The Hoot Of Car Buying

For the past few weekends the husband and I have been shopping for a new car.  For those of who are still driving the car your parents gave to you when you turned 16, let me tell you a few fun things about visiting car dealerships.

One, apparently half of the car salesmen you encounter will absolutely hate their jobs.  I mean hate their jobs.  Take for example, (some foreign name I didn't catch because he mumbled it.) at Hyundai.  First of all, you would have thought we were asking this guy for a look at his femur bone when we asked to see a car.  He literally looked up from his virtually empty desk and said, "You want to see a car outside?"  No, (foreign employee of the month) I would like to see a car you draw from your imagination...you have 1 minute...go!  When we finally got this charismatic salesman outside and into the car for a test drive, I thought we were transporting a hungover college freshman back to his dorm.  He sat in the back seat, put his sunglasses on and mumbled incoherent phrases like, "Horse power," and "gas mileage."  When we tried to make small talk by asking, "You must get tired of this test drive route," he replied with no hesitation, "Yes."  At least we had run into a honest car salesman - isn't that like finding a four leaf clover?

Two, playing the game of,  "What do you think of (insert competitor car)?" is a hoot with car salesmen.  Last night, while test driving a Toyota I asked the salesman what he thought of the Nissan Pathfinder.  As the word "Pathfinder" fell from my lips, he started to grip the console in rage and make hissing noises under his breath.  When I followed up with, "No, really what do you think?"  He replied, with all the restraint of a raging bull, "Um, Nissan is a terrible car."  Terrible huh?  Really?  So, I decided to poke the hornet's nest one more time and said, "So, you think Nissan is a bad choice?"  You would have thought I was asking what he thought about packing a car with puppies and lighting it on fire.  Like I said, it was a hoot.

And three, test driving is fun, so please, if you get the chance, go for it.  Slam on the brakes, take it from 0 to 60, and swerve onto oncoming traffic.  How are you going to know if this is the car unless you drive like a complete madwoman?  Because let's be honest, this is a free ride, and two, your salesperson wants to kill themselves anyway, so just help speed up the process.

You Like?

So, I've really been enjoying our new pad.  One, it's completely silent here.  I mean silent.  I sleep like I'm in a coma each night.  Two, we have a garage.  I know, for those of you, who have always lived in a normal house, this might not seem like a big deal, but after my past parking situations (elevators and 40 point turns were involved) I'm very excited for the enclosure.  And three - WE HAVE A WASHER AND DRYER.  I sometimes just dump jars of salsa on myself so I can go and wash my clothes and then leave them in the dryer for days....and days...I love a world where you can leave clothes in dryers.  I really think dryers should replace closets and drawers.

But, as great as all these things are there is one thing I hate - no loathe - in my new place.  Some people would call it a "light fixture."  Others would call it a "chandelier."  I call it the "Golf Ball Crystal Eye Sore of the Universe" or G.B.C.E.S.O.T.U for short.  As you can see from the picture above, this thing is massive and I hate it.  When I walked into our place for the first time I said, "This could be the place..." and then this monstrosity literally stopped in my tracks, and while its glittering debauchery of style began to suck the very soul from my body, I whispered in almost a trance..."What the hell is this...?"  And just then, when I felt the last moments of my life coming to a close, I heard a heavily thick accent break through my visual nausea, and ask, "You like?"  Friends, that voice still haunts me at night.  "You like?"  "You like?"  I don't think Edgar Allan Poe could compose a scarier phrase.

After a few moments of fighting to regain my composure, I was able to rip my eyes from this abhorrence and say, "Um, is this included with the place?"  Again, that voice..."You like?" No, I wanted to scream.  No!  What had I done?  I was trying to be a good mother.  I needed to lose some weight, but overall, I thought I was leading an admirable life, and now this.  Again, after fighting the urge to grab a crucifix and whisper some witchcraft chants to rid the house of this evil, I said, "Um, it just doesn't go with what I already own.  Would we be able to replace it?"  Again, my plea was responded with, "You like?  Yes, you like?"  Damn you monster!  How could I fight her?  She had me cornered.

So, here it hangs.  Mocking me each morning as the light catches its golf balls and sprays my tiny kitchen table with prisms of rainbows.  Oh, how I hate you G.B.C.E.S.O.T.U.  One day you will be destroyed...and I cannot wait to see you crumble.

Boss Lady

So, last week we moved from Santa Monica to good ol' Irvine to put some roots down and embrace the suburban life.  Can I just say how much I dislike moving?  Honestly, it's the cruelest thing to have to take part in TWICE in four months!  Seriously, I hate moving.  Why you ask?  Why all the anger?  Well, stop asking questions and I'll tell you.

The following are the reasons I hate moving:

1. The utter delusion involved in moving.  You know what I'm talking about. A week before you move you think, "Gee, this will take a few hours to move everything because I barely own anything."  And then the day of the move comes, and you find yourself staring at piles of clothes, wedding gifts, books, towels and other pieces of crap, and you begin to consider lighting a match and just burning everything so you won't have to pack anything else.

2. The odds and ends.  Oh. my. gosh.  Again you know what I'm talking about.  For the first few hours of packing you are being all organized, labeling the boxes with things like, "clothes," "towels" etc. and then after all that stuff is packed away you are left with a box of staples, two wooden spoons, a plunger, some razors and a lifetime supply of napkins from various take out restaurants in the area.  What do you do with this crap?  I must have had four boxes labeled "Misc. Crap."

3. Other people moving your stuff.  Now you would think I would enjoy this part, but come on, we all know you don't handle people's stuff the way you handle your own.  Do you really care if your friend's coffee table gets destroyed?  Not really.  Do you care if your coffee table gets destroyed?  Definitely.  So, introduce a professional "I don't care because it's not my crap" company (Moving Company) and what do you get?  A bunch of guys grabbing the most expensive stuff you own, wondering if they could jam the door with it, so they don't have to keep opening it while they move your middle school yearbooks.

4. The "caring" beat down.  What do I mean by this?  Well, at nine o'clock am you wrap every piece of utensil for fear it will get scratched.  By nine o'clock pm - you are throwing your wedding china into a box with the iron and a toilet brush...and before you even make a motion to throw in some bubble wrap, you find yourself telling yourself, "Listen the china is high quality it will stay solid...and the iron needs to go anyway.  So, if it makes it - it was meant to be...if not..."

5. Unpacking.  Because inevitably the one screw to the crib, that holds it all together, is lost and somehow the only clothes you can immediately find, were actually the ones that were supposed to go to Goodwill.

As a side note this move was actually a lot better than the one four months ago. 1. My husband and his brother didn't have to move our couch and 2. Our moving company called me "Boss Lady" the whole time. I sort of miss those guys.  For a few hours I really felt like a Southern Plantation owner.

Gorillas in the Mist

On Sunday the baby started to laugh. It was one of the coolest things I've ever heard. However, what was even funnier, was when the husband stopped me from going near her, fearing that any noise would stop the laughter. After a few minutes, of standing silently still, I turned to my husband and said I felt like we were watching gorillas in their natural environment. Dian Fossey gots nothing on these two scientists.

