So you are saying you want to trade me in for a new one?

Lately I have been trying to give the baby away. To my mother, my sisters, the neighbor across the street, the letter carrier. All have been willing to take him. But I think he might be starting to take it personally.

This morning as I was lathering up my hair in the shower, someone threw a hair dryer into the tub at my feet.

I'm not pointing any fingers, but I'm going to make a New Year's resolution to be a much better mother.

Is it so difficult to be a weather man?

Or weather woman, depending on your current situation.

I swear (and you cannot make this crap up) the weather report for Thursday into Friday is either rain or 6 inches of snow. Not, say, 2 to 4 inches as opposed to 3 to 5 inches. Either RAIN or a BLIZZARD for December in our town.

WTH??? FTLOGAC, you get paid to give people a head's up on the weather. If this is how it is going to be, then I think I would prefer watching my weatherman wearing a turban on his head and looking into a crystal ball like a carnival psychic. Don't be wasting my time with all your advanced degrees in snowology, Doppler radar and computer-generated storm tracking.

I would just like to know if I am going to be drinking a cocktail drink in Miami in time for happy hour on Friday or if I will be stuck waiting in the "Holy-Shit-Someone-Across-Town-Saw-A-Snowflake-So-We-Are-Going-To-Shut-the-Whole-Airport-Down-Until-Spring-Arrives-Airport."

So very rarely in the wrong, sometimes it's good to see how the other half lives

Time it would take to rake all the leaves at Chateau Cookie: 2 days


Price of gas to drive to Sears: $2.27


Price of leaf blower: $39.99 plus tax


Look on your husband's face when he realizes that a pea shooter would be more effective: one and a half hours of glares at the back of your head.


Tone of your husband's voice when you ask if he is mad because you wouldn't let him get the real leaf blower that can also julienne carrots, after telling him that we weren't in the landscaping business so why the hell would we need a leaf blower that could blow our leaves to South Carolina: angry.



















Look on your husband's face when he realizes that once again you failed to read the instruction manual and when you went to turn the thing off after one and a half hours (at 80% completion) just to get something in the house, the power button wasn't actually just a power button but also a Low/High button and you have had it on low for the entire one and a half hours: PRICELESS.

You know you are a bitch when...

the baby starts yelling "dan, dan, dan" repeatedly to the dog. And when I say repeatedly, I mean with the commitment of an 8-year old waiting in line to see Santa. His attention cannot be diverted even for a second.

I think perhaps I am overusing the word "down" in my communication with the dog?

All is well.

Baby boy did just fine in his surgery and the doctor's say he did great. Thanks for all your thoughts and prayers.

Sending out prayers and well wishes

Tomorrow morning (Thursday), one of the Boo's friends is having brain surgery. He is only 8 months old. The prognosis is good, but, as with all surgery, there are risks. Please keep him in your thoughts or prayers--whatever is your thing.

We love you, buddy.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus

When your best friend's mother's lazy-ass-two-timing-no-good-rat-bastard-cheating-manipulating-rotten-verbally-abusive-did-I-forget-to-tell-you-for-the-first-YEAR-that-we-were-dating-that-I-have-a-wife-oops-maybe-I-should-have-brought-that-up-in-one-of-our-conversations boyfriend promises that he really is going to leave his wife but he wants to wait until January first, I would not recommend saying either of the following:

1. Has your mother developed a crank habit of which we have been unaware, and

2. What does he want? To use her one more year to get a break on the taxes?

Even the longsuffering may falter in a moment such as this.

The detox is going to be painful

It has been a long day here at Chateau Cookie. The Boo sprouted yet another tooth AND also realized that his reign of supremacy may be over. Both things have been a difficult transition for him and for his mother.

For four days last week, a variety of relatives practically went to blows with one another to capture the attention and smiles of the Boo. I watched in stunned silence as the Boo held court, granting a small laugh here or a big smile there. Much to the amusement of his grandparents, great aunt and uncle and Derek's cousins, he entertained all and heckled those that dared turn a back to him, if only for a brief second.

