Auld lang syne


RRRRRRRRRRRR (tornado siren)
Me: Oh, the mailman is out there. I'm going to ask him if he wants to come in until the storm is over.
Nick: That sounds like the beginning of a porno.
Me: How would you know?
Nick: Research. Lots and lots of research.
Me: What were you researching?
Nick: Interesting scenarios of how I might find myself in a porno.
Me: Did it work out?
Nick: No. Turns out if you show up at someone's house to fix their plumbing and make a couple of sexually charged comments they usually call the police.
Me: Let's just go to the basement.

In what might have been the best Christmas present ever known to man, Nick's brother and sister gave us a date night last night. She babysat while he acted as chauffeur.

And it was glorious.

This morning was not so glorious.

And I know what you're thinking.

"Geez - all she does is talk about how much she drinks and her horrible hangovers and poopy diapers"

Well, ok. I have nothing to say to that.

To add insult to injury I had a dentist appointment this morning. And I came to realize mid-scrape while I was told that I have three cavities and the beginnings of some gum disease thing that will require a deep cleaning so horrific that I'll have to have someone punch me in the face to knock me out for it that there is no hell greater than someone scraping your teeth with a hangover.

Wait, there is one thing worse. Getting your teeth scraped with a hangover and a tornado warning outside.

And I woke up this morning with some sort of stye in my eye.

I can smell a New Year's resolution somewhere in all of this.

Second born

A lot of people have asked about what was going on with Lila in this pic from my 'Tis the Season video.

Well, in case you were wondering, it was taken about a millisecond after the napper she was hanging in broke and started crashing down to the ground. Luckily her fall was broken by a pile of diapers underneath it. Don't worry - they were clean.


And then we have this gem from when we went to see Santa. Lila was cool but her face told us she's about had it with this dude.

She truly is the girl with 1000 expressions.

Unfortunately her life so far has been such that 998 of them are her looking really freaked out.

Such is the life of the second born.

The Painin'


There is a point in the night that everyone who has ever overindulged on alcohol is very, very familiar with.

It's the point at which you go from being blissfully buzzed, best dancer ever, in fact I think I might quit my job and go on tour because no one my age has moves this raw to a blubbering, incoherent, oh god what did I just give birth to in the toilet I think it just started clucking, raccoon-eyed homeless woman barely capable of brushing her own teeth.

This entire transformation takes less than a millisecond and only happens while you're fast asleep. Sort of like a magical visit from Santa Claus on a crisp winter's night.

Except instead of a fluffy white beard he has a greasy salt and pepper molester moustache, and instead of a hearty "ho ho ho" he makes a noise that's a cross between an alarm clock and a dentist's drill (sorry Vicki but no matter how much you try to glamorize your job getting your teeth scraped sucks) and instead of a bag of shiny new toys he has a pillow case filled with bars of soap that he uses to flog you over and over and over in the head.

In some sort of mystery that baffles even the most respected scientists, babies have an uncanny ability to pinpoint this exact millisecond and begin screaming their balls off loud enough to make sure everyone in the house wakes up to celebrate the momentous occasion.

Last night I met my friends Jamie and Elizabeth out for a nice laid back sushi dinner, which turned into martinis, which turned into after dinner drinks at a bar with people half my age on college Christmas break stumbling around looking for something to take home or at the very least rub up against.

It was all fun and games until on our way out I promised Elizabeth I would meet her this morning for a Turbo Kick class. Also known as Oh God Please Please Please Just Kill Me Send An Air Bubble Into My Artery Or Throw A Blood Clot At My Brain And Just Make It Really Quick And Painless Please God class.

And of course like clockwork Lila sprung to life at 4:22am to celebrate The Point.

And of course when I got to the Turbo Kill Me Class Elizabeth was waiting for me in the front row.


Close enough to the mirror that I could fog it up with my heavy martini breathing and when I got to jumping really fast I actually knocked it with my meat apron.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go throw some corn into the toilet. That clucking thing is still in there and I think it's hungry.

Dance monkey dance


Wow - it seems like only yesterday that I was a lost little lamb, fumbling my way through my newfound job at stay-at-home momdom, staring out the window mentally willing Nick's car to pull into the driveway as I self-medicated with a stack of pancakes and a bottle of Old Crow.

Wait, that WAS yesterday.

But it's hard to believe that as of today I've officially been doing this job for a whole year.

Really? Has it only been a year? Seems more like two. Ten.

Career highlights of my job as full-time Mom include:

-Mastering the art of macaroni and cheese (tip: dump the water BEFORE adding the powdery stuff... you're welcome)
-That one time I cleaned the bathroom. Thought about cleaning the bathroom.
-Cultivating positive and mutually beneficial working relationships with the voices in my head

As 2010 draws to a close I can't help but to reflect on the past year, a majority of which included me ignoring Nick's pleas to stop airing my dirty laundry on this blog. But I can't tell you how awesome it's been to have connected with so many other people out there who like pancakes and Old Crow as much as I do.

I spent some time perusing through some past posts and reminiscing about old times spent debating the pros and cons of electing to do a c-section vs. pushing Lila out of my business, the rude and awkward comments made to me as my belly overtook the world, exploring my rib cage through the crack in my nipple... good times.

And it got me to wondering... what's YOUR favorite post? I installed a 'Like' button to appear at the bottom of each story a couple of months ago so I can get some sort of a gauge of what direction you want this monkey to dance but maybe there's an older post that you really enjoyed?

I would love for you to comment on this post and let me know which has been your favorite. I'll take nominations until some time early next week when people stop commenting and then I'll make a little poll like I did with the nose ring.

If you don't remember the specific title of the post you can just tell me what it was about. And you'll have to be more specific than "baby drowning in explosive poop", "old balls" or "wine". That would just about cover the whole thing.

Welcome to Pottersville: Population me

Yesterday was a long day filled with many screaming children (well, ok, technically just two but it seemed like many more) so when Nick got home I told him I needed to tap out and spend some time alone at Target.

I needed to get a lamp shade, notebook, baby wipes and vodka. Before you go getting all judgey-judgey the baby wipes weren't even for me.

Anyhoo, I stepped out of my car in the parking lot and heard the woman next to me yelling "I ain't EVEN done yet! I ain't EVEN done yet!" over and over to her son as she opened the back door and pointed for him to get in.

Stuff like this is like fingernails down a chalkboard to me. I mean, TURKEYS are done - PEOPLE are finished. Doesn't she know anything about grammar? And don't even get me started on ain't.

But I resisted the urge to correct her because she looked very preoccupied with slinging verbal insults at her poor son.

Then a few cars up I saw a woman putting her younger baby in the back seat of her mini van as she yelled to the older girl standing on the other side "NOW DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOVING! YOU KEEP YOUR ASS RIGHT THERE!


Finally, the cherry on this sundae of festive holiday cheer was as I was walking inside and there was a typical teenage boy (hood, dirt lip - you know the type) standing there with his head down as his father yelled "... WELL THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU. THIS IS ABOUT MOM. AND YOU NEED TO STOP BEING A LITTLE PRICK..."

Well then. Fa la fucking la.

I don't have any more specific examples but all throughout the store it felt like I had been transported to Pottersville. I tried to stay oblivious to the negativity as I floated on a billowy cloud of childless bliss, lingering in aisles I don't even get to go into any more like the deodorant.

But there were people huffing here, shoving ahead there - am I the only one noticing this?

On a lighter note, I saw a guy drop a piano on his foot yesterday. Wow, that was a pun and a sort of relative oxymoron all wrapped up into one nice little package.

Anyhoo, it was sort of my fault. I was walking out of a strip mall craft store, Ellie in one arm, Lila in her heavy ass car seat in the other, and he was moving a piano into the business next door. Of course man moving piano has the right of way so I stepped aside and let him go first up the little walk way. It was freezing so once he was up I squeezed in behind him and he sort of turned to look at me and lost his footing and down it came.