Above is a video we were able to catch once the specimen welcomed us into her habitat and felt we posed no danger.

My Bewitching Hour

Again, why, why don't people tell/warn you of things that are going to happen and that you are going to do once you have a child?  Honestly, no one told me I was going to be excited to see my child go number two, or that I was going to become obsessed with getting the lint out of my child's hand.  NO ONE.  Also, no one told me about the deadly time between putting your child to bed for the night and the time you should be going to sleep yourself.  I cannot tell you how many times I've said to myself, "Once this baby goes to sleep, I'm marching to my room, brushing my teeth and going straight to bed."  (Yes, I talk to myself in quotations.)  And then all of the sudden, the baby is all nestled in her bed and everything around me becomes fascinating.  All of the sudden I start staring at my bookshelf wondering if I should finally bite the bullet and read something mildly more intelligent than my usual smut...for only twenty minutes, of course...and then, before I know it, I've pulled out my old Mongolian dictionary and spent a mystifying 89 minutes reading words out loud in a horrible Mongolian accent.  How does this happen? 

Last night was probably the worst...yes, worse than reading Mongolian out loud.  I had about fifteen minutes before I really needed to sleep, when I stumbled upon Extreme Cougar Wives on TLC.  Oh.  My.  Gosh.  This show is captivating, mesmerizing and fantastic all at the same time.  What's the premise you ask?  Um, just women in their late 60s and 70s having relations (that's for you Mom) with men 35+ years their junior.  Fantastic.  Right?  How did they meet, you ask?  Um, one young man was dating the 54 year old woman's daughter until he turned 20 and then...well...then love happened.  I actually watched 30 minutes of this show standing up with the remote in my hand because I was so fascinated by these people. 

Next week Stephanie, a 68 year old woman, goes to the beach with her 28 year old boyfriend, and has to endure the mocking from his friends as they play volleyball.  Will I watch?  Um, I sure as heck didn't put my baby to sleep to knit something if that is what you are wondering.

Please help me.  I didn't go to bed until 11:45 last night.  11:45. I spent 72 minutes of my life watching this show.  There's got to be a better way.

Owned By The White Man

Is it too late to post about Thanksgiving?  No?  Fantastic.  More than a week ago...what, this post just came to me...I attended an amazing spread at the Mission Viejo Country Club.  Honestly, I think Thanksgiving should always be enjoyed in two ways: 1. Buffet Style - because just plain ol' turkey doesn't cut it.  I want shrimp, prime rib and pumpkin raviolis in my mouth and I want a ridiculous amount.  I also prefer the buffet because, let's be honest, a little exercise while you eat is always a good thing.  (And when I say exercise, I mean walking to and from the buffet tables.)  And two, someone should always make Thanksgiving...someone other than me.  I can NOT express my terror of being in charge of Thanksgiving one day. Can we all say Boston Market?!  

So, needless to say, the food was great at my Thanksgiving, but what really brought the holiday home for me was the authentic "entertainers" the country club hired.  Once you finished your meal you were invited to go outside and learn how to throw a tomahawk or pull a bow and arrow from...how do I describe our "teachers"...men, who just got off the Trail of Tears.  Yeah, that will do.  I have never encountered someone so committed to their job.  As I was screaming, "Take that white man," while I threw tomahawks into a stump of wood, my instructor stopped me and informed me that his Cherokee friends would be proud of my technique.  Technique?  Of mocking Indians killing pioneers or how I stepped just right into killing my opponent with a steel axe?  I just like to know what I'm being complimented on.  He then began to inform me about how Indians would use these to kill "white people," in sort of a proud way...I might add.  Yeah, it just got real up in here. 

Then as if that wasn't awkward enough, my brother in law, a comic genius, came over to us with a raccoon pellet around his chest and said, "Man, I'm getting hot with this thing on."  (If you refer to the picture you'll notice the pellet wasn't that large.)  Again, our instructor wasn't getting the sarcasm and informed us that the pellet was warm, but a coyote hat he usually wears with his Iroquois friends was really hot.  (I'm not sure if he changed the tribe of his friends, but aren't they all the same...and there goes my Native American readers.  Kidding about the tribe joke.)  Yeah, he said coyote hat.  Who wears a coyote?  On your head?  Definitely pants, but a hat?  Ridiculous. 

So, how was your Thanksgiving?  Probably not as cool as mine.  Did you get owned twice by a non-Native American?  Didn't think so.

DTR

So, the daughter has found her hands...and man, has she found her hands.  All day long she has them in her mouth just sucking away.  This morning the making out with the hands took on a new level - now she's making all sorts of noises while sucking.  I just think the daughter and her hands need to have a DTR.  (For normal people, who didn't go to school in Provo, Utah - a DTR is relationship term entitled Define The Relationship.)  Anyway, I just think a good talk would be good...I just fear her hands don't feel the same way.

Unfinished Business

So, I need some advice.  I'm moving in two weeks, but I feel like I'm leaving Santa Monica with some unfinished business.  No, there's not some special homeless person I have neglected to feed, or have I forgotten to spend a day at the beach.  No, people, this is way more serious...for the past three months, while living in this apartment, I have not once, not once, said or done anything to communicate my disdain for the trombone, trumpet and violin playing from my downstairs neighbor.  Sure, I've tried to do an occasional workout tape with lots of jumping, and I've literally carried my daughter to the window so she could belt out a little crying, but let's be honest, have these fleeting attempts said anything? No, is the answer we are looking for.

So, here I am, 11 days to go and wondering what should I do?  Sure, I could just tell them it's been great living above them and walk away, but what about the future tenants?  Do I just let this musical torture continue?  I guess, I could write a small note and leave it at their doorstep, but again, how do you properly phrase, "I have wanted to kill you over these past three months."Hallmark can't cover that!  So, I need your advice.  Below are three options...which is perfect because I'm pretty sure three people read this blog...please vote for the best choice.

1. I sit down my 13 year old trumpet player and show her a video of me playing the trumpet in middle school. This will ultimately intimidate her to such a point that she'll have no choice, but to not only give up the trumpet, but destroy every instrument in her house so she won't be reminded of her inferior talent.

2. I will sneak into her room late at night, dress in a hazard suit and place a Walkman* onto her ears.  Then while playing Eddie Van Halen I will tell her that I'm from the future and she is to stop playing the trumpet because her playing will cause an outbreak of mass hysteria that will lead to the utter destruction of our planet.  (Ten points if you know the reference.)

3. I sit the family down and explain walls.  I tell them walls hold up buildings and make rooms.  I then show them wood, plaster and installation and tell them this can be a wall.  Once they understand the concept of a wall, I put them next to the wall and ask them if they can hear anything.  I'm guessing the smart 13 year old will exclaim, "We can't hear anything!" and I'll say, "You are right!"  Then I'll go on the other side of the wall and start a jackhammer.  Once the jackhammer is warmed up I'll ask the family again, "Do you hear anything?"  and they'll say, "We hear a jackhammer!"  "Good," I'll say, "You now understand the last trait of a wall:  it doesn't stop sound."  And everyone will laugh and the dad will say, "Kate, thanks for explaining walls to us.  We now know that you can hear our trumpet and trombone each afternoon.  Thanks for helping us learn something!" 