I spent four days in a panic, realizing that I was becoming one of those parents that is so happy to have someone else look after her child that she may even be deemed disinterested in him. He fell over--"ah, he's fine." He cried in hunger and lunged at someone's plate--"yeah, you can give him crab. What the hell."

Of course now he thinks he is entitled to be held 24/7. What do I look like? Am I here for your amusement? The kid is driving me crazy (cue Britney). I'm sorry to say, Mister, but you are NOT the center of the universe. At least not anymore.

Things not to say/do on vacation with your in-laws

1. When your father-in-law is moaning about the price of gas at $2.29 a gallon and his little yellow light on the dashboard is on, don't say "isn't $2.29 cheaper than a tow truck?"

2. In the middle of dinner when your father-in-law continues to fill up your husband's glass with red wine, don't say "you probably should stop doing that because you might need a part of his liver some day."

3. Do not follow your in-laws into their hotel room 2 minutes behind them without knocking on the door, even if they know you are coming. You may find your father-in-law climbing into his bed. If you do, do not (and I cannot stress this enough) shriek loudly and go running from the room. We're all adults, for heaven's sake.

4. Do not cover your ears and start humming when the discussion goes south and suddenly you are in mixed company with your mother-in-law discussing the conceiving of your husband. There is no song loud enough to drown out the phrase, "and I was so horny I borrowed money and took a train across country to meet Derek's father." I know they did it at least once, and I am VERY glad for them, but I really don't need to hear about it.

What one will pay for a wireless connection--just to get back to the real world

$9.95 in SeaTac airport, to be precise.

Remember how I went on and on, ad nauseum, about the Thanksgiving stuffing and some of you may have insinuated that I was a little obsessive about making my stuffing before I left.

There was NO stuffing at Thanksgiving dinner.

None.

Who doesn't have stuffing on Thanksgiving?

Too many stories to tell, but not enough time. My allotted 5 minutes of time on the 'puter is almost up.

Line of the vacation, referencing Bobble Head Ted Kennedy--

"If he was a good Kennedy, they would have shot him already."

The love of a sister

Yesterday I was discussing all manner of things with my sister. Because I am to ride on a big airplane today, I brought the conversation into the direction I usually take--death.

K: You know if something happens to us, you are going to get the baby.
J: WE LOVE THE BABY. Not that we would want anything to happen to the two of you. Of course.
K: Yeah, right, thanks. But I feel like I should have some stipulations on this. You know those people that leave their dog to someone with the stipulation that the dog must get a hot dog every night for dinner. Or a brand new Burberry sweater every Christmas.
J: You want me to give the Boo a hot dog every night?
K: No, I just don't want him to turn out wacked like the rest of you. This makes me nervous.
J: OK, so what do you want? Do you want us to NOT talk about politics?
K: No, that's OK. Living with you guys is like sending the kid to Berkeley. All that liberal crap and he'll be the head of the Gymboree Republican's Club.
J: So?
K: You can't nurse him.
J: What? I'm not going to do that. (acting like this is ridiculous)
K: And he can't cosleep with you and Dave from now until he is 7. No matter what he says or how kindly he asks.
J: Fine. (in a voice oozing with, "you'll be dead anyway so how would you ever know.") This is very good news. You had better watch your back, sista.

Who says that to their sister? She so likes that baby better than me.

When the "Wish List" becomes the "Fantasy List"

I hate to bring up Christmas before we even get through Thanksgiving, but since I technically have already had my Thanksgiving, here it goes.

We are doing a name exchange this year in my family as an answer to the carnage that occurred last year. Too many presents. The gifts for the kids were about knee-deep in our living room last Christmas before we even had dinner.

We at Chateau Cookie updated our wish lists at Amazon.com to make it easier for whomever was stuck with us. When I went on to check out Derek's list I found this.


Just out of curiosity, what kind of money does he think Santa's making this year?

See Carl's response to the Investigator Incident at that post below--well worth the wait

How to cook the perfect turkey aka when will the DAMN turkey be done?

14 hours and 13 minutes after you put it in the oven.

This is begging several questions for several of you. Allow me to be the verbalization of your inner voice.

"Why did Kristen make a turkey when Thanksgiving is on Thursday?" and the inevitable followup,

"Who the hell cooks a turkey for 14 hours and 13 minutes?"

