I Want My MTV

So, I'll admit it, I'm 34 years old, and WHILE MAKING DINNER, I might have watched MTV's VMA Awards Show.  Here's my thoughts:

1. What. Was. With. The. Outfits?!  Robin Thicke was straight up dressed like Beetlejuice.  Dude, you made a porn video for your song - the least you could have done was steal a costume of a "surprise mailman" or "Pizza Delivery Man."  And Lady Gaga and Hannah Montana I didn't tune in to see your white bodies flippy flopping all over my screen.  Lady Gaga let's go back to raw meat, and Ms. Miley, Ms. Miley let's at least wear some granny nude underwear next time.  I saw a little too much butt wiggle - and not in the good way.

2. Who. Are. These. People?  Sadly, the only people I truly recognized were the following (and the thoughts that accompanied my recognition) Will Smith - I wish he was performing "Gettin' Jiggy With It."  N'Sync - I wonder how many phones calls from Joey Fatone it took for JT to finally acquiesce and do this fifteen second version of "Bye, Bye, Bye?"  Do you think they knew Lance Bass was gay back then?  Taylor Swift - She reminds me of that hot girl in high school who everyone wanted to date, but then broke up with after they found her standing over them in the middle of the night whispering, "Hi, honey...I just wanted to watch you sleep."

3. Avery. Is. Never. Watching. MTV.  I'm sure my parents had this thought back when Warrant was singing "Cherry Pie" and Right Said Fred was telling us how sexy he was, but seriously, this show was ridiculous.  Whatever happened to the good ol' days of videos?  Real World that was real and not a bunch of drunk whores and meatheads?  Kurt Loder, who reported on music news like he was reporting a serious nuclear blast in Russia?  Where did the good days of MTV go?

I'm old.

A Birthday Note To My Daughter

Dear Avery (*) -

If you are reading this it means two things: 1. Your snooping has finally produced something useful to explain the nagging neglect you always felt in your heart.  Or  2. I have passed away in shame, and due to the requests in my will, you are now finally allowed to know the truth.

Here it is kid, in a week you are going to turn 1 years old, and everyone, from random strangers at the store to close family members, have been badgering me to answer one forsaken question:  What am I going to do to celebrate your first birthday?  Ideas like princess themed parties, bouncing houses, clowns and big spreads of food have been thrown around, but here's the truth you - you are almost 1 and your brain capacity is not that big. In fact today, you tried to eat a computer cord.  A computer cord!  And as I tried to stop you I realized you were chowing down on a cheerio you had found somewhere near the couch.  Listen, bottom line is you actually have no idea your birthday is in a week, and therefore I'm not really going crazy in the whole "celebrating" category.  Yep, you read that right, I'm consciously deciding NOT to really celebrate your birthday.  Sure, I'll wake you up in the morning and say, "Happy Birthday," change your diaper, offer you some special momma brew (from under my shirt), let you play, give you a cupcake and then take a picture.  Will you get some gifts?  Sure...oh wait, I've already given them to you.  Remember?  Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, listen take this letter to your therapist, put it on your refrigerator so your husband will understand why you are so needy, but please know, I don't regret this decision.  Don't get me wrong, I do love you, I'm just not in love with all the crazy moms, who feel the need to throw extravagant parties for a child, who doesn't even really know if their parents are the ones smiling at them or the ones on the couch.

Love Mom.

* Or addressed to all the crazy moms I've encountered.

Random Friday Thought: Parenting Test

Does this make me a bad parent?

Situation:  

1.  Baby poops in bath.  

2.  Baby is changed.

3.  Tub is washed with gasoline, bleach and repainted.

Immediately after all this baby is given a new toy, that I was going to give her as an early birthday gift after the bath.

Have I just taught her a terrible lesson?  