I need your votes by the end of today...or whenever you three get around to reading this blog.




*If you don't know what a Walkman is please stop reading my blog.  You are way too cool to be reading this.

Yeah Right, Clifford

Now that I've had a child, I've realized that there are so many things people neglected to tell me before I embarked on this journey.  For example, I heard people tell me many times that the baby weight will just fallll off after I start breast feeding.  LIE.  You know what falls off?  Your self-esteem because that weight ain't going nowhere.  Second thing I was never told - Facebook will be the death of you as a mother.  Did you buy a pumpkin outfit for your two month old so they could be photographed in it for three seconds?  No?  What?  No, Thanksgiving onesie?  How will your 11 week know it's a holiday?  Are you trying to torture your child?  You know what I should have been told/warned - you will begin to loathe your high school and current friends after you see their endless baby holiday pictures.

And, the last thing I was never told, and something I would like to publicly warn future mothers of, is the utter ridiculousness of children's books.  I'm not saying reading to your child is bad, I'm just saying the books you read to them make NO SENSE.  None. Take for example, Clifford the Big Red Dog.  First of all, there is not a government on the planet that would allow this ginormous dog to run around. It would be put down and sent to a lab for testing before Will Smith could even think about becoming some hero and flying an alien spaceship into its brain.  Second of all, what parent thinks a dog the size of a house is a good playmate for a girl named Elizabeth.  Are they hoping that Clifford by accident eats Elizabeth so they can stop paying for cheer camp?  And when the authorities come questioning her whereabouts they can just shrug their shoulders and say, "I think our dog ate her."  This is okay for homework, but to get out of parenting is just unacceptable.  And lastly, let's be honest, this dog is huge.  According to the book, which I'm taking as fact, Clifford bathes in a pool, eats large amounts of food and sleeps in a house equally as large as Elizabeth's house.  So, let me ask you this: 1. What family in their right mind would spend millions of dollars to house, feed and care for an animal that could at any point sit on them and instantly kill them?  2. And you know you are all wondering this...who cleans up this dog's poo?  I mean seriously.  His dumps would cover neighborhoods. 

I just want some realistic books.  None of these stories of a grown man hanging out with a talking monkey, some bird asking everyone if its his mother (don't get me started on this depressing story) or about a genetically mutant dog.  Is that too much to ask?

Lock Me Up

   Lately, I've been feeling guilty with my recent parenting.  No, I'm not hitting my child, or locking her in the car while I run errands...no, it's something far worse.  Today my child is officially 11 weeks old and you know what I've completely neglected to do, and which will most likely scar her for the rest of her life?  I never once...how do I say this...I never...please forgive me...put a snow cap on her, took off her diaper, wrapped her in a blanket, placed her in a tin bucket in the middle of the forest and took her picture.  There I said it.  I never did it.  I know, I should be calling protective services on myself, but you must understand.  One, I just couldn't find the right snow cap that said, "I was born in September and will be a pure delight for the rest of my life," and two, I don't have a forest to use.  I live at the beach people...the beach!  So, until I find the right bucket and hat, please forgive me.  And Avery, please don't hold it against me when all your friends have their bucket pictures.

How Cheap Do You Want to Be?

Listen folks I'm not ashamed to admit it - I love massages.  I love the anticipation of it beginning, and I even don't mind when they allow me to sit there at the end and bask in the relaxation of my newly massaged muscles.  I love the cheesy music they play, the soft sound of oil squirting from their "oil belt" and even when they cause me to whimper in pain while they massage my legs.  Honestly, it could be a man, woman, or even a little child - it doesn't matter - I love it all.

But, you know what?  As much as I love the actual massage experience, I loathe the encounter that takes place afterwards.  You all know what I'm talking about.  You come out and your best friend in the whole world (the masseuse) hands you a little cup of water, and says, in the most caring voice, "Now, make sure you drink lots of water today because we've released a lot of toxins into your body."  Can you believe that?  Not only has this strangely strong woman rubbed you down, but she's also expressing concern for the rest of your day.  Thank you.  So, there you are, feeling relaxed, cared for and now it's time to pay.  This is the part I hate.  Inevitably it goes like this:  Stupid receptionist asks in the loudest voice possible, "Did you have a good massage?"  To which I always reply, "Oh, yes." And then, in an even louder voice, which goes against all the signs in the place to stay quiet, she asks, "And how much gratuity would you like to add?"  I loathe this moment.  Did every massage place get together and decide, instead of allowing the customer to write in the gratuity, they would shame the person into saying out loud how cheap or generous they wanted to be?  I just don't get it.

And then to make matters worse, the masseuse will stand there, pretending to check their other appointments, while you mutter, "Um, let's see.  It was a really good massage.  Man, I hate math....um, let's put ten on."  And there it is.  You just committed the cardinal sin of the massage world - tipping 20%.  Immediately, the receptionist puts her head down, the masseuse curses himself for not suffocating you while he had the chance, and the people waiting gasp in disbelief that someone could be so cheap.  I hate, hate, hate this moment.  Honestly, riddle me this:  1. Why does 20% not apply in the massage world?  How come you are suppose to tip more in the 30-80% range?  Are they curing future cancer I don't know about?  2. Who stands there to await their tip?  Guess what, in my three years of being a server I never once stood there and asked, "And how much gratuity do you want to give me?"  You know why?  Because that's weird.

So, listen massage world, I going to keep coming and 20% is all you are getting.  Tell me my future after the massage and I'll start thinking about 25%,

Show Me The Money

So, I'm sad to report that our time in Santa Monica is coming to a close. The husband got a new job in Newport so we are moving down to Orange County.  Which is awesome, because you know how many wild and crazy things are going to happen in the O.C.?  I mean, I thought I saw my fair share of characters in Santa Monica, but the O.C....I mean, there's moms who drive nice cars to soccer practice, and then there's freeways, and toll roads, and shopping centers...it's going to blow my blog UP.  Stay tuned. That's all I can say is stay tuned.

Anyway, since we are moving I've been in the process of showing my apartment to prospective renters...and oh, how I love being on the other side.  Last night I showed the apartment to five people and you know what five people did?  They all completely kissed my buttocks.  It was hilarious.  Mind you I have no say in who gets my apartment, but there's no need to share that information.  So, bring on the high pitch laughs, the ridiculous comments on how adorable my baby is (Which is actually true and should be noted any time someone sees her.) and of course, don't leave out your financial history.  Honestly, I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud as people would look around the apartment and then say casually, but not so casually, "So, I have great credit.  A great job and a steady pay check."  Fantastic, I wanted to say, I have no job, no say in you getting this apartment, but well done on having a stable life. 

I was telling the husband about the rear kissing and he thought we should start to milk this a little more.  Can anyone say kickbacks?  Under the table?  Winks?  Alleys and paper bags of money?  Come on people, how bad do you want my 3 bedroom 3 bath?

