Stumbling Towards Perfect

I pull the car over to the curb so Dotter, Bean and I can view the beautiful Christmas decorations on this one particular house. It had strings of lights everywhere... and a sign posted that directed us to tune our radio to a particular station. Sure enough the lights dance and jump in time to the music. It's beyond beautiful. There wasn't a section of this home and yard that didn't have a light flashing, mesmorizing... after several quiet moments Bean perks up: "Hey! Listen! The lights match the music! That's cool!" I tell her they're supposed to. That's the point. They coordinate the lights to turn on and off in time with whatever song is on the radio. She was obviously impressed as she sat open-mouthed, watching. After a few minutes she asked, "Doesn't his arms get tired? All that plugging and unplugging? I'd get confused if it were me."

8:37pm. The night before the last day of school before Christmas Break. Jelly Bean: "Um, Mom, you need to bring me to the store." Me: [attempting to sit for the first time all day] "For...." JB: "I have to get presents for my friends." Me: "Silly child. You have no money and your mommy is smart enough to realize this." JB: "But I have to get them something because they got me something." Me: "It's almost nine o'clock at night, Bean." JB: [full of emotional teen angst] "Why do you always treat me like this? You just don't want me to have any friends!" Me: "How much are we talking here, Bean. How much money do you have budgeted for each gift and how many gifts do you need?" JB: "Well...." [look of panic crosses face as she realizes she must employ math skills] "... um, maybe, like, ten dollars for each gift." Me: "Ok. And how many gifts?" JB: &q

I brush my teeth with hot water because I believe the more the toothpaste bubbles and foams the cleaner your teeth get.

There is this wonderful website called Portable North Pole that helps Santa connect with children. Answer a few questions and a video link is sent to your email that you and your child can watch together. Cutest thing ever! And, yes, Dotter got one this weekend! She's been questionsing a lot lately (thanks to those unbelievers at school), but there was no denying Santa's existance after this video. (Santa just knew too much.) "Where's Jelly Bean's?" What? Jelly Bean needed a video, too? Crap. So I snuck back to the computer to answer a few questions.... to add to the fun I put her on the naughty list. Laughing my way back to the living room I waited for the Bean to notice her new mail notification inbetween her constant instant messaging. Finally she cooperated and, for the sake of Dotter, exclaimed with great excitement: "Mom! I got a video from Santa, too! Come watch! Come watch!" (A bit forced, I'll admit, but it drew Dotter to her si

"The PD is aware of a goose with its flipper caught in a trap. We tried unsuccessful to catch it today. It can fly at least far enough to get away. It is hanging around the beach and park area for now. Fellow Mortals will take it in if we can catch it. So until it gets tired there is nothing we can do." Yes, InterPeople, this is an actual email I just received (as-is). I am currently attempting to resist the urge to run down to the beach and take a photograph of the injured goose.

Remember, kids, that your choices today may still serve up consequences in the future. Take me, for instance. One minute I'm envisioning a quaint painted wall in my living room with three framed photos of my beautiful children under one of those cute little painted plaques that say "... all because two people fell in love ..." -- the next minute I'm doing an internet search for " all because two people had unprotected sex wall signs. "

I think schools should serve alcoholic drinks at their Christmas Programs. That way you'll be concentrating more on what you're going to order next than the fact that for the past twelve minutes you haven't understood a darn word of what those kids are mumbling into the microphone.

The actual Christmas Lists from the girls: Good Christmas Gift Ideas for Dotter 1. Bob It [ Bop It ] 2. Alarm Clock (pink one) 3. Are family to have a good Christmas 4. Workout Station 5. Baby hamstir (rill one) [ real one ] 6. Bunk bed (blue one on budum [ bottom ] and pink on top) 7. Easy back oven [ Easy Bake Oven ] 8. mini fridge 9. mini frezzer [ freezer ] 10. Bathroom in my room. 11. Squeashy brushes [ squishy hair brushes ] 12. The new barbie house!!!!! 13. American Girl Doll Book: Smart Girls Guide to Saving Money 14. Movie Board that has "ACTION" on it. 15. Zue Zue Pets (any kind) [ Zhu Zhu Pets ] 16. Barbarque chips 17. Mor mermades (the new ones) [ More Mermaids ] 18. Mind Flexs!!! 19. CD Player for Dotter. Only Dotter. 20. Karoake CDs 21. A new DS 22. New games for my DS. Jelly Bean's xmas list: *Illumina 2 sided lighted make-up mirror (Conair) * Gift card to Sally Hansen (Sally Beauty Supply) *Fantasy by Brittney Spears *Mone

Ok, Cream Colored Shawl Girl, it is time that you leave our office. I just can't handle it anymore. Stop saying "like" between every fourth word. That went out in the eighties. I've counted 78 times that you've slapped your thighs. That's annoying, too. You should probably breathe more, you know, between your incessant rambling. Although, I'm assuming your loud sighs at the end of your tragic monologues is what provides you adequate oxygen to continue. (Lucky us.) And I'm glad you finally noticed that huge green smudge over your right breast but you did not have to stand in front of my male co-worker attempting to rub it off for the last three minutes.

