So smoke your marijuanikkah!

Happy Hanukkah to all of my Jewish blog readers :)

(Do I have jewish blog readers?)

Evaneezer

That's Evan, preparing to cut down our Christmas tree. The trees were priced by the foot, and the one we picked had a stray branch, sticking up a good 4" from the top. He whipped out his leatherman and proceeded to hack it off, proudly announcing "I just saved us $3"

Further proof that I married the tightest of wads.

Ebola

i think I'm dying. I hate being sick. Especially when Cecilia isn't sick, and doesn't think the idea of sleeping the whole day is very appealing. I tried to convince her that laying in bed for extended periods of time is actually very refreshing and makes me happy, but she wasn't having it.

Oh, and I hate the new blogger. It's a pain in my ass and makes my head hurt. Go to hell, blogger beta, go to hell. You are probably in cahoots with my screaming child, competing to see who can make my head hurt more. It's a close race, blogger beta, but I think you're winning. At least my screaming child is cute. You are obnoxious and confusing.

Excuse me while I go medicate.

50 times on the blackboard

I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog. I will not ignore my blog.

Things you have to believe to be a republican

1. Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary.

2. Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.

3. Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.

4. The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iran.

5. A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.

6. The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches, while slashing veterans' benefits and combat pay.

7. If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.

8. A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money.

9. Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy, but providing health care to all Americans is socialism. HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.

10. Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.

11. A president lying about an extra-marital affair is an impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.

12. Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.

13. The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving and military records are none of our business.

14. Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness and you need our prayers for your recovery.

15. What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '60s is irrelevant.

SO THERE!

Jersey Born, Jersey Bred, Jersey Trash Till I'm dead!

Yeah, I'm from Jersey, have been all my life. I'm gonna give you everything about jersey, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

First... New Jersey people are conceited. It's true. We hate everyone else. And we think we are better than everyone else. And we never stop talking about how great jersey is. Then we tell people to "shut the fuck up" when they tell us all we talk about is jersey. I just recently was in the south ... and I can honestly say, that I do think I am better than them. It's not my fault. It's cause I'm from jersey. My friends and I were the rudest, most obnoxious people there. Everyone just stared at us. Then we saw other rude people, and I asked them where they were from. They said jersey.

Why are New Jersey people self centered? Because we have reason to be.

Next, some of the most famous people have come from our state. Just to name A FEW... Frank Sinatra, Bruce Springsteen, The Bouncing Souls, Kevin Smith, Whitney Houston, Martha Stewart, Lauryn Hill, Catch 22, Anne Hathaway, Queen Latifa, My Chemical Romance, Bon Jovi, Jack Nicholson, Bruce Willis, The Four Seasons, Danny Devito, Tom Cruise .. and the list Goes on.

Not only do we have famous people, we rank in the top 10 of smartest states every year.

Not only are we smart & famous...we're rich. Bergen, Somerset, Morris, & Hunderton counties rank in the countries top 15 richest counties. And despite the slums of Newark (yes, Newark, not New-ark) & Camden which are some of the countries most dangerous places to live, we have 4 of the top 10 safest cities to live in the US.

And we smell? Yeah, we do. New Jersey smells like ASS. On the turnpike, between exits 14 and 17. That's like, 5 percent of the entire state.. Bayonne, Port Newark, and Secaucus. And the surrounding areas. That's it. The majority of the state smells like trees. Because the majority of the state is trees. In fact, three of New Jersey's cities rank in the countries top 10 least polluted cities. So shove it.

New Jersey is ideal. I live 1 hour away from New York City, 1 hour away from Philly, 45 minutes from AC, and 2 seconds away from the famous jersey shore, which by the way is amazing. You think your beach is better? Fuck you. Why do you think MTV's true life had an episode titled "I'm a Jersey Shore girl." Because it's the best fucking shore in the country.

My house is 3 minutes to the nearest mall, 5 minutes to the next, and a 10 to the next. I just Counted 7 malls within a half hour of my house. Find me another state that has all that to offer.

Yeah, we have accents. Who gives a shit? Everyone has an accent. And no, we don't say "Joisey." We do say "cawfee and tawk." But I can tell you it's a hell of a better accent than you bitches from the south.

Hungry? Don't worry. We have 24 hour diners. A million of them. We also have Hoboken which has some of the finest places to eat. And you have not had real Italian food until you come here. Okay?

And WE can't drive? NO.. YOU can't drive. In the south the speed limit signs read: speed limit 60.. minimum 45. WHAT? That's why you people can't drive. Who has a minimum speed limit? New Jersey drivers like pissing other people off solely because of the reputation. This is what we will do...just so you know...if we see an out of state license plate, we'll tailgate your ass. Probably because you're only doing the speed limit & we want to go 20 over. Then, we'll cut you off... and go slow in front of you. Because we can. And because when you go home you're gonna complain about us. We like it, it doesn't bother us….it's what we want.

We like fast things. Things move too slow in other states. You can tell that someone's from New Jersey by the way they walk. They walk really fast and have a strut that says "I'm better than you."

Just shut the fuck up. If you go to Seaside boardwalk or Belmar. You'll probably see some of the trashiest, skankiest girls & some of the most guido, gelled up hair, armani exchange wearing boys that take too many steroids and have too much sex… And pretty much about 99% of them are mocked upon being from New York and all.