I thought stuff like that only happened in cartoons.

What's the proper etiquette when you may or may not be partially responsible for someone dropping a piano on their foot and you're holding two heavy ass kids in the freezing cold?

If you said put your head down and ignore his screams as you make a break for your car, then I hit it spot on.

Over and out.



Perhaps the most interesting thing about this abomination called dinner is that it actually smells edible.

Next time I'll work on mastering at least two of the five senses.

The Nightmare Before Christmas

'Twas the week before Christmas
And as generations of past
We took the kids to see Santa
With a line out the ass

It was nearing their bedtimes
When children are mopiest
To get through this hell
Mommy popped a few opiates

The doubt rambled 'round
So loud in my brain
Please tell me why
We're doing this again?

My hand stealth in Nick's pockets
I snuck out his cash
"Welp... smell ya later!"
I said with a dash

Ellie's curiosity piqued
At faint screams from afar
Mom was curious herself
Why Dad smelled of a bar

Merchants taking advantage
Of us captive in line
No I don't want to try your god damned hair straightener
For the millionth time

Like a thug on death row
Her number was up
The kicking and flailing
I prayed Santa packed a cup

His teeth told a tale
Of countless menthols
His suit smelled of Old Spice
His beard of old balls

Upon meeting his gaze
Ellie cried "KILL IT WITH FIRE!"
Decapitate this demon
With knives and barbed wire

Arms flailing so crazy
Her trust was forsaken
But her hair a nice mix
Of a pilgrim and Kevin Bacon

So here's the picture
Kids with possible molester
Ellie screaming her balls off
Lila channeling a most regal Uncle Fester

We drove off into night
Horrible parents so mean
Ellie whispered "Payback's a bitch, you jerks
When I'm pregnant at sixteen"

Sweet Baby Jesus

In her first lesson about gender equality Lila is going to play baby Jesus in our church pageant this Friday. Don't worry - now that you know we go to church I'm not going to go and get all preachy and judgemental on you.

First of all, it's been so long since we've actually been to church that it would be totally hypocritical if I did. Second, if you want to perish in the pit of despair while being licked by flames from Satan's tongue, well, my sinner friend, be my guest.

Just joking. Except that part about Satan's tongue. REPENT!

Anyhoo, Lila is going to be baby Jesus. Which I'm pretty sure guarantees me a condo on the beaches of heaven if I die. And that's a big IF.

But this whole celebrity thing presents a couple of problems:

1. She actually has to go a whole ten minutes without douching herself or shitting up to her neck
2. My parenting skills are going to be put on public display as others judge whether or not I'm a good Mom and have raised a baby who can go a whole ten minutes without screaming her balls off
3. Somebody else has to hold her. And walk with her. A (probably) clumsy 15-year-old girl covered in germs and spit and cells and puberty particles and where the hell have those hands been and then she has to walk with her down an aisle then up some stairs and AAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Sorry. My head just exploded.

So yesterday we went to the rehearsal and the minute we walked in the door a couple of angels ran over to see the cute little baby. I quickly realized as I pulled her out of her car seat that she had shit up to her neck. Oh well, at least we got that out of the way. However, the smell interfered with the oxygen supply to these untrained angels' brains and they immediately passed out on the pew.

Now that I think about it they were still laying there when we left so I think they may actually be dead.

Despite my procrastinating it was time to hand her over to Mary. Once I showered Mary with a whole bottle of hand sanitizer, did a background check, got three references, performed a field sobriety test and made her run a ropes course.

Now, in situations like this I really try to be the cool Mom. The laid back Mom who chats it up with the other parents, oblivious to the fact that someone else is holding her baby. The Mom who doesn't play out every horrible scenario like Mary tripping and dropping her, coughing in her face, rubbing her germy teenage sex particles all over my baby and AAAAHHHHHH!

Sorry, my head exploded again.

But I'm not the cool Mom. I'm the Mom who stood two inches away from her face, barking orders in her ear.

"Oh honey, she likes to be held like this"
"Now slow down... this isn't a race"
"Watch out for all that frankincense and shit at your feet - don't forget about it and trip"
"Don't look her in the eye! You think you're good enough to look my baby in the eye, Stop looking her in the eye!"

But I handed her over. And actually, to my surprise things went rather smoothly.

Well, except for that one time five seconds after she got on stage when she decided she was hungry and started screaming like a banshee and tried to suck a horrified 15-year-old Mary's nipple through her robe.

I really need to have a talk with Lila about sucking other people's nipples in public.

But nobody dropped anything and so far Lila is showing no signs of whopping cough or any other communicable diseases. Besides, even if she did fall I'm pretty sure that when you fall in church you land on a billowy blanket of angel's wings made out of kittens and puppies.

But I'm not going to think about that right now. Right now I'm going to get back to designing the floor plan for my liquor cabinet in my heavenly beach house.

It's a major award


Me: Mom! My blog won a major award!
Mom: Wow Hannah, that's great! I'm so proud of you! That's wonderful! What did you win?
Me: Well, I didn't actually win anything... it's more like a recognition thing.
Mom: Oh, well, I'm still proud of you anyway.

Me: Beth! My blog won a major award!
My Sister: Oh god. Now the world is going to know about my explosive diarrhea. (yells to husband) HANNAH'S BLOG WON A MAJOR AWARD!
(husband in background): Oh god. Now everyone's going to know that I'm married to the girl with the explosive diarrhea.

Ok, so maybe I was the only one swinging around the room on the ceiling fan while Ellie danced at my feet to the hypnotic Latin beats of Dora the Explorer from our primitive sound system.

But I found out this morning that I'm one of 10 big winners on the Momversation Fresh Voices search. I don't want to brag but basically they crowned me Grand Master Lord Most Beautiful Blogger Ever. Along with nine other people.

And as I told them, I would like to dedicate this award to the most horrible person I've ever met in my life - my high school bully. Had it not been for you constantly knocking my books out of my hands in the hallway and telling me that you were going to kick my ass FOR NO REASON if you ever saw me outside of school I would have actually made friends and had something to do every night other than my English homework.

You can suck it.

Just kidding - please don't kick my ass.

Sophisticated lady


Awww... they grow up so fast.

Before we know it she'll be switching her menthols for reds with her morning coffee.

Day Four

Well that was awful.

That may have been the sickest anyone has ever been in the entire history of the world. Why yes, I do have a flare for the dramatic, why do you ask?

At one point on Monday night I was laying in bed praying to god to just drop an airplane fuselage through the roof onto my head and put an end to my misery. I realized this would probably also kill my entire family, and everyone who happened to be on that plane, but I figured we could work out the details later.

Being sick is so different with kids. They totally expect you to still care about keeping them alive and stuff. But Ellie went to my mother-in-law's house on Monday and luckily Lila doesn't expect that much out of me yet and she was perfectly happy with laying on the couch all day and watching an Intervention marathon for eight hours straight.

I'm clearing the mantle for my Mother of the Year trophy as we speak.

But Tuesday it was back to the grind although every time I even thought about being in the same room as some food my stomach started picketing. As of Tuesday night the only thing I had to eat in 72 hours was the water that accidentally made it past my lips in the shower, which I promptly threw back up, so my breast milk was virtually non-existent. I'd been pumping them non-stop (I was too afraid to get Lila too close) but the only thing in the bottle was a little saw dust and part of my left lung.

On Tuesday night I was feeling better and so I dove in head first trying to get my calories back up and ate some fajitas followed by a little egg nog ice cream. It all sounded good so I decided to go for it.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Nick, Ellie, Lila, my neighbors, my neighbor's dog and the family of chipmunks that live under our house for the wrath that those fajitas and ice cream unleashed on my delicate stomach Tuesday night and yesterday morning.

My insides are now so empty that if you put your ear to my stomach and listen real hard you can hear the ocean. And every once in a while what sounds like a pod of orcas making a snuff film will swim by.