Tonight's performance signals the halfway mark of this season's production of Home for the Holidays: A Christmas Musical . Oh yes, InterPeople, I am in a show less than three months after giving birth. (I wasn't planning on it; the original actress bailed last minute. I rehearsed three times before we opened. Two of those rehearsals didn't count because half the people couldn't make it.) Only six more shows to go! It's sort of like Groundhog Day except only for a couple hours. We joke that we like to keep things "fresh" -- this simply means we like to "do things on stage that will hopefully cause the other actors to break character." I'm winning. I just knew my sarcastic wit and humor would come in handy! I throw things in all over the place but I am nice about it. I usually throw something at someone who isn't really part of the scene. That way they don't have to really respond... they just can't laugh. (Random things I

I love Christmas at the office. Each holiday season we receive boxes of unhealthiness in mass quantities from the various firms we work with (along with this one lone fruit basket from a company that hates us, but that's a story for another day). The expensive, name brand, top-of-the-line chocolate goes home with our boss. The generic boxes get set out on the counter in the spirit of goodwill. Today is a cheap chocolate day and we gladly welcomed a box of off-brand bite sized mint chocolate truffles. Bite sized to me means "shove the whole thing in your mouth because, hey - they're small enough to make that behavior socially acceptable." My co-worker however, defines its size more as "must take teeny tiny bites ever so slowly and methodically in an effort to make this singular piece of chocolate last as long as humanly possible." To each his own. Let's just say he's had two pieces to my seventeen. Who's the loser now, fancy eater?

Well, since no one was hospitalized after eating my cookie exchange shortbread, I figured I'd share my secret recipe: ALMOND SHORTBREAD 1 7-ounce can or roll almond paste, chilled and grated (do not use almond pie filling) 1 cup sugar 2 egg yolks 1 cup butter, at room temperature 2 1/2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9x13-inch pan; set aside. Using electric mixer, combine almond paste, sugar and butter. Beat on low until combined, then beat on high until light and fluffy. Add egg yolks, one at a time, beating until mixture is light and sugar is dissolved. Using a wooden spoon, add flour and baking powder, mix just until all ingredients are incorporated. Spoon batter into prepared pan; even out and score very shallow lones, using the back of a knife, into batter to mark size and shape desired. Back 22 to 26 minutes at 350 degrees, until shortbread is a very light golden color. Cool in pan on wire rack. If adding decoration

I found a delicious recipe for a no-fail pork roast. NO FAIL, people. That's a recipe right up my alley! I must admit I was pretty darn successful with the cookies the other night so this would surely be a walk in the culinary park! The recipe seemed simple enough. A few spices mixed together and rubbed all over the meat. Sear the meat. (Ok, that one had me wondering but it just means to put it in a frying pan and kind of cook the outside real quick. Something I could surely handle.) Toss the wad of pork into a slow cooker, add a bit of water and, according to the words printed on the recipe, "cook on high 2 hours; reduce to low heat and cook 4 to 6 hours more." On an on this recipe blabbered about how soft and tender and juicy this thing was guaranteed to be. At 11:30pm I closed the lid on the meat and sat down with Cletus to begin his nightly "let's see how many hours I can cry, fuss and fidget" routine. I set my mental alarm for two hours later when I

Fine. I'll admit it. I've never seen A Charlie Brown Christmas . I won't do it. I don't want to. The song annoys me and the beginning is so darn depressing it leaves me with no choice but to change the channel. I don't want to watch the gang booing Charlie Brown when they learn he's their new director. I don't want to sit through a half hour of Chuck looking sad and depressed and feeling like a complete social outcast. That doesn't exactly scream "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas!" to me It's more like "help yourself to whatever is under the sink; I'll heat up the oven."

My car died Saturday. Well, not really. It didn't die all the way, but it will soon. Kind of like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail : "I'm not dead..." "What? He says he's not dead." "Well, he will be soon." Like I told the guy at the garage, "The headlight is out, and it spastically jerks about if the needle gets near the number two in that little RPM dial thingy." As if that's not enough, the steering went out in Big V's new-to-him truck. We were in the driveway getting ready to return a video. "Wow, that squeak is really loud. What is that? Is that a belt?" "I think it's the rotars." "The brake rotars? But we're not moving. Do they make noise if we're not moving? Are you sure that it's not a belt?" "No, I'm pretty sure it's the brakes." So, V, who knows absolutely nothing about mechanical things, hops back out of the truck, lifts the h

When I am already at the office and you hear me comment that my pants seem just a tad too short the correct response is, "Not at all - they look great; all the sheek New York moms wear their pants that length." It is most definately not, "Well, once you lose weight they'll fit nicer. The fabric won't have to stretch around your butt as far."