The majority of Jersey people are Italian, or wish they were. We drink & smoke way too much. Oh yeah and we throw the sickest parties ... in the woods.

What else? Giants, Jets, Nets, and of course the Devils. They're
better than you. So shut the fuck up. And we have more Yankee fans than New York City. Come to jersey with a sox hat on ... I fuckin' dare you!

And oh yeah, we say "yo." Often. And "fuck." I don't complain that you say "y'all" so don't complain that I say "yo."

To sum up New Jersey, yeah, most of the stereotypes are true, probably for about 5 percent of the state. The rest of the state is beautiful.

And yeah, we hate you. We love ourselves. Wanna know why? Because all you bitches hate us. How would you feel if the other 49 states spent all their time talking shit? We deserve to be our own country cause we're that cool.

On Marriage:

"Maybe he isn't cheating or anything. Maybe he's sneaking off to George Bush meetings. Maybe he's a republican. Oh God, THAT'S SO MUCH WORSE!"
-Amber

Happy Halloween

From me and my Bumbles Bee!!

The Uneasy Rider

Me and my buddy got us some wild hair and we figured we wanted to go somewhere, so we loaded up in my ragtop Chevrolet. We had a little bit of money and a whole lot of show, and with Hank Jr. blarin' on the radio we got a tank full of gas and we were on our way. We figured we'd go down to New Orleans, we were barreling down ol' 17 when a man with a blinking red light was on our tail.

He said "You were doing 60 in a 45, but I'm gonna let you go this time, but if I catch you again, I'll put you in the county jail,"

We said "Thank you sir, you've sure been nice, you won't have to tell us twice." and we were southbound with the wind blowing in our faces.

We kept on rolling, and pretty soon the radio was kicking out a haggard tune and we were pulling into Houston and checkin' out all those places. I was feeling dry and I said "I think we ought to stop and get ourselves a drink" And ol' Jim said "yeah, 'cause we've got time to kill."

We kept on rollin' and I seen this spot and we pulled into the parking lot of a place called The Cloud 9 Bar and Grill. We walked through the door and the place was jammed, the lights were low, they had a punk rock band with some orange haired fella singing about suicide. I said "Jim, this ain't our kind of place..." and he said "well, let's just have one round anyways."

So against my better judgement we walked on inside, went up to the bar and we sat down, this fella walked up and said "I'll buy this round" and sat down on the barstool next to Jim. He looked like a girl but talked like a guy; had lipstick on and mascara on his eyes, and everyone in that bar looked just like him.

I said "Jim this ain't our kind of bar, let's just and get back in the car, there's gonna be trouble, no sense in taking a chance." We were getting up, gettig ready to leave when somebody grabbed ol' Jim by the sleeve; it was this good looking girl and she was asking my buddy to dance. I said "Jim don't do, theres something missing, theres fellas dancing and fellas kissing, there's a fella in high heeled shoes wearing pantyhose!"

He said "Partner, I just can't turn this down, you go over and have one more round, I'll dance with the lady and we'll get back on the road."

So he walked away and left me alone, and this funny looking fella kept coming on, and he was making me mad with some of the things he was saying. And then he put his hand on my knee, I said "If you don't get your hands off me, I'm gonna locate your nose on the wrong side of your head."

He said "I love it when you get that fire in your eyes!"

Heh..well, partner, try this on for size...I unloaded on him and he went out like a light. Everybody in that place must've been his friend, they all headed for me I thought 'this is the end,' but where i come from we don't give up without a fight. They were screaming and yelling and punching and pawing, I was punching and hitting and kicking and clawing. I was holding my own (cause I've been in a scrap or two.)

Ol' Jim came running up out of the blue, and the girl he was with came running up to, and proceeded to beat on me with her high heeled shoe. I grabbed her by the hair, it came off in my hand - that beautiful girl was just a beautiful man. Ol' Jim just got sick right there on the floor. He dropped that dude like a shot for a gun, smeared "her" lipstick and made her make up run, and me and O'l Jim started fighting our way to the door.

Man, we let outta there in my Chevrolet, I put it on the floor and it stayed that way we were going down the highway doing about 110. We were headed for home and we were getting near when a red light came up in the rearview mirror. It was that SAME damn cop pulling us over again.

We were sitting there in the county jail, I had to call my Daddy to throw our bail, but i learned me a lesson I never will forget...

I done give drinkin'
I give up bars
And running round the country in suped up cars

I'm going back where the women are women and the men are men

Vive la gloves

Heh...nevermind the fact that I got cashmere gloves for Christmas last year, long live the hippie gloves :)

All my words come back to me, in shades of mediocrity

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can't find their children.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.

For all the mothers of the victims of a school shooting, and the mothers of the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TV's in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to School alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

This is for all the mothers that sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired two-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips -- sometimes until they bleed -- when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomachaches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse and hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all.

"Home" is what catches you when we fall - and we all fall.

When I Rule the World

Paul: I think I'm gonna form my own stateless people and it's own government. And we're gonna declare war on religion.

