I just stopped nursing. I know what you are thinking, “You were a straight-A student until college! You do not have ADHD.” Yeah well a monkey with finger cymbals could get straight A’s in high school. Basically you show up, and count on an open-book test. I have a dream…that no child shall be left behind…

My mind is like an air-show. It’s like I’m watching jets zoom by, very quickly. Then an entirely different jet zooms by, all the while I’m getting whiplash and have thought myself into oblivion. I just hope this particular air race my brain is in, is not in Reno. Too soon? Also, I’m obscenely obsessive compulsive. Unfortunately it’s not in the “scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush” kind of way. More in the internal kind of way. That’s a lot of fun. Not being able to turn off my brain – or at least channel it into some sort of productivity - is a nightmare.

I haven’t been able to take my Adderall since before I got pregnant. So it’s been roughly 14 months of nonstop ZOOOOM…ZOOOOM…ZOOOOOOOM. Apparently if you take it while pregnant, you run the risk of some serious birth defects. Personally, I did not want my daughter to be born with a unicycle for legs, perpetually juggling fiery bowling pins while a carnival tune plays everywhere she goes – so I took one for the team.

B. Instead, my prescription-happy doctor gave me Ambien, which was AHHHHHMAZING. I had a good 5 minutes left of consciousness once I downed that little pill. On the downside, I would wake up with evidence of sleepwalking. And by evidence I mean replies to mysterious nonsensical emails I sent in the middle of the night, as well as this kiss of death, “So-and-So has accepted your friend request.”

???!!!

Seriously, like I told Emily Bahe this weekend, if you’re going to sleepwalk, do something cool. Go streaking. Bring your green hat. Go planking. Plant marijuana in your backyard at 4 am. Don’t facebook. That’s the coolest thing I could come up with? What a loser. By the way, the thought that I was friend-requesting people makes me sick to my stomach. I hardly EVER friend request anyone, ok? Bitches come to ME. I don’t scour the People You May Know section and add people. I’m way too standoffish and aloof for that kind of friendly, olive-branch behavior.

Anyways, point being, this is proof that I need to take care of moi, and if that means formula for the baby and Adderall for mommy, then so be it. Plus, not only will it help me focus my life and give the proper attention to everyday things like laundry, dishes, vacuuming, and trimming the lawn with a ruler and Fiskars, I’m hoping it will help me get down to my goal weight of 6 lbs 7 oz. I would love to be able to share clothes with my daughter. She has a few onesies (we all know how I love onesies) that escaped being poop-stained that would look really nice with my receding hairline, deflated boobs and stretch marks.

Clearly I am trying to rationalize stopping nursing, and obviously I’m feeling a great deal of guilt about it. Whatever, I was formula-fed, and I am a borderline genius and an all-around All Star. And humble, to boot! And except for the recurring kidney stones and previous chronic bronchitis, I have been very healthy my whole life.

Speaking of kidney stones – got the Estimation of Benefits from Blue Cross Blue Shield the other day, regarding my ER visit last month. They hooked me up to an IV, took some blood, and gave me enough pain killers to make being lit on fire feel good.  All in one hour.  I appreciated that. What I didn’t appreciate was the $8500 bill – thank God for insurance, or I would surely be turning tricks in every gated community in Leawood. I’m obviously kidding. But in all seriousness, for $8500 you think they could get rid of the thing (which by the way looks like a sea urchin or the spiky-ball on one of those medieval war weapons), or hell at least offer a reach-around, geez.