I forgot my cookies. You know, the ones I exchanged for. The ones I was supposed to take home to my family and enjoy. Yeah, those ones.

I was invited to a cookie exchange tonight. Since I don’t bake, I’m sure you understand the heart palpitations caused by the mere mention of something as scary as this. I am being asked not only to bake a holiday treat that can be packaged in quantities of twelve, but I must do this with the understanding that several people will bring my packages of baked goodness home, where their loved ones will actually attempt to eat them. This can not end good, people. I found a recipe that looked easy enough called Almond Shortbread. I’m a big fan of Walker’s Shortbread and an even bigger fan of almond paste. Call me crazy, but I think this is a winning combination. Although I was tempted to simply spread the paste straight on to an existing Walker, in the spirit of Christmas I figured I’d at least try the recipe. It seemed easy enough: throw a bunch of ingredients together, mix it up and toss it in the oven. After the “light golden brown” was adequately acquired I removed the pan from the ove

Oy Vay! (Oy Vey!) 1: Used when frustrated. 2: Used when anoyed by other people fighting or arguing and it becomes a big mess. I organized a surprise 30th birthday party for Big V this past Wednesday. Like an uber-insecure psycho girlfriend I ganked his phone while he was in the shower and wrote down as many names and numbers as I could. (This took several times, since he has 300 contacts but only takes five minute showers.) Awkwardly, I called each one of his friends and invited them to the big shindig. I thought maybe, just maybe, if we were lucky, we'd have close to twenty people in attendance. We had over forty! Trust me when I say it was AWESOME to see V's expression when he saw so many of his friends there to help him celebrate. He's one of those guys who has friends of all types and in all different circles, so it was an excellent, if not eclectic, mix of personalities. Later, V's mom would find out he had a wonderful surprise party with his friends. To th

Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. What have I done? Tonight I have planned a surprise birthday gathering for Big V. Let the anxieties begin: Will there be enough people? Will there not be enough people? Will the food be okay? Will there be enough food? What if there's not enough food? Will people drink too much? I don't need a bar fight... Will they think the location is lame? Should I explain this is the bar that sponsers his plethora of sports leagues throughout the year? Will the cake be there? Why did I even let that lady talk me into getting a cake? We don't eat cake. V rarely eats cake. He won't care if there's a cake. What if no one eats the cake and we're forced to take the darn thing home? What if I can't get my hair done? What if I look frumpy? I feel incredibly frumpy lately. What if I get really tired? I'm sleep deprived, you know. It's not going to look cool if I'm yawning in the corner. Why am I spending money on

Voicemail message to me from the Bean: "Hi, this is your daughter. Uh, I just wanted to call you and remind you to get toilet paper because, uh, I just urinated and there is no toilet paper so I had to wipe my butt with cotton balls. Yeah. So, uh, please pick up some toilet paper. Thank you."

This morning, the lady at Starbucks kindof, sortof recognized me! I can feel it... in no time at all I will officially become a "Regular." Being kindof, sortof recognized made my morning trip to the office just THAT much better! I've always wanted to be a Regular. To be known as "you know... the lady that comes in and..." ever since I worked at the bank right out of highschool. Of course, it was easy to figure out the names, but we still referred to our fondest customers in terms like "the lady with the smelly money" and "the guy who insists on signing in red" and "the idiot who is always waiting in the parking lot on Saturday morning before we open." Then I got a job at Subway. There was "double meat cold cut combo" guy and "the chick who has to have her sub cut in thirds," not to mention "the Tuesday lady that pays in silver dollars." The problem has always been that although I am a creature of habit

I got dressed in the dark today. Not really. The light was on. In fact, it was an annoyingly bright light. But it was 5:30 in the morning. And it makes me feel better if I say it was dark. Honestly, I thought I looked good at the time. But now, my black pants with brown shoes just really ain't cutting it. What the hell was I thinking? And now, I'm leaving work to go to not one, but TWO doctor's appointments. There is no time to stop at home and switch shoes. Oh, no. I am about to feel the natural consequences of my decision. I shall be forced to get out of my car, walk across the parking lot, into the clinic, ride the elevator and wait in the waiting room for everyone to see... not once, but twice. At two different clinics. Am I worried about infectious diseases? Am I scared I'll succumb to the horrors of the dreaded swine flu? Heck no! I'm terrified of "the look." You know, that one the pretty, put together mom gives that says, "Oh, that's too b