Me: Sweet. I wanna be VP. "Vote for Paul and me...because...well...it's our country and we're running unopposed!" I can see it now. Like how I turned your stateless people into our country?

Paul: And we'll be like, "Look, Muslims, just because you don't like a cartoon or an opera doesn't mean you get to blow shit up. Christians, just because you're offended by everything that's fun doesn't mean you get to ruin it for the rest of us. Jews, well, yeah you've been persecuted for a few thousand years, but you own all the media and banks, so stop bitching. Buddhists...well...uh...I guess you haven't really done anything to piss me off. You just kinda sit there and say 'It's all gonna be alright, duuuuude.' But be sure that you stay that way. That is all."

Like Mother, Like Daughter

'Nuff said.

Woot. Look at me! I'm keeping a promise!

Wow, it's like New Year's in August with this resolution and all. I suppose that's fitting, since there's Christmas in July - which, if you live in my house, comes complete with christmas music courtesy of Pokechop the iPod.

H'anyway, I know I promised blogs with pictures, and I know you're all terribly disappointed that this blog will not be discussing anything that I promised to discuss from the previous post, but it's my blog, dammit, and I'm going to wax poetic for a while, because my husband doesn't want to hear it.

Lucky you.

It doesn't feel it, but it's fall here. The temperature is still balmy, still humid, still oppressive. The leaves are slowly yellowing and dropping into the impatiens in the back yard. Driving with Cecilia today, a birch tree has lost the majority of it's leaves. Those are always my favorite kind to step on, they have good "crunch."

I'm sure the hurricane spinning off the coast is helping the leaves to drop, even if they aren't quite ready. It hasn't made landfall yet, but already, even 300 miles north, the winds are kicking up that moist air, and the sky is ominous. I love it. I love hurricanes. Ernesto is making me terribly homesick.

Growing up when a hurricane would hit the coast, we'd pile into the truck after the eye wall had shifted and the sun would be out for an hour or two. We would drive to the beach, and look at the wave ravaged shore. Sometimes, after a particularly vicious one, like Gloria, we'd only be able to get within a few blocks of the beach, because we'd be met on the way by a tidal flood.

But on days where we could see the beach, it was amazing. The waves were huge, and dark, churning with the bottom of the sea all caught up in the salty water. You could taste the spray from the boardwalk and feel the mist on your eyelashes once you were closer. Hurricane waves always brought the best shells, but most were usually broken. Every once in a while, a giant intact conch shell, or huge oyster shell would be laying on the beach, waiting to be taken home, and my sister and I were always happy to oblige.

And now, in Virginia, closer to the mountains than the shore, I watch the hurricane approach on the weather station. From my window I can see the trees starting to bend over the neighbor's splitlevel house. Not how it should be - it changes a powerful hurricane into just another rainy day. I'm guessing it will take with it the last of summer, and before long, all the trees will be bare, and we'll be settling in for another winter, tucked inside our little house.

Neglected, but not forgotten

During a conversation with the lovely Lauren, today, she tactfully reminded me I needed to post by saying "You need to blog something, I'm tired of seeing the "Squishalicious" one."

I have a blog?

Heh...oh right. I do have a blog.

So, it's not that I have been intentionally neglecting the blog, because in all actuality, I have several posts in queue, but have been too busy(no.) hectic(no.) LAZY(yes, that's the right word) to put them up. Blogs about random things I get in the mail (with pictures), blogs about the day that Lauren singlehandedly lifted the motorcycle (with pictures!), blogs about the day a 6' hole appeared in my house (with pictures!) and blogs about the fact that my baby isn't a baby anymore and it makes me sob (which will probably also have pictures.)

And so, starting tomorrow, i hereby declare that I will no longer ignore my blog, just to make my Lauren happy*


*Disclaimer: I will no longer consciously ignore my blog. However, this does not take into consideration lags in posting due to weather, fatigue, grumpiness, the fact that the president is an asshat, sheer forgetfulness, lack of ambition, lack of enthusiasm, lack of working internets, headaches, backaches, muscle spasms or days where it's too nice to stay inside.

Squish-a-licious

Being the type of mom who is a firm believer in letting babies be babies, dinner time at our house makes for quite the adventure. Cecilia has recently discovered that not only does she have hands that fit in her mouth, she has hands that can grab other things and squish them around and bring them to her mouth.

She likes being part of the table activities. She's not content in her swing, or god forbid, the bouncy chair, but will sit content on someone's knee, with her hands on the table as if waiting for her plate of food. She usually has a napkin to tear up, or my keys to jingle, but sometimes she gets an extra special something to play with, like the fresh whipped cream from dessert.

The Newbie

We have a new resident here on Costa Dr. PeterPeterSkeeterEater. I lubs him

It's Jemma Time!

My sister is here for the week, all the way from NJ! YAY!! JEMMA TIME!

Well, that's creepy.

So I'm sitting here in my mostly dark dining room, distracting myself from writing the 40 some thank you's I still have left to write on Cecilia's behalf from the Christening, and I happen upon Laurens blog (by the way, have you seen Lauren? She's about this tall, and very pretty, and funny and smells pretty good and has a buick. If you find her, can you point her in my direction? She's missed on Costa Dr.) and I leave a snarky comment, as always, and I notice next to the 'type these funny looking letters into the box" box, there's a little blue man in a wheel chair.