But this morning I woke up feeling ok and I think I'm finally ready to reimmerse myself back into society and actually leave the house for the first time in four days.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to get back to combing my beard so we can go to Wal-Mart.

The Time

Beth: I can't believe you told the world about how I had explosive diarrhea on the side of the highway.

Me: Don't worry - it's only a few thousand people and at least I didn't tell them about the REALLY embarrassing time.

Beth: What time is that? The time it happened in Florida by a swamp and I almost got eaten by an alligator?

Me: You didn't almost get eaten by an alligator. I guarantee the alligator has a much scarier story for his friends than you after that little episode. I was talking about the time that you were in the middle of a home visit for one of your special needs kids and you had to throw your business card at them and run out the door with your laptop but only made it about 1/2 mile from their house. Then they went out for groceries and pulled up behind you and stopped to ask if you were ok and you hid your head under the car and waved and yelled for them to go on.

Beth: Oh yeah, thank god you didn't tell anyone about that time.

I told you that one day I would exact my revenge for pouring a container of salt on my banana cream pie when I was 15.

Now we're even.

The Hangover


On Saturday night I went out for my friend Amy's bachelorette party, or as my single friend Carrie kept referring to it: Who Let The Moms Out?

Topics of conversation at the pre-party included "how to maximize your breast milk" and "awesome casseroles".

Yes it's true - we are officially the old women on the dance floor who scream and jump up and down when the band plays Fat Bottom Girls that I used to feel so sorry for when I was in my 20s.

This type of night always leads to a couple of problems:

1. My college friends and I get together so infrequently that when we do go out we go balls out crazy
2. Our livers have forgotten how to metabolize balls out crazy so there is always hell to pay the next day.

So balls out crazy it was.

And hell to pay there was.

A mere four hours after our DD pulled into my friend Sheila's driveway I was doubled over sweating martinis on her toilet while something that looked like an otter tried to claw its way out of my ass and something that tasted like enchiladas launched out of my mouth into her cute bathroom wicker trash can.

All at the same time.

It crossed my mind that this punishment was a little harsh for a few drinks and a shot or two but whatever - it's the price you pay for going balls out.

A couple of hours later I was finally able to peel myself off of the blow up mattress and crawled home at 15 miles per hour through a snowstorm as the rest of the otter's family tried to tunnel their way through my lower intestine to reunite with their little friend.

There were several times on the drive home that I thought I was going to have to pull over and take a Beth. My sister Beth has some sort of IBS spastic colon thing and when it hits her it hits her, no questions asked.

The most memorable Beth might be the time that she had just started dating my now brother-in-law and they were driving up to visit for the weekend. They had to pull off the highway onto an on ramp in the middle of the city while she let it fly next to the car. He got out and tried to cover her with his coat but he started dry heaving so hard at the smell of her explosive diarrhea that he had to get back in the car and let her ride it out solo while the nice people from Creve Coeur honked and yelled at her out their windows.

He married her even after that so we all knew it was true love.

But taking a Beth on the side of the highway when it's sunny and 75 degrees is a lot different than taking a Beth on the side of the highway when it's 7 degrees and the 60 mile an hour wind is pelting snow and ice in your face.

I decided death was preferable to pooping in 7 degree snow and hit the gas. By the grace of god I made it through the door and into the bathroom just in the nick of time.

Now, in days of yore this whole hangover situation would have been handled in a very different way. I would have slept at Sheila's until about noon and returned home to my nice quiet bed, sleeping the day away, only waking up to eat some Taco Bell and hit replay on my 25th anniversary collector's edition Dirty Dancing DVD.

On Sunday as I ran through the door at 8:30am holding the seat of my pants there were screaming kids hurling themselves at me from every direction, clinging onto my legs as I frantically unbuttoned my pants and dove onto the toilet.

And rather than sleeping the day away we went to a kid's birthday party.

At a place called Pump it Up.

For those who haven't been to Pump it Up, it's basically like a giant vasectomy. You should, under no circumstances, take someone there who you are trying to convince to have kids. You should also under no circumstances go there if you have been to a balls out crazy bachelorette party the night before.

I was able to pull myself together to take one single, solitary picture which happened to be about a mili-second after Ellie was plowed over by some kid all hopped up on cake and black soda. Notice how calm Nick is walking over to her, slowly rolling up his sleeves, while I sprint screaming from the other side of the room despite the fact that I'm on my death bed.

Other than taking this picture, I spent the entire time in the bathroom under the guise of changing Lila's diaper. Which actually did happen once, during which time I considered crawling up into the ceiling tiles to take a nap until the party was over.

Anyhoo, mid way through the screaming running bouncing I started to feel mind numbing, horrific abdominal cramps which rivaled labor contractions and I knew that we were dealing with something way worse than a simple hangover.

There was a whole town of otters trying to get out of there.

We ended up leaving the party early and I spent the remainder of the day in bed thinking only four things:

1. How in the world am I going to take care of two kids tomorrow?
2. Please lord don't let my children get this
3. I never knew you could dry heave out your ass
4. If nothing else, please at least let this virus bring me one step closer to fitting into my Pants of Truth.

'Tis the season

Did you know that there are over 50 million blogs out there? 50 million! That's about the number of times I talk myself out of eating butter right out of the container every day.

What I'm trying to say is that I know there are a lot of other blogs out there and I want to say a big thank you for choosing to hang out with me.

In appreciation, I've decided to give you all a big Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/National Twinkie Day gift. But what do you get for the people who have everything? Well how about a smile?

Holy shit that was cheesy.

I made you a video. I hope you like it. And share it with your friends.

Go ahead and crank it up and go full screen. Screw the lady in the next cubicle.

Happy holidays.

Road Apple Crisp



These cookies were supposed to look like the picture (right). A nice festive bunch of appetizing mint chocolate chip delights I baked for my neighbors to prove I'm not a total loser despite the fact that our house has more weed than The Yin Yang Twins.

Instead they look like what was left on the street after the State Fair 4th of July parade of horses.

But at least they taste ok, right?


I don't know how, but I managed to burn the shit out of the bottom while the tops are still doughy.


F. F. F. F.

The Ritual

Lila passed the twelve week mark on Saturday and I finally feel like the Mayer household is settling into some semblance of order. This is important to me because I am a creature of habit and I've heard that it's crucial to get kids on a strict routine to give them a sense of stability so a schedule has been my top priority for the past few weeks.

I think we've finally found something that works.

8:00am - Realize that the past hour of screaming in my nightmare was actually real and get out of bed regretting the bottle of wine I drank last night. Vow never to do it again.
8:05am - Open bottle of wine
8:30am - Feed baby, praying wine which seeped into breast milk will only do minimal mental damage
9:00am - Weigh self at gym, cry
9:05am - Run on treadmill long enough to mentally formulate a plan to develop an eating disorder to get down to pre-baby weight
9:10am - Grab defibrillator machine off wall and use on self
12:00pm - Take temporary hiatus from starving self to eat leftover chicken strips off Ellie's high chair tray. And by leftover strips on tray I mean grab strip out of her hand and quickly stuff into mouth.
12:15pm - Fix Lean Cuisine
12:16pm - Finish Lean Cuisine
12:17pm - Fix second Lean Cuisine
12:18pm - Finish second Lean Cuisine
12:19pm - Call Lean Cuisine headquarters to complain about how calling such a scant amount of food a meal might lead to a 34-year-old woman driving down to the 7-11 with a hand gun, two kids in the backseat and sketchy plan for escape
12:25pm - Decide to delay plan for starvation until tomorrow and drive to Taco Bell for real lunch
12:30pm - Drink Diet Coke to cancel out Taco Bell Grande Burrito
1:00pm - Think about cleaning
1:05pm - Decide against cleaning and watch Ellen
2:00pm - Rifle through refrigerator looking for scraps
2:03pm - Eat jar of peanut butter and six slices of cheese
2:05pm - Press nose against window in remote chance Nick will be home early
3:30pm - Remove nose from window in disappointment
3:31pm - Throw toy into playroom at children, tell them they're boring
3:45pm - Drive to Target to buy something to make myself feel better about my life
3:46pm - Pull through Wendy's drive through for shopping snack
3:47pm - Finish fries before pulling away from window
3:48pm - Pull through Wendy's drive through and tell them they forgot fries on previous order
5:00pm - Think about fixing dinner
5:01pm - Decide against fixing dinner and watch Say Yes to the Dress
6:01pm - Call Nick and tell him to bring home some dinner
6:30pm - Hear garage door open and throw kids at Nick. Complain about how hard my day was while opening second bottle of wine.