It's official. I have re-entered the workforce after my lovely (if not extremely painful) Maternity Leave. Let me tell you, c-sections are NOT for the faint of heart. It wouldn't have been too bad if I could have gone without the raging infection and incredible acid-like rash covering the majority of my body. Weeks of intense antibiotics later I'm work ready. I came back to the office expecting complete mass chaos. Nothing of the sort. It's relatively painless. (Although I am comparing to the weeks of hell I endured recently... anything was better than that.) I did, however, walk into what has been defined as a "Spending Freeze." Budgets are a funny thing: they only work on paper... unless the people in charge are determined to actually follow it. Trust me, I know this because I use budgets in my personal life. If I budget $172 for groceries I must remain disciplined to not exceed $172 in order for the budget to work. If I spend, oh, let's say $514 I may f

It's been a while, I know. I haven't been feeling well. In fact, I've been feeling pretty much like I was beaten down with a dozen baseball bats. Surgery will do that to you, or so I've been told. As if being sawed in half wasn't enough my body has decided to welcome infection, to which my immune system bravely announced, "I SHALL FIGHT IT!" except it isn't doing a very good job at it, which is why, five weeks post surgery, I'm popping prescription pills like they're Skittles. I'm not exactly warm & fuzzy when I feel like crap, so imagine how unbelievably thrilled I was when V told me just moments ago that he "has kind of a problem." Ok... "and I don't want to fight about it." Oh boy. This means only one thing: His mother is unleashed. Sure enough, tomorrow at 4pm she has an appointment at Sears to get family pictures taken. Now, you might be thinking that if you were wanting a picture of your entire fanmily you

Ok, so I've got issues with kids not giving me my much needed (and much deserved, I might add) Daily Quiet Time. The Bean has attitude that you wouldn't believe... she makes sure to tell me on a daily basis how rediculous I am, how unappreciated I am, and how the world, well, her world, would be much better off without me... and yet night after night I find myself held hostage by her noise and clatter. In and out of the kitchen, stomping down the hall, slamming doors, random talking to whoever or whatever she sees/hears as she wanders aimlessly (yet etirely pissed off) around the house. Whatever happened to the moody teenager keeping themselves holed up in the privacy of their own room? Is it too much to ask that by 9:30pm the Bean creep into her room, close the door, and not open it until morning? I don't care what she does in her room.... do her nails, pick out her clothes for the next day, write journal entries how she wishes I was dead. Doesn't matter... as long as

Welcome to Vent Time, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is time for me to blow off steam. Using my current hormonal imbalance due to recent pregnancy/delivery, I'm going to be quite blunt. Therefore, it is with very little reservation that I say this: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE THE MONEY, DO NOT SPEND IT. Don't come to me complaining about how little money you have if every day you are going out to eat not once, but twice. I've been there... I ate noodles. Generic egg noodles. Mixed with generic cream of chicken soup for added flavor. I splurged on a bottle of seasoning salt that had hot sauce mixed in to kick things up a notch. I ate that every single day. We also had no television. None. I was a single mom who was poor, and I had no tv and I ate noodles. I am unable to sympathize for how financially strapped you are when you eat better than I do. Don't come to me complaining about how little money you have, how you have to get your food from the local food pantry, when this next weeke

It's about time to do something (read: anything ) with my hair. My paranoid self refused to color my hair the entire time I was pregnant, so I've got this lovely grey spattering going on. I also was worried a pedicure would bring on early labor, so I went the entire summer without. The bottoms of my feet are so rough I could probably pimp myself out to sand some wood floors just by walking around on them. I didn't tan all summer either. (I know, I know: bad for you. But it's just so relaxing...) And, since the major items were being ignored, I allowed the minor items to be ignored as well. A manicure would be nice. A massage. A facial. Eyebrow wax. Maybe some teeth whitening while we're at it. Geesh, if I actually had the money I could leave for the day, come back, and V would have no idea who I was. Not a bad plan, now that I think of it. Perhaps an appointment shall be made.

It's no secret that V's P's don't think highly of me. Actually, it's his mom and sister (his dad is pretty silent when it comes to voicing an opinion of me). The good news is that his mother treats most everyone she meets the way she treats me: highly judgmental, and not afraid to criticize pretty much anything she sees. I've never heard a true compliment coming out of her mouth for as long as I've known her. She treats V worse than she treats me, but he's used to it, I guess. I, however, am not. And so it is with great reservation that I must let go of my newborn son and somehow be okay with him visiting Grandma Nothing's Ever Good Enough. I figure the best way to do this is have V take the baby while I spend some quality me time at a really great day spa. One that provides unlimited glasses of a chilled German Riesling along with my pedicure and massage. Now, if I require V to foot the bill perhaps the visits will be limited due to financial constr

Is it selfish of me to wish to stay in this protective baby bubble of mine? I want to quit everything and just breathe in the smell of his skin. I don't need food, or adult conversation, or trips out of doors. I just want to stay in this peaceful place forever!