I guess we'll start with the turkey instructional before we address the questions.

First, name your turkey. This is important as you are going to be putting your hands all over it, and frankly, you should be on first name basis for this to be more acceptable. Then you stuff him with the most amount of stuffing you can get in there. If this requires you to prop a foot against the turkey so you can get even more in, so be it.

Next is the scandal. You put the turkey breast down in the roasting pan on a V-shaped rack. This is scandalous because your will have a butt-ugly turkey on the other end. That being said, the turkey breast will be cooking in juice, rather than taking on that leather-like texture.

Because your genetically-altered bird will not sit nicely in the rack, just give up and prop it breast down, but kind of on its side. Drape 8 pieces of bacon across its back and then pop it in the oven the night before Thanksgiving. This bacon is necessary because you have to balance out the high-carb meal with some high-fat.

Now to the explanation for the 14 hour and 13 minute turkey. Cookie subscribes to the slow-cook method of turkey preparation. Put the turkey in the oven the night before Thanksgiving, cook at 300 degrees for 1 hour (to make yourself feel better that 1 hour at 300 degrees will kill off all the salmonella on a 17-pound turkey--fat chance!) and then cook 45 minutes for every pound at the balmy temp of 185 degrees. Then add two hours because the damn formula was off and now you are starved and the bird is still gobble, gobble, gobbling.

On one hand, you have a scary ugly turkey that can't be put on the table. On the other end, you will have the juiciest turkey known to man and your house will smell like Thanksgiving for two days.

But the first question remains. Why the hell was I making a turkey yesterday? Well, we are on our way to the in-laws on Thursday.

For the past 7 years, I have made Thanksgiving dinner for the fam. I like my stuffing the way I like it. Fresh bread crumbs, fresh poultry herbs, bacon, onion and celery. And as much as I love my father-in-law, he could be throwing the damn kitchen sink into that stuffing. There could be three kinds of nuts, four kinds of fruit and even oysters, for heaven's sake.

Thanksgiving is all about the stuffing. I am thankful every day for all of my blessings. On Thanksgiving day, I'm thankful for the stuffing.

And let me tell you, it rocked.

***SPOILER**** Pride & Prejudice

Yesterday after Gymboree, we watched P & P and this is my oh, so professional movie review. Perhaps my poor attitude is a result of Ally's mom trying to teach the Boo how to "be gentle" in Gymboree since she did such a great job at it with Ally. First and foremost, my kid has a motor skills problem. He can do gentle up until the last three inches, when he loses his balance and goes falling directly into the "honey lovely" aka object of his affection for the second. He is a klutz but he is doing the best he can. I just apologize for him because so you mothers at Gymboree think I give a rat's ass about if my kid pokes your kid's eye out. FYI, I DON'T CARE.

So thanks for the help, B-ee-och, and go back to your clique-y playgroup and continue discussing how you got a great deal on your Soccer Mom uniform at Ralph Lauren last week.

Back to my review. For those of you wondering how I could possible tell you something that happens in P&P, the movie, seeing as you have probably read the book and how could ANYTHING happen in the movie that didn't happen in the book, "nanny-nanny-boo-boo" and here I go. So if your heart is set on betraying the All-Six-Hours-BBC-No-One-Else-Can-Ever-Be-Mr.-Darcy-Except-Colin-Firth true P & P, then you had better stop reading now.

If you are still reading, and I somehow ruin the movie for you, it is your own damn fault as you have been forewarned.

Did anyone own a brush in 1814? I'm going out on a limb to say YES. This movie was reminiscent of Mary McDonnell in Dances With Wolves. During that whole movie, everyone else was perfectly coiffed and for some reason, Ms. McDonnell confused "Dancing With Wolves" with "Raised By Wolves" and had that dirty face with that skanky hair. Same thing here, except no one owned a brush except Caroline Bingley--I guess because she was rich.

Anyone have any idea why they all looked like paupers and there was a gigantic pig running through the house at one point? They weren't poor. Talk about confusing "entailing your estate away from the family" with having no money.