Hm. Intrastink.

So, I click the little blue man in the wheel chair, and through my computer comes a bit of eerie white noise, followed by some weird girl saying things like "one...one...one...one..."

AHHH.

I turned my speakers off, because really, in the dark, it was THAT weird. I regained my wits and turned them back on, and this time heard and man and a woman "Three...three..six....nine....three" What the hell? Why are the creepy voices in a wheelchair? What will become of the crooked letters if I click them? Why do I care so much?

Oh right. Because I don't want to write thank yous.

Cecilia's Rules for Life

#1. Eat. Eat often. Pretend like you don't want to eat when you really do. scream like someone is beating you until you get fed.

#2. Sleep will come when Cecilia says so. No amount of patting, rocking, walking, jostling, nursing, singing or any other verb will help expidite the process

#3. The aforementioned sleep will only occur when the magic nipple of slumber is less than three inches from the greedy mouth. Sleep positions include, but are not limited to: hogging 3/4 of the bed by sleeping diagonal between two grown adults; laying in koala position on mom or dads chest; side sleeping with legs in such a position so that every trickle that goes into the diaper miraculously misses the super absorbant huggie and lands directly on the new $100 egyptian cotton sheets.

#4. The world is my teether.

#5. Do not nap. Wait for mom to finish telling someone I don't nap. Promptly fall asleep in her arms and stay asleep until that someone leaves

#6. I will only poop in a clean, dry diaper. If my diaper is slightly damp, I will wait for you to change me, and then upon hearing the snap of my onesie, I will explode, warranting a second changing. This will occur daily.

Dear Lauren,

Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity

if I was the type of hippie who plastered her car with bumper stickers (thankfully, I am not, though someday I aspire to be one) I would probably spend most of my husbands paycheck here.
Click, and be a liberal :)

The many faces of Cecilia Grace

The stuffed baby:


The happy baby:


The sad baby:


The Blair Witch baby:

Think Different

Here's to the crazy ones.
The misfits.
The rebels.
The trouble-makers.
The round heads in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently.

They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius.

Because the only people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world,
are the ones who do."
- Apple Computer Advertisement

You make me happy when skies are grey

I know you are, but what am I?

You Are a Frappacino

At your best, you are: fun loving, sweet, and modern At your worst, you are: childish and over indulgent You drink coffee when: you're craving something sweet Your caffeine addiction level: low

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

Baddest toad in the whole damn town





Wild animals are never in short supply here on Costa drive, what with the poisonous snakes, bats, foxes, and now - toads. This is Leroy. He lives in my flowers. Evan is completely smitten with him, and searches for him in the evenings as Leroy hops across the sidewalk to get to the other lines of begonias.

Twice, he's brought Leroy into the house to show him to me, which wouldn't be a problem, except Leroy is an escape artist and doesn't really like to be held. Now he's banned from the inside of the house.

But I do like having him in my flowers. And I think he eats bugs. Another brownie point for Leroy.

Heck Yes

Off'd a Hoffa who?

We think he's around here somewhere...

So, the FBI finally has its ass in gear, 30+ years later to find the body of Jimmy Hoffa.

That would be wonderful, except they're looking in the wrong place. Being from Jersey and all, I long stood by the idea that good ol' Jimmy was stashed under the 50 yard line of Giants Stadium. However, that was before I moved to Costa Dr.

Since moving here, our dog Guido has developed a more than freaky habit of staring at the landing, directly at the empty space between ceiling and floor. Being a devout Sylvia Brown fan, I know, of course, that this could only mean one thing - Guido was seeing a ghost.

I tried to compile a list of people who I thought it could be, but really, there's no one it could be other than good ol' Jimmy. And so, armed with that knowledge, I sprung it on my husband, demanding he rip out the (already loose and crumbly) drop ceiling under the spot where Guido stares.

After agreeing with my stellar plan* he could hardly contain himself** as he tore down ceiling tiles. Much to my dismay, we couldnt see the spot we*** were hoping to, and we stood staring at one another, stale, stained ceiling tiles swimming around our ankles.




From what we could see, there was nada. However, after pulling back some paneling, we found a really spooky and completely out of place wall:


That could totally conceal a teamster. So, I'm still holding out hope.


* Read: after calling me a freak, and saing he wasn't going to rip out the ceiling, no matter who was buried in it
** Read: he ripped it out anyway, because at the time, his wife was 9 months pregnant and her moods were wild and scary
*** Read: I

So, I had me a baby

Cecilia Grace
born: April 26th 2006
7:19 pm
7lbs 3oz
19.5 inches long


In case you're wondering, that's what perfection looks like :)

What a drag it is getting old

Mother needs something today to calm her down
And though she's not really ill
There's a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day.

Last week I had a doctor's appointment, at which I brought up the fact that I'm 99.9% sure that the baby is systematically gnawing my right hip into oblivion. Not wanting to appear to be quite the whiner that I am in real life, I added that I'm okay during the day, for the most part, but since I fell down my front porch steps (did I mention that? Slipped right down them. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Very embarassing) the pain at night while I was trying to fall asleep was keeping me up, and as a result, I was being a very grouchy girl and the dog and my husband cowered in fear constantly. I was hinting I wanted a pain killer....some sort of a tylenol3, or something with codeine, maybe. Instead she gave me a sleeping pill. 30 sleeping pills, actually.