Poop in bath = Massive reward 

There Are Such Things As Stupid Questions

Just now, and I'm not making this up, I googled, "How long should you cook a rump roast."  (What, I'm getting my domesticity on.)  Immediately, I was directed to the website: answers.yahoo.com where someone has already asked this question and received 12 answers.  Yes, 12 people took upon themselves to answer this stupid question on the internets.

According to the "users" Ginarene71 offered the "best answer" with 4-6 hours.  I'm not sure what constituted this being the "best answer" since Sheloves_dablues answered 8-10 and even included a recipe for a rump roast.  I got to say if I was voting I would have gone with sheloves_dablues for the name alone and maybe for the extra mile of a recipe.

Anyway, once I got my rump in the pot, I started looking a little closer at this website.  Apparently, you can join this site and then either become a master answer giver, which allows you to earn points, based on how helpful you are, and join certain levels of wisdom givers.  Apparently, Ginarene71 was a level 5 answer giver with 5,408 points.  Yeah, I thought the same thing - dayyyummm Ginarene71, yous helping all sorts of peeps. (You weren't thinking that?)  The other aspect of this bizarrely helpful website, are users can use it to ask all sorts of ridiculous questions.  I'm not sure if you are given points for your inquiries, but if you are I would like to award some points to the following people who asked these questions:  (These are real preguntas...5 years of Spanish, what??!)

"If you could be a STD, which one would you be, and why? (User: "What."  Level 5. Points: 5,679)

Personally I would give this ten points because it did generate two answers of: HIV.  Yes, two people thought HIV was the top STD, high five to Americans.  However, I would also have to subtract four points for lack of originality.  Who hasn't been on a long road trip and NOT asked this question?  I mean, take me down I-95 and I'll be pulling out the "favorite STD" question by the first toll booth.

"How do I convince him I'm pregnant?" (User: Violet.  Level 1.  Points: 132)

1000 points subtracted!  Why are you bothering the inter webs with this garbage Violet?!  You know how you convince him you are pregnant?  Go to a store called CVS, Walgreens, a grocery store, and buy, now wait for this because this is crazy...a PREGNANCY TEST.  Then show him the results.  It's mind blowing.  (Did I just become a level 8 answer giver?)

What level would you be?

Hit Icon Now.  Gracias.

Stranger Danger

For the past two days we've been kicked out of our home so our landlord's handy man could redo our floors.  Why are our floors being redone?  Well, like everything in this forsaken house, the tiled floor was done on the cheap and consequently was beginning to chip.  And you know who likes to put tile chips in her mouth - yes, the baby.  

As I handed over my keys to Max the handy man, and headed to my in-laws for the night, I began to wonder what good ol' Max meant when he said, with a sort of suspicious Iranian look, "So, don't worry we'll just be here all night working on the floors."  Just...working on the floors.  Why the need to emphasize "the floors"?  Was that code for: And once I see your car disappear I'm totally trying on your clothes, reading a magazine on your toilet and licking all your spoons?

Honestly, it's weird having a stranger in your house.  You start wondering what they are going to think of you.  Are they going to look at your refrigerator and think:  Geez, is there a new diet out there that consists of salad dressing, milk and old salsa?  Or Are these people poor?  

Are they going to look at your bathroom and question: So, the Oral B Electric Toothbrush doesn't actually have to look remotely clean to brush your teeth?  Hmm...I could have sworn hair and face wash would hinder the proficiency of the brush.  Guess not.  

And lastly, are they going to make a quick review of your closet only to decide: So, I'm guessing the husband has a job based on the suits, and she...hmmm...she either died ten years ago and he can't let go of her clothes, or she feels clothes are just means to cover the body and not to actually make a fashion statement.

What would a stranger say about the state of your home?

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Middle School Debauchery

The other day I had my music library on shuffle when all of the sudden 1990 came blasting out.  Yep folks, I'm talking a little Poison.  I'm talking a little "Something to Believe In."  I'm talking Brett Michaels pre-weave, height of hair bands, tight pants and one of the best power ballads of all time - and yes, even better than that ridiculous "Open Arms" song by Journey.