Who knew I would be so in love with this baby boy of mine! Yes, I knew I would love him... what I wasn't prepared for is that I LOVE him. I am head over heals in love with this little guy. Maybe it's because I'm older. Maybe because I have Big V to share him with. Maybe because I got a taste of what it might be like if things didn't work out ok. One minute V and I are chilling out, debating how long the delivery would be, the next minute the door to our room swings open and five people we've never seen before are very purposefully moving about, taking supplies out of cabinets and drawers, injecting something in my IV, mumbling to each other while pointing at the monitor... and my doctor walks in and announces, "Ok, well, I guess baby doesn't like what we're doing here so we're going to have to go the C-Section route..." In less than five minutes I was being wheeled away from Big V and towards a sterile operating room, trying to make sense of th

A c-section can be painful. The doctors will prescribe wonderful pain medication too fake yourself into feeling half-way alive. These drugs will make you constipated. If you've never really experienced true constipation you will think, "this doesn't sound bad at all" and you will happily take your drugs which lull you to sleep. You will convince yourself "this isn't bad at all...." and then you will essentially pass out while your significant other tends to the baby. Eventually, however, your body will expel all things held in the depths of your bowels for the past seven days. This will not be pretty. You will curse life as you know it while trying to figure out what to grab on to while you sit on the toilet sweating profusely. You will think "just breathe through this and everything will be okay..." Twenty minutes later, while rocking back and forth, you will be pleading with God, "please just let me live through this..." Sweat will

My Official Hatch Date is in 7 days. And yet, here I am. Womb bulging. I shouldn't really complain. It's not like we're "ready" in the sense of all those normal couples out there awaiting the birth of their child. Except for the crib one wouldn't even realize we were expecting a baby to enter the home any time soon. Part of it is because it's a lot to get ready and part of it is my expectation that the dog will eat everything anyway. Seriously, the dog is out of control. In the last couple weeks it has destroyed two pairs of flip-flops (that were on a shelf), tore a sweatshirt to shreds (that was hanging up in a closet), ate a piece of trim and effectively removed a wooden extension gate that was blocking its access of a pass-thru window (from sun room to kitchen via the counter top). It's also picked up a nasty habit of barking and whining throughout the night and vomitting throughout the day...regardless of floor covering. I'll be lucky if the ch

I've been struggling trying to come up with an idea of what to write about. I don't want to write another blog about being pregnant, or waiting to have the baby, or all the current physical discomforts I'm experiencing. It gets old and that's boring. Who wants to hear about squished bladders and acid reflux? I could write about work, but that would just be yet another example of how the micromanager control freak is bottlenecking 80% of our projects because they're all sitting on her desk waiting for her approval. Then I'd have to launch into yet another rant about "why retain employees that you obviously don't trust can do the work you hired them for." The Big V is working hard in a wild attempt to have every scheduled job finished by the time I go into labor... except he keeps scheduling more and more jobs, and I don't think I can hold off pushing until November. (I'm due in ten days. I'll do what I can, but there are no promises.) Sa

I was going to sit and reminisce about the self-induced food coma I managed to achieve in two days at the local county fair - brought on by such healthy things like elephant ears, deep fried cheddar nuggets, and this glorious bbq pork sandwich on garlic bread of all things! - but, technically, the holiday weekend is over and I should now snap back to reality. Reality actually hit me in the form of an automated Emergency Notification Call from the local highschool. I thought the concept was brilliant. You give the school your phone number and in the event of an emergency an automated message is recorded at the school, then sent to everyone's phone so they all have the same information at the same time. I provided my cell number so I would be immediately notified if there was a bomb threat, or school fire, or a water main break forced the closing of the school. You know, in case of an emergency . Riding home from the fair last night I checked my phone... and there's a number I di

Today Facebook is inundated with cute little status updates describing the First Day of School... complete with pictures of toothless children, kids whose backpacks are bigger than they are, school busses pulling out their flashing red stop signs. Comments about mothers tearing up as they watched their little one climbing those big bus steps. Updates about how lonely and sad and bored mommy is now that junior is off at school for the entire day! Yeah, not so much mine. Getting both girls to school was a treat for me. It wasn't always. I mean, there was a time when I got choked up thinking how fast they were growing, how I wish I could just hold them in my lap forever. But then they learned how to do this thing called Sibling Rivalry, and now I just want them seperated as far as possible in the hopes for some well-deserved peace and quiet. Jelly Bean regularly works herself up in a tither (mostly because she doesn't want to listen) and then completely freaks out. Like, complete