On Saturday we went to a first birthday party. This was her second cupcake.

Immediately following this picture she was hurled into hyperactive speed by an unseen force called diabetes.

Then light speed.

Then ridiculous speed.

Then ludicrous speed.

By the time we peeled her off the roof of the car and put her to bed she had hit plaid, where she stayed until we unstrapped her from her crib the next morning. Before Saturday I had never actually seen anything levitate.

Deck the halls. And the walls. And the ceiling.


Every year I overestimate the size of the tree we'll need and every year Nick talks me down from the ledge.

However, when we went to get our tree from Lowe's on Sunday it was cold as a witch's tit outside so he waited in the store with the girls while I ran outside and picked one out. With no one to hold me back I picked a big ole honker that threatened to crumple my meager Accord on the drive home.

I think there may be a small family of Chinese gymnasts living in there.

She's a maniac

This morning our playgroup went to Pottery Barn Kids for a free Babaloo concert.

Notice how Ellie is commanding the dance floor as the others just look on in confused horror. Half the time he's not even singing.

When it comes to dancing she is definitely her mother's child.

Hannah Deen

Despite the countless atrocities that have been born from my oven, the boredom that accompanies a cold winter's afternoon has forced me to take up a hobby that doesn't involve spending our retirement fund shopping online, smelling anyone's butt, building a time machine or pressing my nose against the window for hours on end waiting for Nick's car to mercifully pull into the driveway.

So yesterday I went to the store and bought some ingredients. And, like clockwork, two hours later I was feeling like a complete failure while sobbing over a pile of chicken covered in a sauce that smelled like feet.

In hindsight, though, I've come to the realization that my inability to cook is not my fault. Recipes, while simple instructions, make a lot of assumptions. For instance, the recipe I was making last night simply said to "rinse chicken in cold water, dip it in the mixture, then cook until each side is brown, probably 5-6 minutes." Ok, simple enough, but it never told me to DEFROST the chicken. So I was left with chicken that was smoking and black on the outside and pink and icy on the inside.

There really needs to be two versions of recipes - one for those experienced chefs, and one for those who have had more important things to do with their lives than waste time cooking.

Spell it out for me people - I'm not too proud.

1. Walk to freezer. Take chicken out of freezer. If chicken is not in freezer, skip to #3.
2. Defrost chicken. The quickest way to defrost chicken is to XXX (I can't even speculate how to do this for this post)
3. Put chicken in a pan that is XXX (again, not the foggiest but tell me the size of the pan, what color it should be, if I'm supposed to put that spray stuff on it - don't hold back).

etc. etc.

Actually, what would be even better is if the instructions for dummies started with the list of ingredients. This would save me a significant amount of time zig zagging back in forth in unfamiliar grocery store territory while Ellie chews through a hot dog wrapper in the front of the cart.

Unfamiliar territory being any aisle that doesn't have wine or peanut butter.

Like, when you list corn starch as an ingredient, give me a little hint as to where that might be located. What the hell is a grated orange rind???

It's going to be a long winter. Back to the time machine.

Black Eye Friday

Right now you're probably wondering one of two things:

1. How was the Thanksgiving cranberry Jell-O salad received?
2. Are you getting that damn nose ring or not?

Woah there! Let me at least finish this spoonful of peanut butter before I answer those. Wait, one more. Ok, just one more. There. Now I have successfully negated this morning's 60 minute nauseating sweat fest on the treadmill.

First, the jury is still out on the nose ring. I'd say that I'm just about two amaretto sours out with my girlfriends away from taking the leap. Stay tuned.

Second, the Jell-O salad sucked. The only people who acted like they liked it were my Mom and Nick because they are the only ones who have anything vested in me not getting discouraged in my feeble attempts at cooking.

My Mom doesn't want to admit that she wasted years and years of her life forcing me into the kitchen to watch her cook in the fleeting hope that one day I would actually eat a meal not served to me in a sack. And Nick for similar reasons.

Mid-meal I looked around and those brave enough to take some were just sort of pushing it around their plates.

So that was Thanksgiving.

The next day I decided to see what this "Black Friday" hooplah was all about. I was staying the weekend in the sticks with my sister Beth, her family and the cows and Beth and I decided to get up about an hour before God to check out the deals.

Let me first say that the day got off to an awesome start as I fumbled around in my suitcase in the pitch black dark for my jeans and accidentally put on Nick's. My dieting psyche hit a previously unknown low when I couldn't get them buttoned. My dreams of Nick one day carrying me over the threshold vanished.

Anyhoo, we drove into town with nothing but the promise of a bargain keeping us awake on the dangerously winding country roads. The promise of a bargain and a breakfast McMuffin. What jeans?

We crested the hill, McMuffins in hand, expecting to see a jammed parking lot and two women pulling pistols out of their purse fighting over the last Furbie (those are still around, right?) and our jaws dropped.

The parking lot was desolate. Just a handful of mini vans and tractors. What the? We went inside and asked the checker what happened to the chaos we were promised. Apparently the sales now start at midnight.

Midnight? What the hell, man? I felt jipped. No fighting? I got up for nothing. We browsed the aisles and spent way too much on toys that Ellie will quickly discard in favor of the box, all the while feeling cheated.

We made a few more stops and the closest I got to a fight was a bitch who cut in front of us in the receipt check line at the Sam's exit because according to her we were "stopping every 5 seconds to look at stuff". I was so caught off guard that I couldn't even remember some of my key insults until we got to the car.

Next year we'll get up earlier and pack better weapons.

Winner winner turkey dinner


Congratulations to Karen for winning the awesome Bigfoot sweepstakes! I'm sure she and her family will have loads of fun watching a creature with freakishly realistic hair stomp around their Christmas tree yelling about how angry it is.

And a big thank you to everyone who entered - especially those of you who set up a Twitter account specifically for this. Hopefully you'll continue to use it because it's a very neat social media tool. How else are you supposed to keep tabs on Sockington the cat?

Now, if you'll excuse me I was put in charge of the Thanksgiving Jell-O and I need to find out what exactly went wrong.

It looked semi-normal when I put it in the fridge last night and when I woke up this morning it looked like Thanksgiving road kill.


Sometimes when I'm alone in the car with the girls and their diapers are filled to the brim and they're screaming their balls off I wonder when in my life I've been the closest to death. Either when I've been the closest to death or brownies. Usually one or the other.

It's not like I'm not a morbid person or anything, I just need some sort of distraction when I'm trapped in the car with two screaming kids and the thought of death just naturally pops in my head.

Was it the time my car broke down on the highway in the middle of the night, pre-cell phones? Was it the time I did 22 shots on my 21st birthday? Or maybe when I ate five corn dogs at the State Fair?

There are actually a lot more but this is a family blog and also my Mom reads it so I'm just mentioning a few of the more legal life-threatening things that I've done.

But notice how all of these events took place during the college era. Since then the biggest risk I've taken is cooking up some sketchy salmon.

Boy do I suck.

But all of these things, both legal and illegal, pale in comparison to what happened on Saturday. Or how I shall refer to November 20 from here on out - "The Day I Freaked The Fuck Out".