So, there I stood, in front of an almost emptied dishwasher, immediately transported back to sixth grade when each month our school would hold a dance, that basically entailed three things: 1. Power Ballads upon Power Ballads 2. A lot of tight swaying back and forth in small circles with the love of your sixth to eighth grade life.  And 3.  Either your first kiss, the beginning of your mastering the kiss or a full on make out.

I lived for these dances.  For two hours the gym was transformed into a dark abyss of dancing and adolescence debauchery and I loved being in the middle of it.  Some time after my third dance, my boyfriend and soul mate, decided he was going to take our American kissing to France, and as they say, "Boom went the dynamite."  Immediately, I was sought out for advice on how to go about the tango of tongues, sixth graders whispered things like, "She's a real woman," and "Wow, she is so brave," as I did my best running man (look it up kids) and Kid N' Play (again, look it up.)

Some time around seventh grade a letter was sent home from the PTA informing parents that kids were getting out of control at these dances. I remember my mom sliding the letter towards me, while asking, "You know anything about this?"  Did I know anything about the abnormally tall seventh grader pressuring kids of all ages to kiss in front of hundreds of their fellow middle schoolers?  Um, maybe.  Was it a miracle that this abnormally tall seventh grader, with teeth going every direction, was actually being kissed at all at these dances?  Absolutely.  Was I going to tell my mom that this letter was actually inspired and directed towards me?  No.  Will I stop with the questions?  Okay.

The last and strangest part of these dances was that fact that a teacher, named Ms. Schmidt, used to walk around taking pictures of kids making out.  She would then post the pictures, no not on Facebook, but on a billboard in the hallway.  Then every Monday a crowd would form around the billboard to see if they had made the "wall of shame."  Fortunately, I was never caught, but that didn't stop me from fasting and praying during every Parent/Teacher Night that Ms. Schmidt didn't pull out some hidden gems for my parents to see.
For some reason at the time I didn't think this was strange, but now almost 23 years later, I find myself wondering what in the beep was wrong with this lady.  In her house is there a wall of hundreds of pictures of middle schoolers making out that, while stroking her twenty cats, she sits in front of and admires?  Honestly, how was this woman not fired?

Before I close I would like to report that I got my act together in high school and managed to not get pregnant.  I know, you were all thinking I was headed down that path - I'm sure Ms. Schmidt has the evidence to prove it.

Want to feel that rush of 7 minutes in Heaven again?  Then click that Top Mommy Blog Icon.  It will feel so good...

And...You're Dead

Hold on, let me sit down on this old chair on my stoop...alright, hold on, hey kids, yeah you, stop all that racket!  Okay, ready?  I think I'm officially ready to make my "back in my day" comment.  Okay, seriously, these days movies are dumb.  Seriously dumb.  Tell me the last movie you saw and thought, "You know what, that was a great, realistic portrayal of human life."  Go ahead, I'll give you some time to think. See you can't think of a single movie because they are all dumb.  Take for example, Iron Man 3 (The last movie I saw in a cold morgue of a movie theater...honestly, what's with the temperatures in movie theaters?  Have watching movies gotten so intense that us fat Americans now need air conditioning to handle the slight increase in our heart beats as we suck on 34 ounce sodas and stuff our faces of cheese wiz and popcorn?)

Anyway, as I was saying, Iron Man 3, was ridiculous.  Utterly ridiculous.  Spoiler Alert: Iron Man is actually a guy, a real human, dressed in a suit of iron.  He's not from some mystical place, with superhuman powers, but just a guy with a nightlight in his chest.  Therefore, if he's say, hurdled off a building, he shouldn't survive.  There's no metal, that I know of, that can actually form to your body and save you.  Where did I come up with this conclusion? Um, let me see, oh yes, people in iron planes fall and you know what happens? - They die.  People in iron cars get in crashes and, oh wait maybe you know this one - they die.