I hate to get all "strict Jane Austen constructionist" on you, but Elizabeth Bennett doesn't get her feelings hurt by Darcy, Darcy doesn't even notice her for the first 1/4 of the book and they certainly aren't two star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet from the second scene of the movie.

But, if you are a huge fan of Sixteen Candles, the final scene was worth the wait. Just substitute our hero and heroine for Samantha and Jake, and you have a winner.

Hollywood gone bad, yet again.

What happens when a) I am left unattended and b) you don't return my phone calls

At the risk of opening Pandora's box with the whole "Carl" confusion.....

Today I got a visit from the nice 12-year old investigator asking me questions about Carl for his five-year background investigation update for his very important government job. Carl hasn't returned my last two phone calls so I guess he wasn't too worried about what I might say.

We have a contest every year at Cookie's Annual New Year's Eve party about who said the most outrageous thing to a background investigator (this is when you realize that you know too many people who work for the government--when you are able to have these kinds of competitions). I won last year when the investigator insinuated that I was a lesbian for having a female roommate and I may have gone on a little too long that we were "very, very close." Special thanks to Cathy for encouraging that along when the investigator got to her. You would have thought that the husband and soon-to-be baby would have thrown off her train of thought, but she was tenacious.

Not to be outdone this year (Matt telling the Derek's investigator that he had never seen Derek drunk), I have had a whole 24 hours to prepare for this interview.

After the standard list of questions, I got this one--which I didn't see coming but which laid the groundwork for this year's coup de grace.

I: Do you know if Carl has sponsored anyone to come to the United States? (referring to foreign family members, a mail-order bride or nanny, perhaps--not that he has children or anything)
K: I don't know. You tell me.
I: I'm sorry? (looking very confused)
K: Does he have a wife over there?
I: Over where? (getting the panicked look of an investigator who has now gotten an answer that she wasn't expecting and is at a loss for how to continue)
K: Over at his house. Does he have a wife over there?
I: Huh?
K: Well, you know, Carl is kind of closed-mouth about his personal life. I wouldn't be surprised if he is hiding a spouse over there in his apartment.

Insert sound of VERY LOUD CRICKETS CHIRPING.

K: Ha-ha-ha. Just kidding.
I: Ha. Ha. Ha.
K: No really, I'm just kidding.

Oops.

Do you mean literally or figuratively?

The pediatrician, after looking at the Boo's 'stats' for his 9-month check-up/emotional-scarring-through-giving-excessive-shots-and-vaccines remarked, "do abnormally large heads run in your family?"

It's a trick question, right?

We're back

OK, so we have been back for 26 hours, but who's counting?

Might I just take this opportunity to say that, despite taking an infant on a 1,000 mile road trip, I had a lovely time. The photos of the wedding are up and I will try to add pictures of the old 1801 home of D's great, great, great, (I'm getting bored here) great, great grandfather.

The wedding was fabulous and my eyelashes were the envy of the bridal party. I heard many a "damn, I should have worn MY eyelashes today" muttering. But special thanks goes to my dear friend Renee, 10-year-4H-sewing veteran who assisted me in the making of the stole that will go down in history as the most BLOODY BRILLIANT ARTICLE OF CLOTHING EVER WORN TO AN OUTDOOR WEDDING IN NOVEMBER. Not only did I stay warm and toasty as the photographer almost had a heart attack trying to get the somewhat pickled groomsmen to where they were supposed to be for pictures, I was like the girl on her way to the bar crawl/bachelorette party that decides at the last minute to go with the FMPs AND the feather boa.

That's right. At any given point of the evening, someone was stealing the stole from my shoulders to assist them in completing a complex drunken dance maneuver on the dance floor. It was worth every inch of that $39.99/yard fabric.

Dancing Queen. You betcha.

When fun turns to tragedy

You know, I have never given my sister crap for how she raises her kids. If she doesn't care if they don't bathe for 5 days in a row, what do I care? If they want to discuss politics at age 2, so be it. But I have noticed that my sister is not very respectful of my parenting. Of the dog, that is.

Zinni went to my sister's house while we went up north this week. This morning my phone rings and it is my sister.