No Ultrasound For You! V and I went to the doc's. Talk about excited! Big V talked nothing BUT having a chance to see the baby "one more time." (I know that he's been secretly researching how to read ultrasounds to determine the sex of the baby but he was trying to play it off like he just wanted to make sure the kidneys and liver were forming properly.) We get there, I pee in the cup, hop up on the table draped in an oversized paper towel -- and then we're told we're free to go. WOAH! Hold on there a minute, Missy! Last week you promised us an ultrasound. That is the only reason we came back. But that was only because we wanted to verify the positioning but it's obvious from the let me put my hands all over you test that baby has dropped into the proper heads down position so it's no longer necessary. That was the biggest let down we've had in a long time. To make matters worse the doc went on and on with her opinion that, yep, for certain I woul

I sent V a text letting him know we had another doctor's appointment this afternoon. It's a fun one because they'll do an ultrasound. I've been nervous because with my other pregnancies I underwent a plethora of ultrasounds, to the point I'd just hop on the table, lube up, and expertly swirl the magic wand around myself. This doctor is a minimalist: we had the initial "yep, it's a blob!" and the 20-week "So, do you want to find out the sex?" ultrasounds, but then absolutely nothing for the next four months. Now I'm nervous. What if something is wrong and they should have told us three months ago? V, of course, oozes optimism. On more than one occasion I've accused him of living in a Fairy Land where nothing ever goes wrong, nobody ever gets hurt, and nothing bad ever happens to anyone. So, when I sent him the confirmation text I shouldn't have been surprised when I received: Sweet! I can see our baby and his or her heart and head

If ever I become unexpectantly unemployed, I know I shall have success as a Bank Robber Planner. I don't actually know if I could get paid for that, probably only with stolen money, which would eventually be tracked back to me and cause great hassles for me and my family, but if need be, the skill is there. I don't actually want to commit the crime itself, per se, just plan it out. Big V and I are becoming very skilled in the Art of Avoidance as well as Pondering All Possibilities. We are currently undergoing intense reviews in regards to "The Labor." The Labor will be soon. Whether tonight or a few weeks from now, it's bound to happen, and we need to be ready. I have the easy-going family. The "who cares if you lose an eye; you've got another one" type. I could show up at my parent's house a month after I had the baby and they'd be like Oh, Look! You had the baby! There is no threat or worry that they would disown me. Now, V's

The Forced Couples Baby Shower was not as bad as it could have been. A bit odd that V's mother insisted she had no idea who was invited, yet when people started filing in it was very apparent she had supplied a list of names and addresses to her friends. I must admit to feeling incredibly uncomfortable as V and I were handed gifts by people we were just meeting. To be fair, they seemed just as uncomfortable handing gifts to people they were just meeting. A few odd comments here and there from V's mother and sister. I was being introduced to one lady standing next to V's mom when Mommy Dearest turned and announced, "This is only the second time I've seen her since she became pregnant." Now, this is a flat out lie, but I suppose you don't get quite the dramatic and pained response from, "I've made their life a living hell upon learning they were expecting, and she finally stopped coming around two months ago when she realized I will never let up..

With only three hours to go, it doesn't look like I'll make it to "intense labor mode" by 5pm. What's in three hours, you ask? Well, that would be the forced couples baby shower V and I will be racing to attend. His family insists on hosting a shower. Sounds easy enough. Wrecked with drama, it is. V just called... he had stopped by his parent's house and his mom asked if we were planning on going to the shower tonight. (Um, yeah... it is for us, right?) That led to a discussion about who was invited. V said he didn't know; the guest list was taken over by the aunts. V told me he's a little nervous about who they may have invited. With my luck it will be all his ex-girlfriends. What's odd about this is that we never wanted a shower in the first place. We have everything we need, except for diapers & baby wipes, but we were told (many times) that it was selfish to deny V's mom this opportunity to throw us a shower. And yet she doesn't see

30 days to the due date. I'm actually finding myself quite nervous. I can't make it up a flight of stairs without getting completely out of breath; how on earth will I survive hours of labor? At this point I think I have a better chance of pushing my car up a hill with one hand. Pushing something the size of a watermelon out my yoo-hoo, which, for the record, is the size of a grape.... Ok, I actually don't know if that's accurate, but it's got to be close. Anyway, you get my point. The car would be easier. We had an appointment Tuesday. Time for some fun! Pee in the cup, get weighed, measure the abdomen, have something scraped against my rectum, blood pres --- Wait, scrape WHERE?! Yeah, something else they never tell you about. But I survived. Since I have this odd little habit of getting dizzy, seeing floaters, blacking out and vomitting all over myself, etc., the doc decided to hook me up to a monitor. They took V and I to this darkened room with the largest, comf