Therefore, to combat all the stupidity I see in movies, I've come up with a coping mechanism.  It goes like this:

Movie: Due Date with Robert Downing Jr. and Zach Galifianakis.  

Scene: Zach falls asleep at wheel, car falls off overpass and lands on its top.  No one is hurt.

Coping Mechanism: Say in calm voice, during scene of car spinning in slow motion and characters moving inside of car:  "You're Dead."  "You just died."  "Nope, funeral is coming...now."  

I don't know why, but there's something very liberating about calmly calling out all the unrealistic things movies try to get away with all in the name of entertainment.

Try it next time someone runs across a room while another person is firing a close range machine gun at them.  "You just got shot," "You're dead by multiple gunshots to the chest," "You are not going home tonight," "Don't call 911, You're dead."  "You're dead."

Ahhhh...and scene.

What?  I'm still soliciting votes for that Top Mommy Blog thing?  You betcha.  And now...I'm dead.

Random Thought Friday: Rabbits Are Terrifying

In my neighborhood, here in Irvine, there are a ridiculous amount of rabbits.  A ridiculous amount.  And to be honest, they totally freak me out because when I was five years old my neighbor had a rabbit and it bit me in the leg.  I had to get tested for rabbis, kids from all over would come over to see the "rabbit bite," my parents waited for me to foam at the mouth - it was awful.  So, now almost thirty years later, I'm just waiting for one of these monsters to strike again.  And if they do try, I swear to you faithful readers, I will have no problem launching a sweet bunny with my right foot for all my neighbors to see.

Have a good weekend.

Slapping Could Become A National Holiday If You Are Willing To Help

The other day was National Middle Child Day.  (I didn't celebrate it for fear of offending one of my siblings.  I mean, I have an older brother and a twin sister, who is older than me by 28 minutes, you tell me, genius of genealogy, who's day it is?)  And, yesterday was Left Hander's Day and on the 30th is Marshmallow Toasting Day.  Can we just stop this madness?  I mean, seriously, what is going on here?

First, who decided and fought for April 4th to be National Tell a Lie Day?  Was there a march in Washington I wasn't told about?  Was I told and LIED TO that the march was in New York?  Did it require a lot of signatures?  Did people even write their real names?  Did my father sign it "Clark Kent" like how he signed all my report cards and bad tests?  What do you get someone for this holiday?  Tell your boyfriend you are pregnant with someone else's baby, and when he freaks out, you say, "Silly, it's National Tell a Lie Day.  Remember?!"

Secondly, who is aware of these random holidays and are people out there actually celebrating them?  Is someone right now taking an oath of silence until June 15th where they can officially scream, because it's National Hollering Day, at their entire office for the whole work day?  Or is there a mass murderer out there just plotting his day of terror on National Beheading Day, when he can chop a bunch of heads off and plead, "But, but, but...it's a holiday?!" when he's arrested?

And lastly, and most importantly, are all the days taken up?  Isn't there still stuff out there that should be, no needs to be celebrated?  Like National Slap Someone Day?  What, there's only been failed campaigns on Facebook to promote slapping of co-workers and general idiots?  And even a "Slap Someone's Butt" didn't really take off?  No one has locked up this day?  Fantastic.  Bring on the signatures, bring on the open date, hopefully some time around the spring - let's get this one on the books. Who's with me?

All holidays can be found on http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/

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Babies are Weird

I've said it before, or maybe I haven't...anyway, babies are weird.  Honestly weird.  My baby, though I love her with every bone in my body, can be slightly weird.  Here's why:

1. When I feed her (from my ta-tas) she likes to either slap me repeatedly on my chest, or bring her feet up to my mouth. Again, I'm giving life saving subsistence to this child and she is beating me.  Weird.

2. My baby is Wolverine.  Honestly, she'll get a scratch or a bump while playing and within ten minutes it's completely gone.  Her skin is literally healing itself at an abnormal rate.  I wear a pair of goggles swimming one night and two weeks later people are asking me who pressed cookie cutters around my eyes.  Weird.