"Men just aren't the same today,"
I hear every mother say
They just don't appreciate that you get tired
They're so hard to satisfy. You can tranquilize your mind
So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper
And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight.

And so, Thursday night I anxiously cracked open my $45 dollar prescription, and dumped out a palmfull of the tiniest medication I've ever laid my eyes on. Seriously, kids, we're talking grains of sand. Okay, grains of really big grainy sand. I stuck one to the tip of my finger and poured the rest in and then read the warning labels, while carefully balancing my sand grain pill on my finger. "May cause drowsiness" Heh. "Take on an empty stomach" Curious. I tried to remember when I had last eaten, and decided if i couldn't remember, I couldn't possibly be full, right? "Do no operate heavy machinery" They must mean things like dishwashers and vacuums, I'm certain of it. I wiped the little pill onto my tongue and drank some juice and settled in for a blissful night's sleep in which i have "devoted at minimum 7-8 hours" as per directions. it was going to be bliss I just knew it.

"Things are different today,"
I hear ev'ry mother say
Cooking fresh food for a husband's just a drag
So she buys an instant cake and she burns her frozen steak
And goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper

It did work, I was out pretty quick. Unfortunately, when I awoke in agony two hours later I was much too groggy to be able to roll my sorry self over, and too out of it to coordinate any sort of movement, so I laid there half heartedly attempting to flop, all the while feeling like I was made of a water balloon. Eventually, I decided comfort was over rated, and went back to sleep. To my dismay, though, I was awake again in another hour or so, having to pee, like always. This time I couldn't ignore it, and made my mind up to get myself to the bathroom. It was an event. Did you know that hardwood floors turn into jello at night? And the walls coat themselves with some slick substance that makes leaning on them impossible. And lightswitches move on their own. It seriously wasn't where I left it before I went to bed. Once that was discovered, I proceeded to marvel at just how soft the bathmat was under my feet, and then contemplated going to sleep just sitting on the toilet, because it was THAT comfortable. But my mother stormed the bathroom, demanding to know what "in the hell I was doing" and put me back in bed.

Life's just much too hard today,"
I hear ev'ry mother say
The pursuit of happiness just seems a bore
No more running to the shelter of a mother's little helper
What a drag it is getting old.

I had a dream...

Last night I had the most bizarre dream. This pregnancy has been full of odd dreams, but this one really got me, and I've been thinking about it all day while slaving over my petunia beds in the front yard.


I was walking in the woods with Evan, my parents and sister. It wasn't winter, because we weren't bundled up, but there was still bits of slushy snow in the shady spots, so early spring, maybe? We were walking in a row, my father leading, then my mother, my sister, I was behind her, and Evan was behind me.

I could smell the wet earth and leaves, and feel the soil squishing under my shoes. It was overcast, but the clouds were a very light grey, making things fairly bright. I was watching my sisters ponytail bob in front of me as she walked, and then the next thing I knew, my Aunt Jennie was beside me.

I was pretty upset, seeing as how she died in May 2002, and I looked to see if anyone else could see her, but my whole family was just walking along this path in the woods.

She started talking to me, I could feel her breath on my cheek, feel the curls of her hair brushing against mine. She told me my mom would have to go to the hospital in January, but not to worry, because it would be okay. She said that the baby would be here on the 1st of May, and that my Grandfather watched over me everyday to make sure she and I are both okay. She said "Even" (She always did call Evan that) was a good man, with a good heart, and he loved me more than he shows on most days. She told me she loved me, and to keep an eye out for my sister. And then she squeezed my arm and she wasn't there anymore.



So yeah. Weird. If she's born on the first, I'm probably going to have a heart attack.

Llama Llama Duck

Heh. Funny.

Who's in your hell?

General asshats
Circle I Limbo

Virginia Drivers
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind

Scientologists
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow

Holier-than-thou's
Circle IV Rolling Weights

Creationists
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled

River Styx

The Gittens
Circle VI Buried for Eternity

River Phlegyas

Lawyers
Circle VII Burning Sands

Republicans
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement

George Bush
Circle IX Frozen in Ice

Design your own hell

Your Call Is Very Important To Us

While sitting on the phone with C.L.U.E. (which is the Comprehensive Loss Underwriting Exchange for those of you not in the know) for the umpteenth hour, I had a revelation.