Pop Quiz

Pop Quiz: You know the movie Speed with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock?  Remember the bizarre premise of the movie was how they all were going to die if the bus they were on went below 55 miles per hour?  Did you find that movie slightly improbable?  Did you miss the drama and fear of death this bus was supposed to inflict on you as a viewer?  Well, if you feel like you missed the "bus" on Speed let me take you for a drive.  My baby, love her, is actually a living and breathing replica of the movie Speed.  What do I mean?  Well, go below 55 miles per hour and find out.  I'm not kidding.  Travel at 55 mph and everything is great and everyone is happy.  Drop to a dangerous 52, and well, things get uglier than a mangled handed, disgruntled, retired bomb squad police officer.  Honestly, this kid just knows.  I'll admit I've thought about blowing a hole underneath the car, getting everyone out and letting the car just drive on.  Too much?

Sandy Doesn't Even Cover It

Yesterday morning, while I was feeding the little one, I was watching myself a little GMA (not sure what that is?  Well, become a stay at home mom and you will be very aware of all the hits in the morning.)  Anyway, on GMA they were showing numerous images of devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy on the east coast.  As I saw fires in Brooklyn, waves crashing over the Atlantic City Boardwalk, trees down on homes and roads covered in water I started thinking - should all this mayhem really just be called "Sandy?"  I know, I know the World Meteorological Organization uses six lists of 21 names (Q, U, X, Y and Z names are not used) that it cycles through every six years, with the gender of the season’s first storm alternating year to year, and genders alternating through the rest of the hurricane season to name each storm, but come on, we really need to come up with a better system.  (You didn't know all that?)  My east coast readers - you are locked in your homes - try to learn something!

Anyway, this naming process is cute and all but let's be honest - is a name like "Sandy" really covering all the craziness that is going on right now?  I mean, to me, "Sandy" sounds more like the east coast is experiencing a wet kiss and loveable cuddle by some blonde Labrador, than 60mph winds and devastating rainfalls.  Therefore, I think from now on all major storms should be named after former WWE wrestlers.  Seriously, think about it - wouldn't you me more inclined to board up your house and run out for batteries if you heard the "Abdullah the Butcher" was about to hit your hometown?  Or what if it was being reported that "Gorilla Monsoon" was moving from a tropical storm to a massive hurricane?  Gorilla Monsoon?  Heck, I would move if I heard that bad boy coming.  And lastly, if "Sgt. Slaughter" came to my hometown it wouldn't just be forgotten once the debris was cleaned, but the day the storm hit would be remembered for years to come.  Children would become freakishly quiet if the word "slaughter" was ever used.  Adults would shudder as they recalled the time they first heard the meteorologist say, "'Sgt. Slaughter' is coming our way."

Think about it - these storms are reeking havoc.  The least we can do is they give them the respect they deserve.

Gender Conspiracy

After 30 minutes of searching on the internet for clothes for my child I have determined, that makers of baby clothes and moms around the nation, need to come together and come up with some kind of compromise.  I get it, for generations of time we have all believed that girls must be dressed in pink and boys be dressed in blue, but who then decided that girl outfits must also include ridiculous amounts of ruffles, lace, embroidered hearts and any other kind of bedazzling that screams, "No, seriously, my bald child is a girl.  A girl, I say!"  Why can't girl clothes come in blue?  Would this cause a great darkness to come over Asia and parts of Australia?  What if a girl's outfit had a car on it?  Would that mean sudden deaths would occur to people in Rhode Island, while they drive to work?  Honestly.  What is the big deal?  Do people really think babies look down at their outfits to determine their gender identity?  If so, the Dallas Cowboy football jersey, cut off jeans and Converse shoes I wore every single day, really should have caused me massive confusion, but it didn't.  And sure, there was a time when a sales clerk told my older brother he had a really cute younger brother, and I had to inform the dumb lady that I was a girl, but hey, it all got straightened out...oh wait...

Alright, alright, let's just lay off the pink.  I swear my girl will wear dresses occasionally, choose the correct bathroom at school and marry a man - can I now buy some blue clothes?

Evidence

 

Above are pictures of an actual house in my neighborhood...and the reason I wrote my last entry.  These pictures don't even show the half of it.

I felt this one deserved mentioning because of the pathetic effort.  (I also judge "mailed in" decorations.)  A leg caught in the window? That doesn't even make sense.

Points awarded for an actual pumpkin, but major deductions for the overuse of cobwebs and creepy children coming out of the ground.

I've included this picture because my child and I were questioned for our picture taking in the neighborhood by this woman with the dog.  I replied that I have a blog that gives advice on decorations, and that I was taking pictures for my readers.  So, I'm posting this picture to show that lady I wasn't lying.  My advice - don't do this.

I would like to apologize for ant typos - I wrote this entire blog with one hand while a baby sleeps in my lap.  Apparently, Elton John and blogging knocks her out.

 

Where Did All The Pumpkins Go?

I don't know what the equivalent of a Christmas "Bah, Humbug" would be for Halloween, but I think I've got it.  Don't worry it's not about the gluttonous amounts of candy that will be consumed, or the fact, that grown men will finally be able to fulfill their secret, and somewhat bizarre, desire to dress as a woman (Is it the fact that they get fake boobs for three hours?) but this year my complaint is about the ridiculous decorations I'm witnessing in the neighborhoods around my apartment.  Listen, where I grew up, Halloween decorations consisted of a carved pumpkin, maybe two if the family was going crazy, and maybe a fall themed wreath.  That was it.  Out here, in Santa Monica, I see barely any pumpkins (which makes me feel like the Communists are winning) and absolutely no wreaths.  But you know what I do see?  Homes covered in fake spider webs, skeletons left on the ground, fake grave sites, blown up pumpkins (this is definitely a Communist plot) and ghosts hanging from the trees.  IT'S TOO MUCH! 

First of all, why all the crap?  Did the store Michael's blow up and all this crap just accidentally landed on people's property?  Because if that's the case - then fine, all is forgiven.  However, if this crap was purposely purchased and then took an entire Saturday to put up - then no, nothing is forgiven. 

Second of all, Christmas decorations = pretty, festive, inviting.  Halloween decorations = tacky, doesn't look good in direct light or at night.  Oh, and come on, real gravestones don't say "Trick or Treat!"  GEEZZ.

Lastly, what are we celebrating here?  A man, who was burned and then put knives on his hands and scared the crap out of kids through their dreams?  Or is it the guy in the hockey goalie mask?  No, wait it must be that guy with the chainsaw...ahhh, I love that guy.

Okay, I take it all back.  Celebrate away...I hear Michael's still has some crap.

I'll be taking some pictures on my walk tomorrow. 

My Review of P90x

For the past few days I've been attempting to do P90X.  (Which has been awesome because I'm fulfilling two objectives: 1. Trying to get back in shape.  2. And continuing my plan of retaliation for the trombone and trumpet playing, that occurs everyday at 3:45, from my downstairs neighbors.  I've been going with the tried and true practice of holding my screaming baby up to the window, but I think this pounding of the feet will make some waves.) 