3. Feeding herself real food is dumb.  Eating ANYTHING else off the ground, at the playground or from a bag of trash is totally acceptable.  Weird.

I could think of more but I'm afraid her Wolverine like claws are going to find their way up my nose again.

It Is Now Safe to Unbuckle Your Belt and Create A Mob

In less than three weeks the husband, the baby and I are flying to Hawaii.  Now before you get disgusted with me for going to Hawaii, let me re-state that last sentence: the husband, THE BABY and I are FLYING to Hawaii.  Flying on a plane for four hours with a child, who hates to sit still, wants to crawl over everything and can only sleep if it's pitch dark, in her bed and with some gentle ocean sounds.  (Yes, yes, I created this monster.  Let's move on.)  So, what are my thoughts right now?  Um, sheer terror comes to mind.  Protecting my child from a mob of angry fliers, who have grouped together around our seat with signs that read, "No More Babies On Planes" and "I Didn't Pay $400 to Hear a Baby Cry."  (Where did they get the poster boards for signs?  I don't know.  Why is it all of the sudden a dark night and some of them are holding torches?  Again, I can't explain this mob.)

Now, to be honest, our baby doesn't really cry, but she does enjoy exploring and completely invading people's personal space.  In the past, this little Christopher Columbus act (the exploring, not the committing of genocide of Native Americans) hasn't been a problem, but on a plane I fear what is going to happen.  All I can picture are dirty hands reaching out over, through and under seats to grab my child's hands, and like the movie Contagion, passing on some crazy bird virus they picked up during a business trip to China.  I'm going to ask, but I don't think they'll allow it, but I'm thinking of walking behind the drink cart and dumping sanitizer on anyone who even had the thought of touching my baby or handing over their nasty keys for her to jingle eat.  It sounds extreme, but I think once they feel the disappearing gel hit and then wash over them, they are going to thank me and my baby for boarding their flight.

Do you think it's too late to just ship my baby?

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It Ain't Really Mine

For the past ten years I've been living in rental homes and apartments.  And though I hate not being able to freely knock down walls or convert our "office" into a meth lab (Okay, yes, that's not entirely true, but if I'm going to really go for my life long dream of a meth lab, I want it done right and permanent.  No, "Oh, this is just right and making good product," to "Oh, we are moving and I have to pack this up?"  No one wants that.)  Anyway, outside of being handcuffed into following the law, there have been some perks to renting.

For example, almost all the plants outside my home and the trees in the back are dead.  Sure, I feel bad, but let's be honest - I didn't plant them in the first place, I didn't sign a lease to be a gardener and water costs money, which someone, we'll call "my landlord," didn't offer to cover.  Sorry.  So, what's the perk here?  Well, in a year or so I'll move to another place with new plants and trees, where I can enjoy them until I systematically kill them and move to another place.  And while I'm gone someone, we'll call "my landlord," will dig up the causalities I left behind and plant some new ones.  Everyone wins!

Secondly, you know how annoying it is to clean a really large shower?  Well, if it ain't yours and you aren't planning on dying in the shower at the ripe age of 92, then give it a basic clean and when it gets truly unbearable - say it with me everyone - move!  Yes, move.  Move to a new place, demand the new bathroom be polished and enjoy the next two years!  

* I may have embellished a few things in this post.  One, not every plant is dead.  Two, my shower isn't as gross as some would say.  And three, I'm not taking anything back about the meth.

Friday's Random Thought: Dog People and Baby People

For Fridays I've decided to give you a random thought I had in the course of the week.  Some of these random thoughts become blog posts and some just stay floating there. Here's one of them:

I always hated how dog people felt the need to stop and talk to other dog people.  It's like just because you both pick up poop in a plastic bag doesn't mean you should stop and have a moment together.  And then I had a kid and all of the sudden I find myself stopping people with babies, and instead of allowing my baby to sniff their baby, I hear myself asking the dumbest questions: "So, how old?  Oh yeah, how much did they weigh when they were born?  Eating solids yet?"