I think that somewhere in Middle America...Wyoming maybe, I haven't worked out all the details...H'anyway. Somewhere in Middle America, there is a call center that fields every single customer service call ever placed. This universal call center, which services such operations as the health insurance companies, government agencies, the phone company, all credit cards, computer help, and the DMV, is staffed by the following ten employees:

1. The Surfer- "Uhh...Um..Yeah, Like, I'd like TOTALLY like to help you out with that dude, but uhh, yeah, hold on"
2. The Vally Girl- "Like, Ohmigod, I SO can't believe that we billed that wrong! Hold on, I'll fix it for you fer shure" all punctuated with snaps of her bubble gum
3. Gramdma Moses- "..............thank..........you...........for..........calling..........my......name........is..............."
4. The Rocket Scientist- "The reason that you aren't reaching the solution that you are seeking is because the quadratic formula when applied to Satan's theory doesn't mesh up with the XY coordinates of the pythagorean theorum"
5. The Newbie from Calcutta- No one is ever quite sure what the newbie from Calcutta is saying
6. The Whisperer - No one is ever quite sure what the whisperer is saying either, because she talks so low you have to squish the phone to one ear while plugging the other with your finger
7. The Web Junkie- "The answer to all of your questions can be found on www dot.."
8. The Liar - "That problem has already been fixed, and in fact, you'll be getting a refund shortly"
9. The Terminally Stupid- Alot like the surfer, minus the charm and the tan "uh...um...so...your question is about...um...what did you say again?"
10. The Supervisor- This person may or may not actually exist. No one has ever been able to get a supervisor on the phone to discuss the reason for calling. I almost got to talk to one, once, but the call was mysteriously disconnected. What an odd coincidence.


Being quite pleased with my new theory, I decided that I need reasons to validate my ideas.

For starters, my theory would explain why it takes 90 minutes to reach a live person. With only nine people actually answering phones, and one elusive supervisor floating around, no wonder it takes so long to connect.

Second of all, it would explain that no matter what company's customer service I call into, I get the same nine idiots who can't help me.

Disprove me. I dare you :)

I think it's time to stop going there

By our house, there are several grocery stores...but I'm a grocery snob, and really only like one store, but if I'm in a pinch, or having a serious craving, I'll run into the Giant and pay their outrageous prices for the convenience of it all.

Anyway, tonight I walked in with Evan, because I had ravioli boiling on the stove, and much to my dismay, I had no bread to dunk in my delicious home made bolognese sauce. So yeah, into Giant we go, and as soon as we walk through the door, one of the Giant employees looked at us and said "OH!! You're back! What are you craving today?" and laughed.

I looked at Evan in horror - I had no recollection of this person, and they knew about my cravings. "Who was that??" I hissed at him trying to whisper.

He rolled his eyes and said "The woman that sold you SEVEN of those enormous stinky deli pickles"

Oh. Right. Her. Hm...

I wonder if she knows the bread stocker boy who I cornered while I was in tears because I couldn't find the limes.

I think I need to spread my cravings out and evenly distribute them amongst the stores in Dale City, I'm starting to get a reputation

A Peek in the Pod

Herself: In all of her hand-covering-her-face-smiling-for-me glory :)






Yeah, I'm in love.

Holier than thine

While stuck in traffic today approaching the beltway (surprise, surprise) I noticed a gorgeous top of the line, jet black Mercedes Benz a few cars ahead, with a personalized plate. I didn't think much of it, because 8 out 10 cars in Northern Virginia have personalized plates; that is, until we got close enough for me to read what it said.

ISRVGOD

I took this to stand for "I serve God." Right? I can't think of anything else it could be. H'anyway.

That pisses me off. They serve God, in their $50,000 automobile. I wonder how much the pious ones tithe every week. And, I wonder, if they are actually there to put the check in the collection plate, or do they send their check from Our Lady of St. Mattress?

OOooh Lord, won'tchya buy me a Mercedes Benz.....

Things that will make you want to divorce your husband

Or.

"How I spent my Saturday night."

Tonight, Evan and I spent our evening laying flooring. "It's SOOOOOO easy," everyone told us. "It goes together in like, a minute," they said.

Yeah, well, screw you. It certainly does not.

It started with the glueing of asbestos tiles back in place. The tiles, which broke while we were pulling up old tack stripping and now were in 74,143 different shards got apoxy'd down with sludge that was the consistency of peanut butter and smelled like melting plastic, and burned like a mofo when it made contact with flesh - which, I assure, it made plenty of contact with my fingers.

Once the shards were glued in a wreckless jigsaw puzzle, then came the laying of the foam. I liked the idea of foam on my floor, it sounded squishy and delightful under my feet. Yeah, it wasn't. It was flat, and staticky, and kept sticking to our socks, and migrating to places other than where we taped it. Eventually, the foam was taped into place with an ENTIRE roll of heavy duty tape, and we were set to begin with the wood.

The process goes something like this:
1. Squat down, and lay a piece of wood on the floor
2. Stand up and go get two spacers.
3. Squat back down and put the spacers into place and reach over and pull the wood flush to them.
4. Stand and get another piece of wood
5. Squat and snap that wood into the first.
6. Hunch over and use a hammer and a 48lb puller thing to ensure a tight fit.
7. Go deaf from the sound of the hammer hitting the iron puller thing.
8. Put another spacer in
9. Stand back up and get another board
10. Kneel on the floor and measure for your first cut
11. Stand up again, cut the wood, dust off the saw dust
12. Squat back down, attempt to fit cut wood into other pieces
13. Stand back up, knees cracking
14. Shave a tiny bit more off the edge.
15. Snap cut wood into place
16. Use hammer to push tightly against the wall.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Eight four times.

Some married couples do home improvement projects like a well oiled machine....like a team of top notch surgeons. "Hammer....Scalpel.....Spacer....Wood.."