Anyway, can we talk about these videos?  First of all, I AM NOT GOOD at following a tape.  And this one isn't even that hard, but heck if I ever have the right foot forward or even remotely synchronized with these freaks of natures.  I swear, sometimes I feel like turning off the tape and for 30 minutes just kicking around the room, while my hands make flailing motions...it would be just about the same workout. 

Second of all, I hate the people on this tape.  Why?  Because they'll be like, "Hey Tony, I just did thirty reps of squats, but now I'm going to jump in the air and squeal with joy after each rep because this is the easiest and best workout!!"  Really, you paid actors?  I wish the tape had people like me on it.  Honestly, how funny would it be to see some fat guy dressed in sweatpants, (I love fat guys in sweatpants) panting through the tire jumps, or see some clueless woman in the back just stop and stare as she tries to figure out the jab, swing, hook and uppercut combination.  Now this is a workout I would do.  One, because it would be highly entertaining, and two because it would make me feel slightly more coordinated...slightly.

And lastly, I've got to stop having the audio on while doing this tape - it drives me nuts. Honestly, if I'm going to do your stupid tape, Tony, at least have the decency to be funny and not so awkward.  Some of his comments really should have made some intern in the back scream, "Um, can we do that again because Tony is making me feel weird again."  Seriously.  He'll walk up to his sweaty volunteers and say, "Are you breathing hard?  Are you?  I'm going to put my microphone up to your mouth so I can tell."  Hey Tony, I can see she's sweating, I don't need to hear her labored breaths every time I do the tape. 

So, what am I going to do with P90X?  Continue it, master it, make my own tape with the uncoordinated people in the background, market it as a blooper reel and work out video, and lastly, find Tony, get a microphone and tape his breathing to use as an additional feature on my DVD.  It's going to be fantastic.

Last Lesson

I think this sums it up.

Not So Much The Same Parts

Here's the thing - I understand that people work out and sweat.  And because of this sweat they feel the need to shower.  And, because they happen to be at a gym, that offers showers, they feel it makes sense to disrobe and then clean off.  Again, I'm okay with all of this.  But, here's what I'm not okay with - the public display of disrobing.  OH MY GOSH.  People, I don't know if you don't have loved ones if your life, who will speak honestly to you, or if you think sagging body parts are normal, but please, let's do the whole naked thing locked in a bathroom stall, in your car or anywhere, but in the freaking area you have to walk through to get to the bathrooms.

So, I'll be honest, I've been frequenting the locker room at the gym in order to weigh myself and monitor the lack of weight I'm losing after having a baby.  (The weight would be coming off except for the fact that I'm hiding another small child in my boobs.  I'm not sure the due date, but I'm pretty excited, as is the husband, to be having a set of twins in the next few months.)  Anyway, it seems like every time I enter the locker room some creepy woman is just standing there waiting for me to enter...and then it happens.  You know what I'm talking about - the awkward eye contact that is made to say from her end, "Yep, I'm naked from the waist up.  Pretty cool huh?"  And from my end, "I'm making eye contact so I don't have to look down and throw up."

I just don't get it.  I know, I know the first grade answer of, "We all have the same parts," but I got to be honest, my parts might be the same but they don't look the same as these National Geographic escapees.

Please creepy women, do me a favor, and let's cover it up.

Lesson 4

Sorry, sorry I had family in town and was unable to finish my lessons. Here's number 4. It's pretty self-explanatory.

Lesson 3

Listen kiddo, your mom has a lot of good traits...however, speaking in a foreign language is not one of them. Don't believe I have a flaw...well, watch this.

Lesson 2

Ah yes, lesson #2. So, I was in fifth grade and we were going to perform a whimsical musical about clowns. I decided, because no one took it upon themselves to tell me how bad I was, that I would try out for a lead role, which included a solo. The day of the try out for the role, I got a good night's sleep, ate a good breakfast and performed Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting" with all my heart. To my utter surprise I was given the role...however, the original solo was slightly altered.

Lesson 1

For the past few days I've been going through some old videos of my childhood and college life. As I was looking through my awkward stages and "glory days," I thought, there's a lot of life lessons to be shared with my daughter. Therefore, for this next week I'll be sharing a video/lesson each day. Feel free to enjoy and hopefully you'll learn something too.

My New Schtick

I'm not going to lie, having a baby has not been the easiest transition.  I mean, errands?  Forget it.  Some how she always ends up knowing we are not out for nice walk, but in the middle of Costco.  However, there are times her strange knack for knowing we aren't enjoying a nice stroll can come in handy.  Take for example the other day when we were in Target:  I entered the store, returned an item, got a gift card with the return money and proceeded to do some shopping.  As I was checking out, Avery decided to wake up and started to get fussy. No big deal. However, the gift card, that I had just received, wasn't working and so I was directed back to the returns counter.  Now Avery is flat out angry.  As the Target employee was trying to figure out the problem with the gift card, Avery started to wail.  Finally, I said, "Listen I'll just pay for it for real."  Again, no problem - except their credit card machine was down.  Avery, and now myself, are beside ourselves.  Eventually, the transaction is made and I'm informed I've been given a 10% discount.  "Great," I say, and leave Target.  As soon as I take five steps from the return counter, Avery instantly stops crying.

This could become a great schtick: Go to store, attempt to make a purchase, shake baby, get discount, leave store with happy baby.

Good Idea?

This past weekend, here in LA, was Carmaggedon.  For those of you, who are lucky enough not to live in this convoluted city, Carmaggedon constitutes part of a major freeway being shut down while a bridge is constructed.  Now, I can imagine in most cities this wouldn't cause much of a disturbance, but here in LA it causes virtual mass hysteria.  Honestly, signs go up warning motorists about a month out, TV news anchors warn people to stay home, half of LA's police squads are out "defending" the closed down freeway and side streets, off the freeway, are monitored and watched by parking and traffic officials. 

So, with knowing all this, and having graduated from college, the husband and I decided to stupidly drive right into the epicenter of this madness.  Things were going alright until we decided to exit the freeway about two miles before the real traffic began and take side streets home.  Honestly, (I'm writing this with my head down) it seemed like a good idea...but then...actually before I write what happened let me ask you:  What do you think would be a good idea for LA to do when they shut down a major freeway?

a. Have city officials at corners and stopped lights offering their apologies for the traffic inconvenience through free hot dogs and popsicles? 

b. Place clear and easily understandable signs directing people to alternate routes in order to speed along their travel?

OR

c. CLOSE OFF A MAJOR SIDE STREET WITH A TRIATHLON SO NO ONE CAN GET EITHER NORTH OR SOUTH.

I guess you know what happened.  I have never been so angry in my life. We get off the freeway and are instantly dumped into another cluster of traffic.  No one knows what is going on, cops are sitting there defending the cross street and the idiots on bikes, who are participating in this triathlon sponsored by Satan, and all we are told is, "Get back on the freeway."  Really?  This was the plan?  Close off a major street and push cars back onto a gridlock freeway?