I got to stop.  A stranger and me had a baby around the same time of year - It's not like we both shared the experience of surviving a bank robbery.  Move along.

Pot or Swimming?

For the past couple of weeks I've been attempting to swim laps at night, and you know what I've realized about swimming?  It sucks. No, seriously, in the way of exercise it totally sucks. Jumping off diving boards, playing Marco Polo, doing hand stands in the water = fun.  Swimming back forth like a human ping pong game = sucks.  (I'll elaborate, but before I do, I must apologize to my mother for the excessive use of "sucks."  For some reason, "suck" was not a word we were allowed to use in our home.  So, sorry Mom, I su...)

Okay, now before you get all swimming is great for your body and blah, blah, blah let's discuss why no one should be swimming for exercise:

ONE
It's not easy.  You know all those idiots, who do it really fast in the Olympics and make it look really fun?  Well, they are lying to you America.  Lying.  I don't know if you know this, but humans can't breathe under water and you know what you need when you are exercising?  AIR!  You know where and when it's hard to find air?  WHILE THRASHING AROUND IN A POOL TRYING NOT TO DIE.

TWO
It's boring.  Seriously, boring.  You know why Michael Phelps starting using pot after the Olympics?  Because his mind was already so wasted from going back and forth, and back and forth in a pool.  Honestly, being stoned must have seemed like another day at practice. And if that's not enough did you ever watch Ryan Lochte's show on E!?  The guy is a two levels above a coma patient.  He's a moron.  Seriously, I would have liked to known the Ryan Lochte before swimming - I bet he was a sharp guy.

THREE
The pool.  The pool.  I know they contain chemicals that magically protect you from other people's urine, snot, spit and whatever bodily fluids, but still.  Still.  They are floating in there, I'm running that crap in and out of my mouth...I can't go on.  It's just...no, let's just leave it at...the pool.

So, I'm thinking of just taking up pot. If it's good enough for Michael Phelps...

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A Killer Weekend

Since becoming a parent the weekend has definitely changed.  No more trying new restaurants, or taking long walks after dinner, or stumbling through the streets drunk and happy from a crazy night of clubbing.  (Okay, the last part never happened, but if I had just been given ONE more year, without this 16 pounder, I know I would have been able to kill it.)

No, the weekends are more like prom nights, where leading up to them you get all excited for the possibilities they hold, but in actuality turn into sad nights of washed away dreams of romance, dining and going to bed sooner than you had thought because your feet are killing you.

I know what you are going to say - sell the baby get a babysitter.  Listen, babysitters are great, but every babysitter we've ever had doesn't elicit a lot of confidence out of me in their ability to guard my baby from an intruder, since each has weighed less than my prepubescent fourth grade weight, (Which was 100 lbs. Yeah, fourth grade.) or to correctly change a diaper without consulting Youtube.  So, we stay in, pick up take out, and wait until capable babysitting robots replace eating disorder 13 year-olds before we think of going out again.

So, outside of El Pollo Loco and promising five minute back rubs to each other, what does our hot weekend nights entail?  One thing and one thing only - 48 Hour Mysteries.  If you haven't had the pleasure of watching this show let me break it down for you.  Someone is murdered.  Someone was having an affair.  Someone gets caught.  Sure there's variations on the story, but essentially that's it.

Now as much as I love guessing who had the affair, our constant watching of these shows is starting to bother me.  One, I'm starting to wonder if my husband's eagerness to tune in is less about fascination with mysteries and more about the "correct steps to take in order to get away with killing your wife."  He'll always say after a show, "Seriously, its not hard.  Don't spend a lot of money before the killing, hide the mistress and have a legitimate alibi!"  Like a dutiful wife, I'll nod my head in agreement, and then after, spend the rest of the night trying to break into his email.  What?  I'm finding the mistress before the police report.