Other married couples do home improvement projects, and all the while contemplate beating the other one with the iron puller thing, or the hammer. Whichever is closer and requires no movement to reach.

Obviously, we are the latter. Between his temper, and my pregnant hormones, I think the only thing that kept us from killing each other was the idea of getting our new floor bloody. Evan resorted to chanting "Di-VORCE" like the football "defense" catcall. I responded by flicking flooring spacers at him....Okay, okay, I stormed out of the room twice in tears and locked myself in the tools/freezer room and refused to come out until he apologized and rubbed my back a little.

At least now we can sit back in our newly floored room, sigh happily and say:

"Thank GOD that's done."

Whatever it takes

On Average, You Would Sell Out For

$1,071,814

At What Price Would You Sell Out?

Why I love my Husband

Today, not one, not two, not three, but seven people asked me when I was due. And then they followed my "May 5th" with another glance at the belly and an "oh."

Tonight, when Evan called, I was still grumpy over this, and I asked how his boss was looking, and this is what came from it.

Me: Is your boss huge yet?
Evan: Yes
Me: Really?
Evan: Yeah, like a balloon
Me: What kind of balloon? Mylar, latex, water, what?
Evan: A zeppelin.

:)

I love that man.

So yeah, I like, totally gave him my number, and was like, "Call me."

So, if there's one thing I have learned from my childhood filled with CCD, it's to promptly baptise your child. If you don't promptly baptise the child, and god forbid something happens to it, the baby won't go to Heaven, or to Hell, but to a weird in between. Forever. FOREVER! That's a really long time to be stuck in the middle of noplace.

Now, this might not actually be the case, and really, it probably isn't what I was supposed to learn in CCD, I most likely have it twisted around backwards, but it's what stuck in my mind, and that, of course, makes it true. And so, with this little tidbit of knowledge stashed in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain, I have been giving a great deal of thought to this baby's baptism. The when's and the where's are rapidly becoming loose plans.

Loose plans can only become solid plans once things fall into place. And things falling into place involve me phoning the Church.

Again, this belongs in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain.

I am terrified to call Church. For some reason, I have this fear that God himself will answer, and the conversation will commence as follows:

GOD- "Hello, Church, God speaking."
ME- ". . ."
GOD- "I know you're there. *ahem* Hello, Church, God speaking."

and then in a haphazard panic I would slam the phone down. I would hang up on God. But really, if that did happen, what would you say to God? Think about it.

In reality, a little woman who sounds like she is no less than 96 years old answers the phone at Church, and you have to repeat everything exactly 478 times, each time louder than the next before she understands what you're talking about. Today, when I called church, the 96 year old woman was named Mary Barbara (isn't that quaint?) and she tried to answer my questions, but couldn't.

"I'll have to have Monseigneur call you back, dear," she said. "What number can you be reached at?"

Instantly, a cold sweat broke on my brow and the hairs on my arms stood up. Have him call me back? In the words of Lauren - That's like giving God your phone number. It's DIRECT ACCESS!

I tried to stammer that I would be calling him back instead, trying to use the guise that it was a toll call, and I wouldn't want the Church to incur the charges, but she persisted.

And that's how God got my phone number.

I am he and you as he as you are me.

24 weeks. More than halfway there.

I can't believe how big I look in pictures. In real life. In general.

Evan's boss is due the same day as me (and set to deliver at the same hospital with the same doctor - I'm pretty sure that I could take her out, if, well, if push comes to shove, and we had to fight over which of us gets to deliver first) Anyway, I always ask him how she looks.

"Does she look pregnant?"

"How is she carrying?"

"Is she bigger than me?"

Now, as any man knows...there is no correct answer to the last question. If he says yes, it implies that he thinks I am big. If he says no, then it really implies that he thinks i'm big - possibly the biggest thing he's ever seen. And so, he usually hangs his head and pretends to be gravely busy in whatever activity he was currently doing, such as pulling fuzz from the quilt, or studying the newest stain on the carpet.

I made the passing comment that I feel like a walrus. And now the Beatles song has been hovering around our house for about a week now.

GooGoo GaJoob, kids.

Tiki Tales

Tiki Tales
Originally uploaded by lilmissimpatient.

As you may have heard, Lauren had a creepy bug on her porch, that she insisted was "cute." But she is wrong. no bug is cute.

H'anyway.

She emailed me a picture of this "cute" bug, which looked just like a Tiki Mask. Despite my valiant efforts to describe WHY it looked like a Tiki Mask (as if it wasn't obvious enough) she still didn't quite see it. So I drew her a picture.

As clearly demonstrated by my stupendous artistic ability - her bug does, in fact, look just like a Tiki.

Don't you agree?

On shopping with a pregnant woman

This evening, Evan and I ventured to the local grocery store, as last night we did the fridge clean out, and were left with a jar of jelly a mostly eaten jar of cinnamon applesauce, and one egg.

We arrived at the store a little before 8pm, hoping to avoid the families of screaming children who inevitably stalk the aisles on weekends waiting to wail in my ear. We started in the fruit section, where I proceeded to put on of everything in the cart. Sometimes more. Apples, grapes, cherries, oranges, kiwi's, green beans, 3 kinds of potatoes, 4 bagged salads...and that was just in the first four minutes of being in the store.