Honestly, if anyone knows who approved a triathlon on Carmaggedon I would pay handsomely for either their hanging, incarceration or the loss of their employment.  I will pay double if you make all three happen.  Come on people, it's Carameggdon - you don't do this kind of stuff.

Just Another Saturday Night

So, this is a great story.  The other night my husband and I went out to this great new restaurant and were given the total VIP treatment. We had this amazing table, our food was given to us for free, there were some celebrities next to us...

Oh wait..no...my baby threw up on me. 

Late Night With Lifetime

Alright I said I wouldn't write about baby stuff, but let's be honest, there's not much else going on in my life right now.  What's the topic today?  Um, this baby thing is making the husband and I a little nuts.

For example, the other night our little Avery decided, at two in the morning, to do her best Chuck Norris impression.  For almost an hour she performed round house kicks, punched the air and, I'm not sure, but a little facial hair might have started to come in.  Anyway, I had just fed her, changed her diaper and was at my wits end, when the husband commanded me to go back to bed, and took her into the other room.  After a blissful hour of sleep, I was awoken by a soft cry.  As I entered the living room to scoop my hungry baby up, I found the husband and the baby, both with no shirts on, on the floor watching a Lifetime Movie.  Now, you probably haven't seen this one - it's about this girl who has sex for money, then almost gets killed...oh wait, I'm sorry it was a Lifetime movie - you know the premise.  (I wonder would Lifetime would do if a writer presented a story about a fulfilled woman in a happy marriage?  Can you imagine?  Honestly, this channel's writing team must be filled with battered and broken women.) 

Anyway, after a thirty minute feed, I swaddled Avery, placed her in bed and then got into bed with the husband.  After ten seconds of listening to Avery breathe and trying to go to sleep, the husband rolled over and excitedly said, "So, the pimp is actually an off-duty police officer.  So, he said if the girl talks he'll have her mom and dad killed!" 

Yep, three in the morning and the husband is all excited about a Lifetime movie. I guess it's not just a channel for women.

TV Will Be The Death Of Me

So, I'll admit I've been watching a lot, a lot, a lot more TV since I've had a kid. I try to justify the extra viewing in that there's not much else I can do while feeding my child...I mean, have you ever tried to read a book, while holding a child in one hand, and steadying their eating source (use your imagination as to what that thing is) in your other hand?  No? I'll wait - you try - and then the judging can stop.

No seriously, TV during the week day is not good.  I usually start my morning feed with a little Good Morning America. For those of you who have jobs and lives, this show used to be cool.  Now, it consists of five people sitting at a desk laughing at who knows what, reporting on the weather every five minutes (NEWSFLASH: The weather hasn't changed since five minutes ago) exhibiting two minute news segments, that can be seen on every freaking network, and then back to laughing at some inside joke.  I feel like I'm watching the "popular kids" at lunch attempt to be interesting to themselves and to the people they assume are watching. 

From GMA I jump to local news - which today was AWESOME.  And when I say "awesome" I mean, WHY WAS THE SPACE SHUTTLE ENDEAVOR SUCH A FREAKING BIG DEAL?  Every channel showed this stupid shuttle taxing or flying in the air, with some newscaster trying to contain his unexplainable excitement and wonder at this ridiculous site.  Finally, by six (What?  My kid is having a slight growth spurt and is eating a lot!) I couldn't take it anymore, and blurted out to my sleeping child and to my friends - the walls of my apartment - "Who gives a crap about this shuttle!  Just land the stupid thing."  I guess according to the crowds, yes, crowds of people, who watched the Endeavor all day, my lack of enthusiasm could be classified as slightly "Un-American." So, be it.  BRING ON Mother Russia! 

Did I mention that I probably watched close to five hours of TV today?  It's going to be a long first year.

Avery

Alright folks, friends and creepy stalkers (you know who you are) I'm making a pledge right now.  I pledge that this blog will not turn into a nauseating mommy blog that only features reports on my child's bowel movements and pictures of them eating homemade baby food.  I promise never to expound the merits of organic foods for children, discuss the different methods of sleep training or make declarations of my joy of being a mother.  I began this blog as a sarcastic observer and will remain so.

So, with that said, please allow this one post of my child.

THE DAY OF
On September 3, Monday night, I entered the hospital to begin the inducing process.  What is that like?  It's sort of strange because the whole day, before you go to the hospital, you keep thinking, "Let's see I need to shower, eat, I should call so and so...and...oh yeah, let's go have a baby tonight."

ONE OF MY FAVORITE MOMENTS

Once I got hooked up to the machines and settled, the nurse asked if we needed anything else.  The husband then asked, "Do you have any motrin?  I took a long run today and I think I'm going to be sore."  For those of you who have forgotten this is about my delivering of a baby, I just entered the hospital to push out a watermelon and my husband, who ran a few miles, would like some pain medication.  I thought the nurse's jaw was going to drop on the floor. 

CONTRACTIONS

These suck. Why do people go natural?  Do these same people just slam their hands in car doors before they start driving?  That night we listened to two different women have "natural births."  After listening to them scream for an hour I can report there is nothing "natural" about that type of birth.  If you are being chased by someone with a chainsaw then that type of screaming would be considered "natural," but when nice narcotics are available to take the pain away then your stubborn reaction becomes very unnatural.  

PAIN TOLERANCE OF 8

Before I was given anything to start the process of birth I was asked what I would consider my pain tolerance on a scale of 1-10.  What a mean question.  I mean, what am I supposed to say?  I was a Division I college athlete, I have biked miles across states - I can't say a four.  Heck, I can't even go six.  So I said 8 - and then for the next 12 hours I thought, as the contractions intensified, "You idiot.  Why did you say 8?  Now look at you.  You can't get an epidural now.  Only a 5 would get a epidural now."  I really hope there isn't a note in my file about how I lied on my pain tolerance level.  How could I ever hold my head up?

EPIDURAL

There is a God.

THE DELIVERY

Without a doubt this was the coolest thing I have ever done.  A PERSON CAME OUT OF ME!  I will never forget the doctor calling out, "Stop," and then in one motion watching her pull out my baby and almost throw her onto my chest.  They really should warn you that this is going to happen.  For a split second, as I looked down at this bloody mess on my chest, I thought, "Um, someone just threw a random baby at me. People, someone just THREW a baby at me!"  And then, you realize it's yours and you should probably put your arms around it.

So, there you have it.  My experience of having a baby.  I definitely recommend it.  Unless you are 15, living somewhere in the south and are thinking of putting them in pageants.  Then please, please never have sex.

INTRODUCING AVERY

6 Pounds 5 Ounces.  19 1/2 Inches.

Two weeks later she's at 7 Pounds 2 Ounces and 20 3/4 Inches...and I think she's pretty cool.

An Unhappy Customer

So, I'm happy to report I have good news...no my baby hasn't come.  And yes, she's overdue by two days now.  And no, there's no sign of her nor do I have a date for inducing her. 

The good news is Ralph, my friend the Craigslist guy who, may try to kill me one day, emailed me the other day to check in.  Apparently, he wasn't completely satisfied with his purchase of my table.