Lastly, these mysteries have increased my paranoia level and made me a more crazy observant neighbor.  For example, the other night I noticed a van parked out front.  Without a second thought I studied the make and model and even noted the time I saw it.  Why?  Because friends, that's how these crimes are solved.  A woman walking a dog in the forest, picks up a receipt from Home Depot where someone bought duct tape, a baseball bat, large industrial plastic bags and a shovel, decides to keep it, hears about this murder in town, calls the police, gives the receipt, WHICH IS TIME STAMPED, cameras are checked, husband with mistress comes in, buys the stuff, walks out, old lady remembers red truck with shovel hanging out the back, follow truck on street cameras, see receipt go out window and BAMMMM - dog walking mom is a H-ero.

Folks, I might not be having a rocking weekend, and I might have a husband plotting my demise, but before I leave this earth I'm taking it all in, and by golly, I'm going to see something one day that will save someone's life.

Or cause my neighbors to get a restraining order.

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I've Joined The Ranks of Mommy Blogging

So, let's explain that little logo to the right of this post. You see it.  The big, teethed lady that has her hands up trying to say, "Hey, I caught you reading this blog when you should have been working."  Well, let's disregard her incredibly passive aggressive judgmental smile and focus on why she's there.  You see, each day I find myself going slightly nuts being at home with the little one.  Sure, I love her, find her hilarious, love being a mom, blah, blah, blah, but I'll admit I feel like my brain is slowly deteriorating into a small piece of mush.  So, I blog.  I blog because all day sarcastic thoughts come into my head that the baby and the team of GMA, who never seems to hear me from the TV, are just not getting.  Therefore, I decided to try to venture out a little bit more and share what some have called, "...a genius work of observation...," and others have said, "...a glowing achievement of insight..." and my good friend once described as, "...wow, what a colossal waste of time..." with other mothers and blog stalkers.  So, I joined the Top Mommy Blogs.  Do I think this will boost my readership up from its solid 7? Who knows, but hopefully so.  So, click on the logo.  Every time someone clicks on it I receive a vote and my blog climbs up the steep slope of Top Mommy Blogs.  Do it every time you read one my posts and I might send you a t-shirt.  Might.  And the t-shirt might be an old Duke Lacrosse t-shirt my husband has told me to either donate, or rip up to use as a rag to clean the bathroom.

So, again let's review: Me lonely.  Me Write.  Me Need You.  You click Logo each time you read a post.  Me get votes.  Me Happy.  You Might get T-shirt.

Here's to climbing the charts!

I'm Sorry I Didn't Hear What You Said Because Someone Is Making Love In My Ear

Every day from 4-5 (in case anyone is stalking me) I go for a walk with the little one.  And while I walk I usually listen to an audio book on my phone.  Here's the thing about audio books - they're awesome because one, they pass the time.  Two, you can still say, "I read that," because no one is going to ask you, "Now, when you said 'read' did you mean 'listen to.'"  (And if they ask this call them a jerk.  Go ahead. I give you permission.)  Three, audio books ensure I won't do a "Kate read" through the last four chapters, which basically consists of me reading the first sentence of each paragraph.  (This drives my husband crazy because he'll be like, "So, how did he die in the end?" and I'll be like, "Who died?")  And lastly, listening to the book makes you a star at the book club.  Why?  Because let's be honest, there are some characters' names in books no one has a clue on how to pronounce.  If you think I'm wrong tell me how you said Hermione from Harry Potter in your mind when you read the 19,000 page books?  I'll bet you were shocked when you saw the movie and little Harry said Hermione (focus on the "eeee").  Had you listened to the book you would have been able to save yourself the embarrassment (because that's exactly what it was) of exclaiming, "That's not how I thought her name sounded!?"

Now for the drawbacks of the audio book.  One, if you walk away from an audio book for a few weeks best of luck finding your place.  Before you know it your main character is getting back from a funeral and just about to make love to his nemesis.  How did this happen?  Who died?  You'll never know.