J: (kind of hesitant) Hey.
K: (thinking they have managed to kill the dog) Is everything OK?
J: Yeah, we love Zinni. It's like he is our dog. But....
K: But what?
J: I think we may have managed to erase all of his dog manners while you were gone. This morning I came downstairs and he was snoring as he slept on my beige couch. He didn't even bother to get up.
K: WHAT???? DID YOU PUNISH HIM???
J: Well.....I told him that he was a bad dog. We are kind of taking the 'attachment parenting' method with the dog.
K: You didn't punish him?
J: Sort of. And yesterday Carter didn't finish his peaches and Zinni kind of got up on the chair and ate the peaches out of Carter's bowl on the table.
K: (beginning to hyperventilate as I envisioned the 90-pound dog on a dining room chair) Did you punish him?
J: We put him in the cellar after he got crazy upstairs with the kids and scratched Carter. Mada took him right downstairs and put him in the cellar.
K: You said, "Hey, you wearing the fur coat in the hot house, we are going to punish you by taking you AWAY from the 5 kids driving you crazy and put you in the cold, quiet cellar." Yeah, that was good.
J: Well, (sounding affronted) should I have hit him?
K: Ah, no, he has a choke chain for a reason. If he is bad, you pull on the chain and tell him no.
J: That's cruel.
K: How's it going getting all that black hair off the beige couch?

Detox is going to be long and complicated, I'm sure. Wait until the dog has to sleep on the floor again. Poor Zinni.

If we have another beer, how are we going to get back to the hotel?

When we got home last night after the hopping rehearsal dinner (where I was referred to as "Photographer" all night by the drunk aunts and cousins of the groom), we discovered that the Boo had a less than stellar night with Marmie. I guess he wailed like a banshee when it came time to call it a night.

This was the first time he had really been left with anyone else since he started this whole "I-want-my-mom-no-I-mean-dad-did-I-say-dad-'cause-I-meant-mom-or-was-it-dad" stage. We were crowded in my hotel office-aka the bathroom, discussing this grave issue when we switched over to discuss the wedding day events.

I mentioned to my mother that I had wedding-related responsibilities at 11, 1, 3:30, and 4. When I noted that we were supposed to get dressed at 1 and the wedding was at 3:30, this may have come out of Marmie's mouth.

"Ah, Kristen, I'm going to guess that you are the only bridesmaid that has been carrying her dress around all week in a ziploc bag."

Don't you just love velvet?

Anyone know why we were late to dinner at our friend's house today?

Because we had to stop at 2 East Main Street to find out how much the church was on the market for. For what, you ask?

D: There's our brew pub.
K: No way. You think the church is zoned to be turned into a brew pub?
D: Maybe.
K: What if they don't want us selling beer in a church?
D: We could have "Communion Hour" in lieu of happy hour. Half-price specials.
K: That is so wrong, on so many levels.
D: But there is no parking. We'd have to work out a deal with the church next door to park in their lot.
K: Oh, that's gonna happen.

But a bloody brilliant idea. I'm pissed he came up with it instead of me.

It was only $299,000. I'm thinking we could just live in it if the whole brewery thing doesn't work out (humming "nearer my Lord to thee).

You are killing me here

To my neighbor, who insists on mowing his lawn to the height of indoor/outdoor carpet--

IT IS NOVEMBER! Stop mowing your lawn. Cause I am not mowing mine again. I don't care if it looks like an African savannah in my front yard and I look out and see cheetahs darting across my property. I'm just not feeling the mowing love.

Why I like where I live

This is for Amy.

1. Changing leaves in the fall
2. Being able to run by a lake
3. Great restaurants
4. Historically rich
5. Proximity to vineyards
6. Convenience of the city
7. Diversity of neighborhood
8. Great friends

I just might be able to get into this whole Sesame Street thing

I'm not sure, but I think the Boo is the only baby in America that cannot be bothered with Baby Einstein videos. You know, those dumb ass videos involving overpriced toys being played with by hand puppets, all to the classics. I guess he won't be getting those extra 30 IQ points that supposedly come along with watching the videos.

