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.