And two, audio books can be extremely awkward.  For example, it's one thing to read a steamy scene in a book and it's another to actually hear it loudly in your ear.  Somehow listening to it makes me feel like I've stumbled into a kind of movie theater my mother told me to stay away from.  And then as the scene gets worse, I find myself thinking the whole world knows I'm listening to absolute smut right now.  I'll pass fellow walkers with a look of, "I'm sorry for what you might catch as you walk by me.  It seemed like an innocent enough crime thriller...morning..."

So, here's my final analysis: Audio Books - great ways to pass the time, but causes terrible moments of awkwardness.  Recommendation: Never listen to audio books with your parents or keep them on when you pull up to toll booths.

Help CPS! Monkeys Are Being Abused!

As I've mentioned before children's books baffle me.  This morning I was reading "Five Little Monkeys."  For those of you who actually get to read intelligent material let me break this book down.  It basically consists of five monkeys jumping on a bed, falling off, bumping their head and then their negligent mother calling the doctor, who responds with, "Tell them no more monkeys should jump on the bed."  And then, as if the doctor's instructions weren't clear enough, the remaining monkeys continue to jump on the bed and one by one fall off, bump their head, a call is made and the same "medical advice" is given.

Where to begin?  Um, how come this mother isn't being taken away and the monkeys given to the CPS?  Five monkeys in one night fall and become injured.  How do we know they were jumping on the bed?  Is this a cover for some massive abuse?  And shame on the doctor.  A female monkey has just called you on five separate occasions to tell you another injury has occurred and all you can say is, "Hey tell them to stop."  Gee, thanks doctor.  Is that your medical opinion or something you looked up on www.webmd.com?  And lastly, the fantastic parenting continues when after all five have fallen, received some medical bandages on top of their heads and fallen asleep, the mother exclaims, "Thank Goodness" and goes to bed as well.  What's wrong with this picture? Um, all five monkeys might have concussions and you are just going to let them sleep it off?  No waking them up every hour?

I'm appalled.  What is my baby to learn from this?  You can keep falling but the doctor ain't helping you?  Monkey injuries aren't that serious?  Come on children books help me out here!

That Would Be Poo In My Hands

Since having a baby I can officially say I've done things I NEVER thought I would do a year ago.  For example, I sniff her butt all day. Okay, not the actual butt, but pretty close. And then once I take in the fresh unbearable smell, I find myself reporting to some imaginary friend if it's a clean or dirty diaper.  So, again let's recap: I voluntarily go looking for bad smells AND I talk to a person, who is not there.  Awesome.

Second of all, I've voluntarily touched a lot of poo.  I know that comes with the job, but the other day I think it went a little too far.  So, the little one hates to sit still while getting changed.  She'll twist and turn, and try to leap off the changing table (I know, I know, if I just let her hit the ground one time she'll finally learn...)  So, the other day I was changing her on the floor, and after wrestling her for a few minutes, I decided to let her go and run free.  So, off she went, buck naked - ready to conquer the world. (Much like how I was my freshman year in college.)  When all of the sudden while she went to pull herself up onto a TV stand I saw a nice piece of poo start to come out of her.  (Again, much like my freshman...wait a second.)  Immediately, I jumped up and in one motion, grabbed my naked child and the poo from landing on the ground. Yep, again, for those of you not fully grasping this image: I, a 34 year old college graduate, found myself holding a naked child in one arm and a handful of poo in the other.  And here's the scariest part: I didn't freak out.  I didn't even gag a little bit. Nope, you would have thought I was holding a crisp 100 dollar bill in my hand.  Had this happened to me a year ago I would have probably doused my hand in gasoline and just set it on fire.

Ah, why didn't anyone tell me that becoming a mother actually paralyzes all natural responses?  Wait did someone tell me this?  Did they call it love?  No, that's sounds stupid.