Don't get me wrong. The kid will watch TV. Senate Confirmation Hearings, yes. Food for Oil scandal stories on CNN, yes. Mansfield Park, yes. Little puppets dancing to Bach, no dice.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. I mean, how steady will the confirmation hearings be? Long enough for me to vacuum while Ted Kennedy's colossal head captivates my infant and maintains his rapt attention? What about the dusting? Forget about the dusting. What about next month when I have to vacuum again?

So I started to TiVo Sesame Street. It has lots to offer. I learned my first Beatles song thanks to Sesame Street.

"Letter B, letter B, letter B, letter B. She whispers "Buh-buh-buh means Letter B."

When I turned it on the other day (after my approximate 28 year sabbatical), I got the 2003 rerun with the Goo Goo Dolls singing "Pride," to the tune of one of my all-time favorites, "Slide."

(Sung by Johnny) Elmo, whisper in my ear,
I really wanna hear,
The things you did today
That satisfied you...

(Sung by Elmo) Elmo reached the highest shelf,
He got dressed by himself,
And Elmo wants to say
He's filled with pride, yeah!

(Sung by Johnny) When you've done the best you could,
You feel really, really good!
You're feelin' that pride!
Yeah, gonna feel that pride...
You helped your mother bake a pie,
You fell and didn't cry,
You made your bed and said
Your ABC's

(Sung by Elmo)Elmo learned to tie his shoe,
He added two and two,
Elmo drank up all his milk
And ate his peas!

(Sung by Johnny) When you've done the best you could,
You feel really, really good!
You're feelin' that pride!
Ooh, pride...
And you can be the monster that you
Dreamed you'd always be.

(Sung by Elmo) Elmo's feelin' that nothing can stop him!

(Sung by Johnny) Elmo nothing is beyond you,
Let those good thoughts fill your head,
You are furry, proud and red!

(Sung by Elmo) Elmo...no one can top him!

(Sung by Johnny) And he's so proud!

(Sung by John) Be the best that you can be...

(Sung by Elmo) Elmo is so proud of ME!

Nothing like Johnny Rzeznik to take a song about a knocked up girl and remake it into a song that uses the line "You're furry, proud and red."

D came in as I was playing it for the millionth time. In fact, the last time I watched a scene this many times was the volleyball scene in Top Gun (thank you, Rick Rossovich, aka "Slider"). I felt like I just been caught pulling my underwear out of my butt at church.

Thank you, Johnny, for reminding me that I can be the monster I always dreamed that I could be.

"Low Points of the Day" or "how-I-contemplated-suicide-at-least-a-dozen-times"

1. Asked D if we could have a Christmas party this year...

(can you hear the cricket chirping?)

What the hell is it about men that make them think that if they don't even acknowledge that a question has been asked, then they can pretend it never was actually asked. I could actually hear the wheels churning in his head--

K: You are totally trying to come up with a way to say "no" that will not succeed in making me think that we MUST have a party and now I should invite twice as many people as I had originally planned.
D: Sort of???

2. Asked the electrician (who had the audacity to show up at my house 45 minutes early when D was still home--kind of blew my whole "baby, I fixed the electrical problem" story that I had concocted) if I had managed to get it close to right with the 3 way switch, outlets and hardwiring the lights over the cabinets.

E: Ah, no.

Well, you can kiss your tip goodbye there, David.

3. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND COUNTRY, could someone please explain why the hell I cook a gourmet dinner every day and my child insists on finding every stray piece of dog food which then ends up in his mouth? The monster doesn't want to eat the butternut squash that I so kindly ROASTED for him, but he'll eat the damn Lamb and Rice dog food. Dog food--parts of parts of animals. I put the dog food away and still the kid manages to find a piece. Make that 4 pieces today. Every time I catch him, I throw up a little in my mouth. And why the hell can't the DAMN DOG find the stray pieces? What is his friggin' contribution to this family if he can't even keep his food out of the baby's mouth?

Mama's got a new baby

For two days I have been waiting. Waiting for the FedEx man to arrive. For two days I have remained in this house, waiting, waiting, waiting. I have come to realize that I am really not a SAHM, as I thought, but a DGTARJM (Doesn't-Go-To-A-Real-Job-Mother). I realized this after Staying-At-Home for two days.