The following was in the title of the email: 

DELETE YOUR TABLE ON CRAIGS LIST! I"m tryin 2 sell it, I hate it.

 

I hate it?  Ralph, buddy, what's the problem?  Are you now going to officially break into my apartment and steal my TV?  Buddy, let's talk it out...

Come On, Craigslist

I have to admit I definitely have a love/hate relationship with Craigslist.  One, I love the fact that I can sell and buy all sorts of crap.  Looking for a rundown, probably infested with bed bugs, mattress?  Craigslist has got it.  Looking to sell your college, IKEA purchased lamp, that has been lugged from four different apartments?  Some idiot wants it.  It's amazing. 

However, as much as I love the wide scope of Craigslist I also hate the constant low-balling of offers.  People, when I offer my college lamp for five dollars - I mean five dollars.  Don't come back with 3 dollars.  If you are that cheap go find some sticks at the park and light them on fire for some extra reading light.  Also, I hate the stupid questions associated with your posts.  Yesterday, I had a lady call me and ask if the light I was trying to sell actually worked.  Worked?  Crap, I thought people would simply want a decorative floor lamp. Thank you Asian lady for pointing out what could have been a very awkward purchase for someone.

And lastly, I find Craigslist to be simply bizarre because of the people you encounter.  Take for example, the people who bought our refrigerator.  They had just moved from Rhode Island, totally friendly and, yet, just dumb enough to buy one of our chairs and lamps without really seeing the chair was about to fall apart.  Great people.  And then, yesterday Ralph and David showed up at my place to buy my coffee table.  As usual, Ralph started with a low ball offer - to which, I said no...(a year ago I would have offered to pay for the table myself.  The Husband has been working on my "bartering" give stuff away for free skills.)  Then he turned the table over about thirty times, asked some other dumb questions and then proceeded to pace around the room.  Now, I wouldn't have minded the long deliberation, but after awhile, I was pretty convinced Ralph and his friend David were actually taking an inventory of my place so they could return and rob us.  Was I being paranoid?  Probably not when Ralph said, "That sure is a nice TV.  By the size of it it looks like you easily walked it into your apartment."  Great observation tattooed Ralph.  Are you thinking of how easy it would be to walk it out?

Good news is - Ralph bought the table. 
Bad news is - Ralph knows where I live.

Thanks Craigslist.

Preparing For the Worst

The other day someone asked me if I was reading any child development books in preparation for the birth of my child.  I, without really thinking, said, "Well, I've been reading this great book on Catherine the Great, and because I'm slightly ADD when it comes to reading, I've also started a fascinating biography on Hitler."

In retrospect I should have said no. 

What?  I'm preparing for the worst case scenarios.  Who wants a child that pulls the entire world into a war and murders millions?  I would say I'm being a great mom.

It Continues To Haunt Me

Now this might come as a shock to some of you and it might not come as a shock at all, but from fifth grade until eighth grade I played the trumpet.  Now, I should be honest, "played" the trumpet is a slight exaggeration.  The truth would be I lugged a large suitcase onto the bus, sat on it, which only heightened the bumps, dumped it in the band room, blared through it, while my counterparts actually played the songs and prayed a day would come when the band room would be blown up.  Fortunately, for my school district the band room was not blown up, but my release came when the band teacher asked me to come down to the band room.  As I entered the room he asked, while pointing to my trumpet case, "Do you know what this is?"  I, slightly confused by his question said, "Um, my trumpet?"  He then said, "Yes.  And you know what, I've never seen it leave.  So, that means you never practice, which means you don't care, which means you should probably give this up."  Ahh, the sweet words of release.

So, that was it.  My days with hearing a bad trumpet were over...and then, I moved into this new apartment.  As we were moving in we started talking to the neighbor below us and she said, "So, Maddie is our youngest. She is great - we just hope you won't be too annoyed by her."  Annoyed by her?  What does Maddie do - bang on the walls?  Scream racist profanities for no apparent reason?  Nope, Maddie plays the trumpet.

As I'm writing this I'm listening to a monkey being shoved into...no, wait, I'm listening to someone attempting to do scales on a TRUMPET!  Play something already!  Geez, even in my six hours of practicing over three years I could at least play a decent "Up On the Rooftop!" 

The Interview

As I've mentioned before I'm slightly nervous about entering the world of crazy moms.  I got to be honest, I'm just not looking forward to the looks of disapproval because I'm not using sign language to communicate with my child, or the fact that they aren't potty trained by six months.  Honestly, whatever happened to the days when moms let kids run around the pool with no suntan lotion on and fries were a totally acceptable lunch??  Oh, the 80s...

So, the other day I found myself in a room with two other expecting mothers waiting to interview a potential pediatrician.  As we sipped on cool water, and secretly assessed each others' weight gain, one mother turned to me and asked, "So, how many pediatricians have you interviewed so far?"  Immediately I thought, how many pediatricians?  Was I supposed to interview more than one?  Is there a final written test I'm supposed to give them and the one with the highest score gets to take care of my kid's runny nose?  Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?


So, after looking at her with a blank stare, I said, "Nope, this is the only one."  And that, my friends, was not the correct answer.  The expecting mother then told me how she had interviewed five pediatricians already and all had completely different methods.  Different methods?  What are they doing - making wine?


Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short when the pediatrician entered the room.  After a few introductions, the doctor asked us if we had any questions.  And this is when crazy happened.  Both mothers, to my left and right, proceeded to pull out sheets (yes, that was plural) of questions.  I just sat there completely dumbfounded as they asked everything from vaccine schedules, to waiting room procedures, to after hour calls, to billing and to his thoughts on curing autism.  Finally, the doctor turned to me and asked, "Kate, do you have any questions?"  For a moment I looked down at my keys and cell phone, and then said, "Nope, I think I'm good."  Silence in the room.  He then, along with the women, asked again, "Really? You have no questions?"  Then in a moment of panic and slight guilt I said, "You said you went to medical school?  Right?  (Doctor nods) Great.  And you aren't going to touch my child inappropriately? (Doctor nods)  Great.  No, I think I'm good." 


Oh if you were wondering...he hasn't thought of a cure for autism.  I guess those ladies will be finding another pediatrician. 

NEWWMAANNN

Oh the irony of life...so, as I mentioned in my last entry, I'm a tad nervous about my impending labor and worry that my baby will decide to come while I'm driving my car or when I'm at the grocery store.  So, what happens later that day?  A customer from the restaurant calls me and asks if I would like to be an extra on the show The Exes, starring Newman from Seinfeld, Kristen Johnston from 3rd Rock From The Sun and Donald Faison from Scrubs.  Apparently, they need pregnant people to be in the background for a scene at a Lamaze class.  Now, here's what's so freaking ironic about this whole thing:

1. I'm scared to leave my house and now I'm considering driving to the valley and spending the day at the CBS lot.

AND
 
2. I NEVER TOOK A FREAKING CLASS and now I would be taking a fake Lamaze class from 11-5...with a bunch of actors.  (I wonder if I would actually learn anything.)