Nick was at work and I was hanging out with the girls. You know, like every single other day of my life. Ellie was throwing a tantrum of titantic proportions and Lila was trying to fall asleep so I took her upstairs for a nap, leaving Ellie with her head spinning while she tried to set her toys on fire.

I was upstairs maybe 45 seconds and while walking down the stairs I noticed something strange. It was quiet. And if it's one thing I've learned about kids it's that quiet is bad.

Quiet is I found a knife in the drawer and I'm going to see what body parts bleed the fastest. Quiet is I've found a nail on the ground and I wanted to see what it tasted like. Quiet is some pedophile jimmied his way in through the back door and I'm eating peanut brittle in the back of an unmarked white van.

It was quiet.

So I picked up my gate and ran into the playroom and it was empty. As was the kitchen. And the bathroom. The only three rooms she can access when the baby gate is closed.

The back door was locked as was the garage door and the basement door still had the eyelet lock hooked.

There was literally no where else for her to be.

Ok, so there have been several times in my life when I've used the word 'panicked'.

I pulled up to DQ and I panicked because the lights were off.

I opened the bottle of wine and I panicked because it had gone bad.

I panicked because I took off my bra and my nipples actually touched my belt.

No. I never truly appreciated the act of the panic until this exact moment. Well, except maybe the wine one.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like a bird caught in a chimney - totally frantic but no where to go. True, raw, unbridled, primitive... panic.

Nothing but two thoughts spun around in my head:

1. Every second she's gone is one more second she can hurt herself
2. I am definitely going to prison.

It's true. Practically every single thing I do during the day I first ask myself how it will sound if I had to explain it to a police officer if it goes bad.

"Well, officer. She really likes to pretend like she's driving my car and..."

Ok, back to the story. So there I was, standing in the kitchen, my mind RACING in COMPLETE AND UTTER sheer panic. I ran back into the play room and I didn't know what to do or where to go. I don't even think I was breathing. I just started spinning around in circles.

Then I heard "Mooo!" from behind the toy box, under the jumparoo.

There she was, crouched under there playing a fun little game of hide and seek. I'm not even going to think about why she said "Mooo". It's beside the point and would probably launch me into some sort of eating disorder.

I was suddenly aware that there was a pulse in my ear drums and then my knees went weak. The room started spinning and then started to go dark and I felt a shooting pain in my chest. I sat down and felt like I had just finished a marathon.

Oblivious to everything she had just put me through, Ellie crawled out and turned on the TV.

I was paralyzed. It was 45 minutes before I stopped shaking. That was definitely the closest I've been to death so far in my life.

Seriously, people. That took ten years off my life. I found a gray hair in my eyebrow this morning.

Now THAT'S something to panic about.

Friday Fun Day


In the past 11 months I have come to realize that this city has a seedy underground of other people who don't have to work. There are all kinds of people but those that I'm most intimidated by are the other Moms who seem to know everyone there is to know and every place there is to go with their kids. It actually reminds me a little of high school, minus the clarinet and Vanilla Ice haircut.

Don't be jealous of my awesome high school years.

Anyhoo, a few of my friends have also recently had babies so lucky for me that I have some other people to start exploring this new world with and I don't have to look like a total loser.

Also different than high school, by the way.

I started a play group a few weeks back and sometimes we hit the town, sometimes we sit around and drink wine and sometimes we do both. Friday happened to be a day of both.

Every Friday Faust Park has an awesome puppet show and then the kids get to ride on the carousel. Ellie happens to love talking animals and moving horses so it was the perfect combination.

I thought it was cool as well except for one little thing. As I mentioned, last Thursday night I had a lot of Mexican food and a lot of Mexican beer. I wasn't hung over on Friday but a morning trip through the McDonald's drive through was necessary.

You know what I'm talking about.

So I wasn't feeling tip top and when we boarded the carousel the announcer informed us that this happened to be one of the fastest carousels in the world.

Holy hell. So it was.

About half way through I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and I looked like a really sweaty Grinch. I looked over at my friend Brandy and she looked like the Grinch's sister and I knew our fun was quickly coming to an end. I started to taste McMuffin on the back of my tongue and I thought it might be about time to to map out my escape route.

Of course I put on a brave face for a pic so one day I can explain to Ellie what it means to rally.

We made it off relatively unscathed so of course the only logical thing to do was hit Harpo's and discuss the event over beers, which is Lila's favorite thing to do.

Ellie needs to learn some self-control, though.

Pants of truth - week 3


Last night I was having dinner with my friends Angie and Jamie and as I was, to quote Jamie, "shoveling fajitas into my pie hole" (hey I was starving and Arcelia's is the shiznit) they told me I need to get a better angle on the Pants of Truth shot because they can't even tell what they're looking at.

Then they told me to just put on a pair of maternity pants, take a picture of myself, tell everyone I lost the weight, go out and eat as many fajitas as I want and just be done with the Pants of Truth.

So I've got an awesome motivational support system here.

Anyhoo, I'm working on thinking through some new angles or lighting but this will have to do for now.

Despite four fajitas and three beers I've lost 4 pounds total and was actually able to get them zipped this morning.

However, to quote my sister Beth, it still looks like I'm wearing a "meat apron" that I need to work on shedding.

Now, that's more like the motivational support system I'm looking for.

Second place


Yesterday I finally got around to buying a baby book for Lila. I KNOW she's already 9weeks old. I KNOW I started working on Ellie's book before she was even conceived. I KNOW I promised myself I would not slight Lila in any way just because she's the second child and everything she does is boring.

But I can't help it - it's not just the baby book. There are so many things that I'm doing differently this time around. For instance...

Ellie - Oh! Your pacifier fell on the kitchen floor. Let me run it under steaming hot water then wipe it down with these expensive antibacterial pacifier disinfectant wipes I bought. Then I'll give you your spare until I can run this one through the dishwasher five times.
Lila - Oh! Your pacifier fell on the slaughterhouse kitchen floor. 30 second rule!

Ellie - Oh, you want to hold my baby? Well, ok. Please go wash your hands. Then please put on these gloves and this mask. Actually, on second thought, no. You can't hold my baby. Please don't even look at her.
Lila - Take this god damned baby before my arm breaks off. We can do formal introductions later.

Ellie - According to your food log you ate 3.2 hours ago and drank 4.5 ounces of milk so it's time for dinner! Organic pureed pomegranate and spinach green bean shake. That will round out every essential vitamin and mineral needed in your daily allowance.
Lila - Hey! What's this under the dining room table... a petrified piece of sausage patty and some cheesecake? 9 weeks is old enough for cheesecake, right? Want to try some sausage?

Ellie - No television shall be on while Ellie is in the room until she is two years old. And then it will only be on for one hour of nothing but educational programming.
Lila - Want to watch The Exorcist or Taxi Cab Confessions?

Don't get me wrong - it's not that I care about Lila any less than Ellie. I've just come to realize that these little creatures are extremely resilient.

And and also I'm really lazy.

I'm sure I'm not the first parent to loosen up with the second child and it is kind of cool to see the genesis of how birth order affects personality.

So if I were you I'd be really nice to Ellie if ever you two should meet. One day she's going to be president. Of everything.

Round One


Ah, eighteen months. Incidentally I believe this was also the same age as Lucifer when he was kicked out of heaven and started working on his fiery underground empire.

Between my hormones and Ellie's unwavering campaign to be Queen Master Ruler In Charge Of Everything Mayer the pressure in our house has escalated to the point that our windows might blow out.

We've basically been in a fight since Thursday morning when (oh my god worst thing ever!) I tried to put a clip in her hair because her bangs are in her eyes and she looks like WT. Big time WT.

It's really my fault because I'm about two weeks overdue on having her bangs cut. And by that I mean spending ten dollars on a thirty second hair cut. Oh what's that? Why don't I just do it myself? Well, friend, let me tell you a little bit about what is involved in cutting this girl's bangs.