Evan slowly pushed the cart behind my rapidly expanding self, and silently put two of everything I pointed at into the basket. He looked the other way when I ate a raw green bean to see if it was good, and then ate two more, because they were, in fact, good. He touched all of the packages of beef up for approval while i held my shirtsleeve over my nose to keep from gagging. He put four cans of my favorite soup in the basket without me even asking. He scaled the wall of sodas to get me Canada Dry gingerale, since I deemed Seagrams to be unacceptably bitter.

For over two hours we wandered the aisles, our cart overflowing, and the bottom tray completely stuffed full of items. I mused, mostly to myself, about how delicious the things I picked out looked, and I gagged as Evan suggested something other than what I had put in the basket.

By the end of our journey, I'm pretty sure he had a light sweat on his brow from pushing the bounty that was our cart. The total was almost $175.00 for two people. And I'm 99% sure that I didn't pick up one complete meal.

And I'm 100% sure that by tomorrow morning, there won't be anything that I want to eat in the house.

That's how many weeks?

So, yeah, this is my bored face.

I'm on super-duper strict "Don't move around" restrictions until Monday at the earliest. I've read a book and a half, two magazines, watched too much TV, and played on the internet way much. and I'm only in hour 23.

Only 114 more days.

That's only 16 more weeks.

Which is only 800 hours...

An Ode to my Car

My car's a big piece of shit
'Cause the shocks are effin shot.
And my seatbelt's effin broken
I've got to tie it in a knot.

I can't see through the windshield
'Cause it's got a big fat crack
And the interior smells real bad
'Cause my friend puked in the back

I've got no effin brakes
I'm always way out of control
Eleven times a day I hear
"Hey! Watch it asshole!"

It's got no CD player
It only has an 8-track
Whoever designed my car
Can lick a sweaty nutsack
(they can bite my ass too)

Piece of shit car
I've got a piece of shit car
Effin pile of shit
Never gets me very far

What did I do?
Oh what did I do
To get stuck with you
You're too wide for drive through
And you smell like a shoe
But i'm too broke to buy something new.

Sooner or later you sleep in your own space - Either way it's okay, you still wake up with yourself

As I was laying in bed last night, uncomfortably flopping extremely unceremoniously, and certainly lacking any amount of grace, from my left side (which comes highly reccommended from the OB) to my less desirable, but infinitely more comfortable right side - this is hard.

The same thought occured to me again this morning, as I was scrubbing the floor of the bathroom. The floor, which is now sporting a scary, yet easy covered crack in the tile floor. A crack which is snaking its way from the heater to under the bathtub. A quick several thumps down the stairs (again, lacking any amount of grace) and a few short steps into the laundry room, revealed the ceiling of the laundry room, which happens to be the floor of the bathroom, also has a matching crack. Except, the crack from above shows the true extent of the damage - waterlogged wood that has buckled and splintered. I kneeled precariously on top of the washing machine, my center of gravity lost somewhere in the last few weeks, my face inches from what I can only assume is asbestos insulation as I inspected said crack. The bathroom is going to take so much more than the pint of spackle and 4 layers of paint that I had slabbed on it this weekend. The tub and floor needs to come out, and new subfloor needs to be put down. This is going to be hard.

All my life, I longed to be older, to be more mature, to be trusted more, to JUST DO IT MYSELF.

As a child I pushed around a pink plastic stroller with my blonde haired cabbage patch inside, equipped with a bag filled with cabbage patch diapers, and bottles whose liquid disappeared when you turned them upside down.

In middle school, I stashed my covergirl makeup in the small pocket of my backpack, and would slip into the bathroom before homeroom to lavishly apply the wrong color powder. The wrong color, because I bought it because of the color of the outside of the compact, and not the actual make up inside. This, of course, was followed by a hefty amount of lipsmackers lipgloss and an overzealous spray of Electric Youth perfume.

As a teenager in high school, I had a fake ID. A Miss Kayla Johnson, who was significantly older than my actual self could strut herself into any casino, any tattoo parlor, any piercing shop, and bar and any club she damn well pleased. And she did damn well please.

In college, I thought I was at the pinnacle of being on my own. In my own place (that my parents paid for) with my own boyfriend, driving my own car (that was paid for out of a trust fund), and living my own life (one that remarkably mirrored that of my sorority sisters').

But now, we really are on our own. My own boyfriend has become my own husband. We have our own house, that we foot the bill for; we have our own car, which needs its very own set of new brakes; we have our own baby on the way, which we have no idea what to do with her once she gets here; We have our own life. Our own consequences of choices we've made. Our own thoughts, and ideas, bank accounts and backyard. And it's really, really hard.

Cross It All.

Yesterday, my mom had her 6th bone marrow biopsy.

A doctor laid her on her stomach on a metal table, and used a corkscrew shaped needle the width of a pen to manually drill a whole into her hip to suck out the inside.

From here, the marrow will spin for 3-4 weeks and then we'll know if she is still truly in remission.

So, kids, cross it all for her - finger, toes, legs, eyes...whatever. Just keep her in your prayers, please.