One of my professional duties is issuing notices of violation and citations when property owners are not following our zoning codes. (Think of a police officer busting a speeder... except I don't get the cool bullet proof vest, tazer, or car with lights & sirens.) I don't expect people to like me, much less thank me, for doing my job, because it usually means they were doing something they very much wanted to do that I made them stop doing. And people don't generally want to thank me for that. But every once in a while a "thank you" comes through to me. Here's one I received this afternoon from a gentleman that complied with stopping and fixing a non-compliant situation: I do want to thank you for taking the time to note the "end to the matter." These have not been easy solutions for me or to my needs. Losing the many thousands of dollars on the mobile home, does not hurt as much as I will not be able to use my farm until I get a caretaker to liv

As a parent you never know what impact television viewing will have on your children. I jump up to change channels when the preview of a scary movie comes on because frankly, I don't want to deal with nightmares and such. Dotter, especially, tends to worry and be leaning towards the extremo anxiety side of life. So when Dotter informed me she watched a show about 16-year old Minnesota conjoined twins Brittany & Abby I immediately thought, "Great! Here it comes... a thousand questions, tons of 'what if's', she's going to be a nervous wreck until this baby is born..." But (as often the case with children) she surprised me wishing upon wishing that I would give birth to conjoined twins. "Wouldn't it be great to never feel alone?" she asked. "They wouldn't be afraid when they went to sleep, and they could just always have a friend with them." "What if one wanted to watch one TV show, and the other wanted to watch something

I have always been impressed with gymnasts. Perhaps because I'm the least flexible person alive. I've never been able to do that bend & reach test in gym class. My legs don't even lay flat against the ground. It would take every ounce of my being just to reach down to my thighs. I'd be left grunting and groaning, begging myself to 'just. reach. knee....' while surrounded by the most flexible humans on the face of the planet. "Good job, Mary Sue!" the teacher would praise. "I love how you can get your head under you legs and reach out three feet past your toes!" Jelly Bean took gymnastics for quite a while. All the coaches said the same thing "she's a natural." And she was. Is. She just has this way about her that screams "gymnast." But, as is most things with the Bean, she judges herself against everyone better than her, and quits. I'd point out she was only ten and these girls were 16 and their mothers put the

Dear School Board Chairperson, Thank you for the five minute "entry interview" conducted last evening. I do hope that was plenty of time for you to decide whether or not my second grader will experience the honor and privilege of attending your school. Oh, wait... it's not actually your school, per se, you just happen to be the current school board chairperson. Well, I'm sure those other members who glanced nervously at the ground while you conducted the "interview" also believe you are the sole person in charge. I was just tickled pink when you brought up the fact that I was unmarried. It's sometimes difficult for me to impress upon my daughter, who was sitting right next to me - you remember her, don't you? Nervous looking 7-year old... the one blushing, who couldn't quite look in your eyes... yes, that was her -- anyway, it's sometimes difficult for me to impress upon my daughter how socially shamed she should feel because her mother chose

Cletus the Fetus has a new trick. I swear I'm not making this up. Big V was there. He saw the whole thing. After a particularly harsh day of Ultimate Womb Fighting I was laying in bed attempting to relax my uterus, which was working as well as if you had been beaten in the abdomen with a metal bat and then expected to gently release the pain through visions of kittens and bunny rabbits, which is saying, it wasn't working at all and I was in a lot of pain and wanted to ensure that everyone knew how misearable I was. Anyway, V, in his infinite pregnancy wisdom, leans towards me and makes the comment (while SMIRKING no less): "How can the baby just moving hurt you?" At that exact moment Cletus the Fetus actually stood upright in my womb, extended his little arm and gave his father the finger right before completing a back layout with a twist. In stellar response mode V jumped completely off the bed, back stuck against the wall, eyes as big as saucers and yells, yes, y

So with all the trouble I've been having trying to stay upright and alert in my impregnated condition, I've been told to relax, try to take it easy, and not get stressed out. Last night I attempted to watch television while holding on to the right side of my bulging middle section and fighting back tears, convinced someone had shoved an invisible machete into my womb. Big V tried to get my mind off the excruciating pain by asking the world's stupidest questions of all time: "How do you feel?" "Are you ok?" "Do you want anything to eat?" When that wasn't proving to be effective he tried placating me by tuning the television to the Duggar Family show. Have you seen this? Smiling, pleasant, well-spoken mother of 18. Yes, EIGHTEEN! And she birthed every single one of them. And never has a negative word to say about anything, much less the blessing of pregnancy. This particular episode focused on the "Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth.&q