First of all, you need four people. One to hold her down (usually me) one to hold her head, a priest to throw holy water on her to wet the hair and one to actually cut the bangs fast as lightning before she breaks free and scampers out the door like some sort of creature of the night.

So you can imagine how much fun it is to try to put a clip in her hair. We wrestled for fifteen minutes before I actually attached it to ONE piece of hair and even though it was crooked and hanging down in her eye I raced into the bathroom to show her how pretty it was.

She yanked it out, threw it on the floor and spit on it. I'm telling you - fiery underground empire is right around the corner.

I thought I could take the control back by strong arming her but this little 27-pound mighty mite is freakishly strong when she wants to be and we wrestled for thirty more minutes before I finally decided that if she wants to look like WT then she can be my guest. That makes me WT Mom but whatever.

Since then we've been having an unending battle of wills and Nick has been playing referee.

So I was forced to play the trump card.


She's finally been sleeping pretty good though the night. Unfortunately anyone within a two-mile radius has not. The girl grunts and farts like nobody's business all the live long night and it's impossible to get any rest.

So on Saturday I decided she was ready for her new room. That she'll be sharing with Ellie.

As Nick and I wheeled the co-sleeper into the room filled with this grunting, farting mess of a baby Ellie just peered over her crib railing, wide eyed and confused.

Sister, you mess with the bull you get the horns. Nighty night.

Get holiday anger in your very own home!

This whole toy thing is seriously starting to stress me out. I grew up in a small town and our Wal-Mart only had two aisles - the rifles and the beer - so as kids we just had to decide between the two.

Have you walked into a Toys R Us lately? I mean, I don't even know where the heck to start or, more importantly, when the heck to stop.

One of my biggest fears is that if I spend all of my beer money on buying Ellie a bunch of expensive toys she's not ever going to learn how to appreciate anything and grow up to suck and I won't have any money left for beer to help me deal with it.

But one of my other biggest fears is that there are all these awesome toys out there that I should buy to help her learn and if I don't buy them then all of the other kids in her school will be way smarter and she'll never get into college because I only gave her an oven mitt and tire tread I found on the side of the road to play with and she'll end up living in my basement forever and drink all of my beer.

And with Christmas right around the corner I'm basically just starting to freak out about having enough beer.

So thank God that someone found my blog and was fooled into thinking that I was a legitimate blogger and invited me to join actual legitimate bloggers Lisa, Danielle, Stefany, Danyelle and Robyn at Toys-R-Us to check out the latest and greatest this holiday season.

Our tour guide was Chris Byrne, AKA The Toy Guy from Time To Play Magazine, who knows more about toys than any one person should. But, for all his knowledge and experience, has a really realistic POV. An oven mitt and a tire tread? Hey, whatever encourages their creativity!

I hate standing next to people skinnier than I am because it forces me to use my Amish Photoshop Eraser Button to white out my fat. And, on a side note, there was another blogger there who had an awesome nose ring! So THERE, nay sayers!

Before I get into the toy review I'm going to mention that this experience made me realize just how behind the times I am. It's like my technological savvy was frozen in time by volcanic ash the minute I left my job like an unsuspecting little village in Pompeii. As each of the other bloggers whipped out their Flip cameras and iPhones I quietly tucked away the pen and paper I had previously congratulated myself on remembering to grab in a mad dash out the door and pulled out my Blackberry, pretending like I knew what I was doing.

A Blackberry, mind you, that has been dropped so many times that the roller ball is holding on with nothing but sheer will.

A Blackberry that only holds 6 pictures so I had to delete Lila's first smile and Ellie's first steps to make room for two pictures that I had to get on the first try. Because if I try to look at the picture I just took my whole phone freezes up and I have to take the battery out and re-boot which takes 15 years.

Anyhoo, enough about me sucking. Just wanted to make sure you appreciate these two pictures because someday I'll have to explain to Ellie why I didn't love her enough to take pictures of her first steps.

The first thing I'm going to say before I start talking about Scrabble Flash is that you better have some time on your hands before you start. This thing is straight addicting. I busted it out yesterday and have barely put it down. After a couple of hours Nick got in on the action and we've been challenging each other to games for almost 36 hours straight. There are five tiles with five letters and you make as many words as you can in a set amount of time. Great for kids learning how to spell, or women who want to show up their husbands with their expansive vocabulary.

Ok, next up is the Sing A Ma Jigs. I brought these home and immediately hid them in the basement because I knew Ellie would love them. Last night after she went to bed Nick brought them back up to show our friends because he thought they were so cool. They're little bear looking things who harmonize with each other and sing through their cute little mouths. We forgot to take them back down to the basement and this morning Ellie made a bee line straight for them and literally hasn't put them down since. She also said "blue" and "pink" for the first time. So we just pretended like it was Christmas morning and let her go to town.

Next is the Liv Dolls. One of my big fears with a lot of the dolls out there is that they all look like hookers. Which is sort of the opposite direction I'm hoping for my children. These dolls are cool because they don't look like hookers and you can swap the hair with other dolls and keep them fresh. There are also a lot of cool interactive features on their website.

And, on the subject of dolls, an exclusive to Toys R Us this year is Disney Princess and Me. Definitely not a hooker, and definitely on the upper end of the price spectrum. I'm sure Ellie will be selling her soul for this one in a couple of years.

The Chill Treats Dessert Maker was Nick's personal favorite because can you think of a healthier way to manipulate your kids than by letting them think they're playing while they're actually making you a tasty treat? It's a little old for Ellie right now but we can't wait to test it out. In addition to having an ice cream maker in the comfort of your own home, I also like that it encourages kids to get creative in the kitchen. Something I'm still learning as well.

Growing up with two sisters and having two daughters I don't know a lot about the boy stuff but there were several toys that the bloggers with boys got excited about. Stinky The Garbage Truck not only does everything a normal garbage truck does but he also farts. Which is apparently hilarious. We also saw a creative game to let boys get out some aggression without using toy guns (everyone in Sedalia is reading that and scratching their heads as to why in the world you wouldn't want your boy to learn how to shoot early) called Denkosekka - a yo-yo like magnet game that works on coordination.

And, finally, the toy everyone was talking about, and if you made it all the way through the longest post in the history of the world your reward is a chance to win one. Bigfoot the Monster. This thing is pretty cool. He talks, he slams, he walks and he tells you he's angry. And as Chris said, what better way to celebrate a peaceful Christmas morning than with a remote controlled hairy beast screaming "ANGRY!"? So why not celebrate YOUR Christmas (or whatever you celebrate or don't celebrate) morning with your own angry hairy beast?

Here's what you have to do to enter:

1. Follow me on Twitter. My handle is @The_sKIDmark
2. Tweet the following: @The_sKIDmark Enter for a chance to win a big hairy beast to make your holidays ANGRY! Visit for more information
3. I'm not shipping this big ole thing so if you win we'll have to meet at a mutually agreed upon location to claim your prize. I'm in St. Louis so if you live far away and don't want to drive from far away then don't enter.

And that's it! You'll be entered for a chance to win your own big hairy beast - an $89.99 value. I will randomly select a winner on Friday, November 19.

My skin is crawling right now because my 10 years at an advertising agency taught me that I really need to hire a lawyer to make up some contest rules and stuff. But let's just all be friends and don't sue me if you don't win, ok?

Because I don't have any money and the joke will really be on you.

Pants of Truth - Week 2


Priest: Do you Hannah, take Cheesecake for your lawful wedded husband, to live in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love, honor, comfort, and cherish him from this day forward, forsaking all others, keeping only unto him for as long as you both shall live?

Hannah: Yes, yes... a thousand times YES!

Priest: Do you Cheesecake, take Hannah for your lawful wedded...