I might do it.  It would be cool if a fake doctor delivered my baby and Newman and Kristen Johnston became the kid's new uncle and aunt. 

Game Time

So, I'm officially two weeks away from having this kid, and I'm not going to lie, I'm getting slightly nervous.  I mean, it was one thing to get fat and feel her kick, and then it was cool to have showers and get free stuff, but now it's game time.  It's time for me to experience the jaws of hell and push out a watermelon.  This is serious.

So lately, I've been having small panic attacks. For example, yesterday I was at Target (because I'm already training on being a mom and spending my days running errands) when I thought, "What if I have this baby right now?  What if my water breaks right here in front of this delightful display of baby swimsuits and the only people that can help me is the Spanish speaking family to my left and the creepy man standing in the baby clothes section to my right?  And if I have the baby here in Target, does that mean I get a lifetime discount?  Will my child only wear red shirts and khaki pants?  Is this floor clean for a delivery?"  I'm telling you I'm freaking out and terrified of leaving my home.

I just wish God would send down a small note that says, "In five minutes you are going to feel like you want to die.  Best of luck."  A little heads up would be fantastic.

My New Best Friend

As I've mentioned before there are many weird things that happen when you are pregnant.  For example, my protruding belly has been "violated" many times, I've been given advice that ranges from "helpful" to a notch above pure insanity and everyone from a worker at Subway to a random person at the library has demanded I tell them what I'm going to name my little one.  However, as strange as these moments were, I think I experienced the strangest the other day.

So, there I was walking home from Subway (Yes, that would be two references to the sandwich shop.  What?  We just moved and until I can find my toothbrush I'm eating out.)  Anyway, I was walking down the street, in a slight hunger daze, when this random woman stopped me and asked, "When are you due?"  I answered, "About three weeks," and then she announced she was due in December.  Okay, great, now let's move on so I can go eat my slightly mediocre sandwich.  However, as I went to say, "Congrats..." and then "Good-bye," this lady proceeded to whip out her phone and said, "You must give me your number."  I must?  Why because we both have a fetus inside us?  And yet, as she hammered on about the trials of being four months pregnant, while looking down at her cell phone, I caved and gave her my number.  And then, as she started to dive into nannies, I said, "Um, do you want to know my name?"  I mean, I thought it was the proper thing to do since, me and this nameless baby freak, were going to be besties and raise our children together come December.  I know, I'm the crazy one.  She then, without really taking a breath, said, "Oh yeah, my name is Kat...I just called your phone so that's me..."  Again, I have not up to this point given her my name.  Finally, as she was walking away, and telling me how walks with women and babies can be really good for your postpartum depression, I said, "It's Kate...my name is Kate."

I think I'm going to love the world of mothers...it doesn't seem crazy at all.

Childhood Memories of Judo

Oh the Olympics.  I love them.  I honestly do.  I love the bizarre sports, the competition, the drama, the back stories - Which, by the way, how come every Olympic hopeful has had some freaking tragedy in their life?  Is there some correlation here?  So, if I take up cocaine and beat my child, is there a better chance she'll win an Olympic medal in fencing?  It's something to consider.

Anyway, this morning, while eating my pancakes (that's my current diet because I need to put on some L.B.s and we don't have a refrigerator anymore) I stumbled upon the Women's Judo Final.  Now, as you all know, because I'm sure the demographic that follows this blog ALSO follows Judo, Amercia's Kayla Harrison was able to win its first gold medal in this event.  This feat, apparently, was quite amazing, but I got to be honest, I'm not really clear on the whole "sport aspect" of Judo.  Basically, from what I could gather, this sport consists of attempting to grab your opponent's shoulder and then, once you grab hold, you fight to bring them to the floor.  Once they are on the floor you jump on top of them and hold them there.  Now I'm not entirely sure what the sitting on them accomplishes because there's no pinning involved like wrestling, but they kept doing it and finally after ten seconds they would be waved off. 

So, there you have it: Judo 101.  But, folks let's be honest.  Is this really a sport?  I mean, isn't this basically what every older brother does to their younger sister?  Honestly, while I was watching the match I kept having flashbacks of my brother entering my room, with a look of fury, grabbing my shoulders and then throwing my to the ground.  And then, just when I thought the torture was over, he would proceed to jump on top of me and then, either dangle a drip of spit over my quivering face or threaten to fart.  (I now sort of wonder if the same thing happened during the Olympic match I watched.  I wonder if Kayla went with the classic coughing noise that let's her opponent know she's conjuring up some good phlegm, or if she whispered, "I had lots of beans last night...you better watch out.) 

At any rate, the jury is still out for me in regards to Judo - is it a sport or just a good ol' brawl between siblings? 

I'm Going To Be A Great Mom

I would like to think that throughout my pregnancy I have tried to be more responsible with my body.  I've been trying to watch what I eat, I've been exercising, resting more and on Friday I can officially announce I've been six weeks sober...wait...I kid.

Now, I'll also admit I've been slightly stupid when it comes to my pregnancy.  (Hence the drug use.)  For example, a few weeks ago the husband and I went up to San Francisco for a long weekend getaway for his birthday.  While we were there we decided to rent bikes and ride from Union Square (downtown San Francisco) across the Golden Gate Bridge, to Saulsalito and then back through Golden Gate Gardens.  Now, I know what you are already thinking...this sounds amazing.  Oh wait, were you thinking a pregnant woman should probably not take on such a ride?  Then you would be right.  About fifteen minutes into our ride we found ourselves cruising along with traffic along Fisherman's Wharf.  As we were about to exit the traffic area, the husband yelled back at me, "Careful of the edges leftover from the old trolley systems!"  Now, for those of you non-bike riders, edges can be really dangerous because your wheel can catch them and then slide.  But, I've been riding for almost ten years, ridden thousands of miles and I've caught some edges so I knew what I was doing.  However, after about two minutes of the husband's warning, I found myself catching an edge, screaming a small profanity and falling off my bike.  Go ahead gasp.

Now, the worst part of the fall wasn't the fact that my hand got cut up, or the fact that my baby - in order to torture me, decided not to move until that night - but what happened when I rolled over and everyone saw me.  Initially, everyone was like, "Oh, poor idiot, who fell off her bike," and then they were like, "She's PREGNANT!  Call Children Protective Services!!"  I have never felt worse in my life.  My child isn't even born yet, and people are calling me an unfit mother.  (I guess it's good training for when I leave my children at stores or forget to match their clothes...I'm kidding, I'll always match their clothes.)

Anyway, the baby is great.  I promise.  I was able to take the fall on my side, I've been to the doctor twice now and she's doing great.  As for me, I haven't been on a bike since, and my social worker says I can be alone with my baby after a year of close observation.  So, not all bad.

A Little Extra Girth

You know you things have changed with pregnancy when:

1. It's more comfortable to walk around the house with your shirt pulled up and your stomach completely exposed.  

AND

     2. When you burn your exposed stomach while dishing up a pancake to your husband.

FOUR MORE WEEKS!