It's not everyone that can say they've completely blacked out in a church and vomitted all over themselves, resulting in being carried out of the church on a stretcher. But now I can say it! Been there, done that, people. What's next on my list? Ok, ok, so you want details.... geesh, don't get so antsy. Alright. At 33 weeks pregnant it's hard to find a nice dress suitable for a funeral, but I found one. A lovely black v-neck with a low key dark red design that just covered my knees. Threw on my black heels a second before I got out of the car and I was the epitome of "classy pregnant woman attends memorial." A few psalms, a few prayers, a few up and down moments and I was feeling the effect of lack of air conditioning. However, not wanting to draw attention to myself I decided that I should simply sit down and not attempt the long 'standing wait & walk through' of countless pews of communion. A few minutes later I tugged on V's shirt

If I wasn't so damn scared of getting caught I'd run outside and snap a picture right now. But I don't think I could explain straight-faced, "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your privacy - just thought this would make an excellent post!" Some Grandma is walking a toddler outside our office. As in, the kid is strapped in one of those harness things that dogs wear except it's been cutesified to look like a monkey with the world's longest tail is hanging on to this kid's back. Grandma is seemingly bored following the monkey around (can you blame her? She's walking up and down sidewalks holding a tail), but compensates by puffing on the cigarette she has drooping from the corner of her mouth. If she isn't careful ash will burn monkey's tail. Who am I kidding? It probably has scorched the fur multiple times by now. Anyway, Smokin' Granny isn't exactly paying attention to the toddler on the other end of the monkey... which is why I'm

I'm not a big fan of those on-line quizzes... you know, the kind reminiscent to the back-in-the-day Teen Magazine quiz where you answered ten vague questions and they told you what kind of kisser you were. This during the time the most passionate kiss I ever experienced was with my wrist. I guess I just don't buy into the fact that a ten question on-line quiz can tell me how many children I'll have, what house I should live in, or which part of the country I'm best suited. At this point in my life I think I know what I want. (Now, how I get there is an entirely different story.) Alas, I was suckered into taking a quiz... a handwriting quiz. You write some simple words down and disect away: open letters versus closed letters, slanting to the left or right or standing straight up and down, tails of letters short and chopped off or long and lingering... this is my type of quiz! This is what I learned about myself after my ten word sampling: You tend to be logical and pract

Satan ate our wall. Satan being the dog. V's dog. Not mine. I would not tolerate a dog like this. It is, undeniably, the most destructive dog on the face of the planet. There is nothing off limits to the dog. There is nothing the dog won't try to destroy. The house and everything in it and around it seems to belong to the dog. We just happen to live amongst its belongings. I'm actually surprised I haven't woken up to the dog gnawing its way through my tibia. The dog existed with V before I met him. Just as my girls existed with me before I met V. It seems only fair, as pointed out by V, that since I can keep the kids he can keep the dog. I've pointed out that the kids haven't peed on the carpet, or puked on the floor, or eaten my most favorite pair of heels, or chewed through three couches (yes, three). V pointed out that they do mess up the bathroom with their make-up and hair ties and wet towels on the floor. I pointed out that I can make them clean it up, whe

It's almost 9:30 in the morning... can I call it quits? This job is getting to me. My pregnancy seems to be taking any patience I may have had and is using it for some other valid reason I'm sure. I've been here for an hour and all I've heard is whining. I wish there was a clause in my contract that allowed me to say, "Look, not only are you an adult, but you're actually considered a professional adult. Professional adults don't whine." I can't help but be brought back to when I was a whiney 9-year old with my mother standing over me saying, "You can stand here and complain for twenty minutes, or you can get started on this and be done in twenty minutes - either way it still needs to be done." In a few minutes I will be sending out my third eMail describing the same requirements to the same self-entitled person. * sigh * Really I'm nothing more than a babysitter for really big babies who get paid way more than me.

V and I had yet another baby appointment yesterday. It was scheduled for 3:45 and I think we waiting about an hour. Lovely time, this waiting. We had a loud-talker who insisted on conversing with her friend via her cell phone. We were all suddenly invited into her world where Shaina is going to get her ass kicked the second she gets out of jail, 'cuz she don't play that! Also, we're now very concerned because no one knows where Katie is - she might be in jail, too, but her brother isn't saying nothing. Then came two teen-looking girls, each pushing a stroller containing a toddler along with two very active boys running circles around them. While Teen-Looking Mom #1 pushed her stroller up and down the hallways, Teen-Looking Mom #2 had her blood drawn. This left the second baby stroller (with the toddler still in it) pushed next to the water fountain with the poor child staring at the wall. While toddler was nervous and whimpered quite a bit, there never was a full out wa