Cheesecake: Hello? Hello? Oh thank god - is someone out there? For christ sake call the police! I've been abducted! I can't... I can't see anything... it's very dark in here! I... I think I may actually be stuffed in a pair of someone's underwear! Someone's very large granny panties! Wh... what the hell is she doing? Oh the humanity!

Despite date raping a cheesecake last night, I've lost two pounds this week. But The Pants of Truth still pretty much look the same.

And yes, Paula - I know I need a pedicure. You should just be glad you can't see my legs. I look like an alpaca.


12 Steps

So we've been trying to wean Ellie off the pacifier for a few weeks now, giving it to her only when she's in her crib.

However, like any good addict she'll go to any length to get a fix. She knows Lila's car seat is prime for pacis and the first thing she does when I take the baby out is mine.

Sometimes she strikes gold.

She's extremely cunning and waited until I has just started feeding the baby and knew I was completely incapacitated and helpless before she ran over, grabbed this one and sucked like her life depended on it.

Although it was hooked to the shoulder strap she would run over to it every few seconds, take a couple of quick hits and run away.

Santa may leave some cigarettes in her stocking to help get her off these things.

The Situation

A few days ago Ellie started doing a fun little parlor trick where she pulls her shirt up in the most public of places to show off her bloated little toddler belly to any pedophile who happens to be in the right place at the right time.

A bloated little toddler belly which in her mind is actually a ripped set of rock hard abs.

This is all fine and good if we're in the privacy of our own home. Now that Lila has been born Ellie has seen the horrific aftermath of carnage that having a baby can do the human body and loves reminding me of what a stretch mark free stomach looks like.

But I just can't have her walking around with her shirt over her face in church. Or even worse, when I'm not around. Today I went to pick her up from the gym nursery and a group of kids had gathered around her while she was swinging upside down from a greased up stripper pole with a leather strap in her teeth.

I had a long conversation with her in the car on the way home about the importance of making sure the audience has either money or beads when she does something like that.

I don't want her growing up to be cheap.

The many faces of pain


I'm typing this with my nose because it's the only thing on my body that doesn't feel like has been beaten with a bat and then set on fire.

Even my nipples hurt, which, after 8 weeks of breastfeeding, I thought we were past. I took a step class this morning which involved a lot of jumping. And if you've ever breastfed anything you know that jumping is bad. About 10 minutes in my boobs totally Hulked out of my sports bra and one of my nipples flew to the front of the room and slid down the mirror.

Anyhoo, everything hurts. But I'm trying to work off the cheeseburger I ate last night at Blueberry Hill. And the basket of french fries. And the toasted ravioli. And the three beers.

This morning before I went to the gym I forced myself to feed Ellie breakfast in my bikini to remind myself why I'm doing this. I think the only thing that did was throw her into a lifetime of various eating disorders.

In other news, I've made a big decision that I'm definitely positive about. I think.

Prepare for my Dad to completely freak out.

I have wanted to get a nose ring for as long as I can remember. I didn't do it when I was working at the ad agency because although my boss said it would be fine I worked on the 'corporate' side of things and thought it might be a little too out there for my clients.

However, there have been several times (usually after a few drinks) that I decided to take the plunge and just do it but fate always intervenes.

The most memorable is one time when my friend Jamie and I were on a road trip and we decided we were going to do it. But as we pulled into the parking lot there was a man in a wheelchair with no legs and stumps for arms wearing nothing but a confederate flag doo rag and cut off jeans shorts who started cat calling us and waving us into the building with his stumps.

Needless to say we both screamed and peeled out.

Now I have no job, no clients - nothing standing in my way of getting the nose ring. Except the horrible pain that accompanies getting a nose ring. And if that hurts then what will I use to type?

And maybe the slight fear that I won't be able to pull it off and I'll end up looking like a huge douche bag. We're not talking about a big honking ring, just a very small little stud.

So this is where you guys come in. I need some advice. Tell me what to do. Vote to the right. And my parents are only allowed to vote once.

If they haven't already died from a heart attack after reading this.

Sweaty old man balls


Oh my god trying to lose weight sucks balls so bad. Big wrinkled sweaty smelly bloated old man balls and I hate it.

I worked out five days last week. FIVE DAYS! And I ate Lean Shitusine every day for lunch. And by Friday I lost a pound and a half.

Great, right?

So I took a break from the gym this weekend, mainly because it was starting to feel like someone tied one end of a rubber band around my knee and the other end to a Buick and hit the gas. Just a little break - no big deal, right?

Oh no, it was a big deal. A big fat hairy deal. I stepped on the scale this morning and saw that I had gained two pounds from Friday.

What the hell, man?! I just took two days off! And ate a little cheese spread. A jar of cheese spread. But two pounds? I weigh more now than when I started. Awesome.

So this morning I decided to mix it up by taking a break from the treadmill and found a whole new way to torture myself with a Zumba class.

I would like to begin this story by sharing some common knowledge: my dance moves are straight raw. I am definitely the best dancer of my friends. And usually pretty much everyone on the dance floor. And it's always been that way.

So I fully expected that by the end of the Zumba class the teacher would offer her tearful resignation and beg me to share the brilliant and unparallelled talent god had blessed me with by teaching all future classes. Then everyone would gather round me and cheer as I was crowned Master Zumba.

Then the music started.

It was some 128 beats per minute Spanish mess that everyone, including the 80-year-old woman in front of me with a cat on her t-shirt knew the moves to. Well, no matter. I'll pick it up soon enough. But there were arms flying here and feet flying there and at one point I was just jumping up and down while slapping myself repeatedly in the face.

But as I mentioned I am an awesome dancer and it didn't take long for me to master most of the moves. I incorporated my own freestyle choreography into the mix and soon I was the belle of the ball.

Then the old lady with the cat on her shirt moved out of the way and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Holy hell. I looked like I woke up strapped to a gurney and was desperately trying to free myself with my elbows.

This isn't how I looked in my head! Is this how I always look when I dance? I tried some of my more popular moves and yes... I still looked like a big white douche bag.

I tried to use old lady cat as a mirror shield but I couldn't keep up.

Oh the humanity! I was a train wreck!

Driving home I had an entirely new perspective on my life. I questioned everything I thought I knew. Was the sky even blue? Was this jar of peanut butter I was eating even made with real peanuts?

After I polished off the peanut butter I had a revelation. Of course! How could I have been so stupid? I knew exactly why my moves had been little stiff.

Next Monday I'm showing up to the class drunk.

Pants of truth

Happy Friday people!

As I mentioned a few days ago, this week was my first official week of getting back into pre-baby shape. Or as I also like to call it - What The Fuck Just Popped In My Back, or I Didn't Know I Could Hurt There.

I realized that I have a long, long way to go. I mean, I can't even keep my water bottle in the drink holder on the treadmill because when I run I shake the treadmill so hard that it keeps falling off.

I actually think my low point came yesterday in the middle of my abs class when it felt like someone was taking a blow torch to my jelly roll and the instructor said "Ok! We've almost got those abs warmed up!"

It was around this time that I seriously considered staking out her car, flattening her tires, then using whatever instrument I used to flatten her tires to stab her in the face. Many times.

Anyhoo, I have decided to implement a new segment on the blog that I'm calling "Pants of Truth". I have a pair of jeans that I love that as you can see here I used to wear with ease. No lube or jaws of life necessary to squeeze in or pry out.

My goal is to one day fit into these jeans again. I realize it might never happen, but what better motivation to fit into a pair of jeans than sharing a picture of yourself not fitting in those jeans with thousands of people.

Which is exactly what I'm going to do every Friday.

So here's week one.

You can see Lila in her little co-sleeper behind me vomiting at the sight of the back side.

It's not pretty. But that's just how it is with the Pants of Truth. Nobody said it would be pretty.

At least this time I didn't post a picture

Last night my single friend Carrie came over to do my hair and regale me with stories about what life is like on the outside. I always get a little nervous when my single or child-free friends come over because I feel like I'm recruiting for Team Family.

That's what happens once you have kids - you want as many other people to have kids as possible because the less single people there are in the world the less people there are to remind you about what life is like without hauling the plow of responsibility with a yoke locked around your neck.

Every time I run into someone single, whether it be in the grocery store or in my house, I'm in recruitment mode and pray my kids act on their best behavior.
"Join us" I whisper as I pass by.

Anyhoo, my hair was so gross it was almost illegal so Carrie came to my rescue.

Carrie: blah blah fabulous time at the bar the other night blah blah fabulous business trip blah blah I can do anything I want no responsibility blah blah blah I'm getting plenty of sleep.


Right about the time I started feeling the awesome sweetness of the magical chemicals burn my scalp I went to pick Lila up from her swing when I saw the oh too familiar brown circle of death from her waist to her armpits.


It had been 9 days since she had pooped. Do you have any comprehension of what 9 days of poop looks like? I put her on the changer and ran upstairs to get more diapers, leaving Carrie downstairs.


So it was.

I came back downstairs and found Carrie removing her uterus on my couch. There was nothing left to do but put a towel over Lila, put her in a bath and chalk this one up to unfortunate timing.

Another one bites the dust.


For whatever reason, Elliot has started moo-ing in her crib. It's been going on for two days.

I prefer not to ask questions that I don't want to know the answer to.

Wild Thing

So here's where things get fun.

Last week I was at my baby land breaking point and started hiding under the kitchen table with a butcher knife to slice at Nick's Achilles when he got too close. Seriously, people - I was living in Bitchville. I can't pinpoint the exact reason but I think the number of times I read Little Pea is directly proportionate to my level of bitchiness.

I mean, really - how the hell can anyone enjoy hearing the same story over and over and over? But every time I open the book she breaks out in an ear to ear grin like it's the first time she's ever heard it. Therefore I read it.

So by Thursday Nick was practically pushing me out the door to blow off some steam at a kickin Halloween party with my friends Angie and Dan.

Of course I dressed as Snookie, complete with orange face paint that smelled very flammable. That also didn't wash off for like three days.

Sadly, my social agenda is such that it doesn't really matter if I have orange face. No one at the rapid scan safety and emissions testing place or the Taco Bell drive through cared that I had orange face.

The party is an annual event, put on by one of the companies I used to work with when I was still working at the advertising agency. Their parties are always off the chain but this year we were promised a performance by a Grammy award winning artist.

You can imagine why I had to screw my head back on my neck when I saw it was Tone Loc and Digital Underground. The two people who just that morning had been sending magical rhythms through my ear buds encouraging me not to vomit as I nearly jiggled to death on the treadmill.

And of course I had to rush the stage when Tone Loc sang Wild Thing.

Yup - that's me and Tone. That's what I call him now.

And yes, that's Humpty. I can almost see his fake nose hairs.

As I was rocking the crowd with all of my best moves including the running man in my Snookie costume I was like BABY WHO?! Little Pea... NEVER HEARD OF HIM!

It was quite a departure from where I had been just three hours prior - looking at the business end of a diaper and wondering when Ellie ate green peppers.

Anyhoo, being close enough to two of my favorite hip hop icons to get contact high from their clothing I couldn't help but think one thing - man these dudes look OLD! So I did the math (and then looked it up on Wikipedia) and Humpty is like almost 50. Holy shit! If he's that old then what does that make me?

But I didn't care. Even though I've heard their music almost every day for the past 20 years, I just danced my ass off with an ear to ear grin like it was the first time I'd ever heard the song.

Humpty Hump is my Little Pea.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming


Oh my lovelies - how I've missed you. Without the blog I've had nowhere to confess my deepest darkest secrets so I've taken to talking to myself even more than usual. In an effort not to look like a freak who talks to herself in public I've been walking around with a Bluetooth device in my ear.

I guess douche bag is better than freak.

The good news is that I made some great progress on my book. I'm about half way through the second draft and worked on it enough to never want to see it again which is pretty much what I was going for.

The bad news is that through my research I discovered that I'm not the only one in the world who had the brilliant idea to write a book. Most publishers have put a freeze on buying new manuscripts, especially those from new authors, so I've been looking into self-publishing.

Along with 4,000 other people a week.

That's how many books are self-published every week. Four THOUSAND. And of those the average book sells 150-200 copies. That's basically everyone who came to our wedding. So if all my extended family and college drinking buddies commit to buying a book then I'll be considered a roaring success.

In the midst of all this writing I had my 6 week postpartum check up with J.T. my trusty O.B. last week and he delivered the horrible news that I'd been dreading.

Everything looks great. Everything healed beautifully. I can resume normal activity.

The 11-month gravy train is over.


I'd forgotten how miserable it is to be held accountable for everything I ate, the overwhelming guilt the scale brings without a scapegoat and how dreadful it is to actually sweat at the gym vs. just showing up and walking around fishing for compliments about how wonderful I am that I'm at the gym even though I'm pregnant.

It's all awful.

But I have to say that I'm beyond ready to get this weight off. I never got down to my pre-Ellie pregnancy weight when I got pregnant with Lila, probably because I got pregnant with her when I was still recovering in the maternity ward.

So now that I've decided we're not having another baby until I'm 76 I have some time to slim down and have set five fitness goals for myself:

1. Don't vomit when walking up a flight of stairs
2. Get the skin on my stomach back to looking like normal skin rather than an elephant wearing a cheesecloth cummerbund filled with cake batter
3. Have one of those muscle defining lines separating my muscles in my shoulder and biceps so I'll look hot when I wear a sleeveless shirt
4. Lose 15 pounds by March 1, when Nick and I will be going on our first vacation in 500 years
5. Run the 1/2 marathon in the rock and roll marathon next October

But mainly just don't vomit when walking up a flight of stairs.

My MP3 player is loaded and I have new tennis shoes so white that Helen Keller could use them as a flashlight. Now all I need is just to get to the gym. Oh, and cut back on my box a day pancake habit.

Yup, just those two things. Two simple things.

Yup... ok, here I go. I'm going. Right... now. Going now... here I go.

Gone Fishin'


So as of last week I've had over 2,000 visitors to this blog and all I can pray is that only a small percentage of you people are pedophile kidnappers.

When I quit my job a few months ago I had envisioned that my life at home with Ellie would consist of us sitting around a make up table in our slippers with a couple of glasses of wine while we talked about boys. However, my first morning at home we stared at each other for about an hour until Ellie was finally like "ummm, this has been fun but I've got a thing" and hopped into the Escalade which had been idling outside leaving me lonely and alone eating pancakes and watching Maury Povich.

I quickly realized I was going to need a hobby. It was about negative fifty degrees outside which meant that sunbathing was out so I started writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote and before I knew it I had finished the first draft of a book. Walking out of Kinko's with the bound draft in my hand I knew one thing - that if I never laid eyes on the book again it would be too soon. I was completely burned out and needed to table it indefinitely.

But then I was left with the same problem I had before. Pancakes and Maury while Ellie was out flossing around town in the Escalade. So I decided to fire up the old blog I had started a couple of years before, never in a million years expecting that after only three months I'd be exposing my innermost secrets to thousands of strangers who are hopefully not pedophile kidnappers.

And it's been totally awesome. I can't tell you how much I love hearing from you all and knowing that I'm not alone as I fumble through Motherhood. That's the hard part - waking up every day thinking you're the only one in the world who has ever felt the way you do. At least now I know that my kids aren't going to be the only ones sniffing glue in the back of the classroom.

Anyhoo, long story short I think I'm finally ready to jump back in and tackle the second draft. Because my free time during the day is extremely limited and therefore I must multi task and type while I pee, I'm going to take a short break from the blog.

Don't worry... it's just for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, feel free to send wine.