Reality is that I am never at home. I am forever dragging the Boo somewhere. I go out for one errand and suddenly I find myself the mother-version of Ferris Bueller--realizing it is 5 minutes 'til and I still have 10 blocks to go to beat D home. Flying through the side streets, praying that the train is running late and somehow, someway I will make it home before he does. Hoping that he doesn't see the steam from the front of the car as he walks past it. Leaping from the front door to the couch, over the dog. Kicking my shoes off as I go.

So this evening when D mentioned that there was a truck in front of the house, I went running outside, hopping around like a cheerleader at the Homecoming game. Much to the chagrin of the FedEx guy, I hopped onto the truck.

K: I have been WAITING for TWO days for you!!!!
FEG: You have? There was a mixup on the address.
K: I haven't LEFT MY HOUSE IN TWO DAYS AND I HAVE BABY!!! If you hadn't shown up tonight, I probably would have met your truck tomorrow with a gun. I was going CRAZY.
FEG: What are you waiting for?
K: My computer.
FEG: Well all I have for you is this little box.
K: That's my computer.
FEG: It can't be. The box is too small.
K: Watch.

With that, I took my brand new baby girl out of her box. And she looked like this...

I would like to thank the FedEx guy for sharing in my special moment. The birth of my baby girl Cookie.

Isn't she cute?

Best missed picture

The mother arm wrestling her round little girl to get her to release her grasp on the 11 pieces of candy she managed to grab with one hand from my candy bowl.

Round little girl won. Another win for childhood obesity in the US of A.

BEST LINE
The grown woman with the dog dressed as Batman.

"The candy is for my dog."

Cause that's what dogs eat--chocolate.

To fry or not to fry

I was quite the picky eater growing up. Canvas the extended family and you will find that every relative remembers the same scenario at every family party. Me and rolls and chips. I guess it was the rare situation when my mother just let me eat what I wanted.

So now the fight begins about what the Boo can and cannot eat. His father has been begging me for weeks now--"he NEEDS french fries." Yeah, like he needs a hole in his head. Then we'll become the people who take their kid to dinner and order a side of fries to go with our Dungeness Crab or our Alaskan Sockeye.

You know those people whose kids only eat french fries. Occasionally they'll eat a sugar-coated cereal for breakfast, but the mother spends twice a day in the McDonald's drive thru. I can't do it.

My fear is being that mother. I mean, it's a slippery slope. First it is a french fry for dinner and then the kid is mainlining waffle fries, steak fries, shoelace fries. I'll go up to his crib in the night to check on him and there will be a mound of french fries in that corner that he hoarded in his little chipmunk cheeks until he was able to free his stash (presumably for a late night snack).

This weekend the kid had his first fry. He also had his first asparagus. His reaction to each could have been interchangable. Mild interest.

There is a God and He loves me.

Who buys a $29.99 outfit for an 8 month old?

Bob, can you cue the "Hallelujah Chorus" please?

Guess who is providing electric only for themselves again???? That's right. As the three electrical trucks pulled away from the front of the house this afternoon, I looked out the window to find the power cord back on my driveway. No "thank you very much, we are done building our house with your power" or anything.

Having received a lecture from my mother on setting boundaries (something I found completely impossible because frankly, who is going to anticipate that when the neighbor asks for an electrical cord to run a couple of lamps, they are then going to jackhammer the brick off the front of the house? I can't be the only person who didn't see that coming), I will be sure to draft a contract the next time someone asks for a similar favor. But her point was well taken (and as always, her heart was in the right place).

It's amazing how leaving the house for the better part of the day when it is 45 degrees and the contractor being forced to get a generator TWO DAYS IN A ROW directly corresponds with the electrician showing up (after 3 weeks). So long to that co-dependent relationship.

I will miss those days of heading down to the pitch black basement with only a match light to guide me (since I can't find one friggin' flashlight even though we must have a THOUSAND in this house and who would think to light one of the 8 million candles I have in every nook and cranny). I will miss the power going out as I vacuumed, when I was TiVo-ing the Charlie Brown Halloween show so Boo could have his first Charlie Brown experience (who really watches the middle 14 minutes of a 30 minute show anyway?), and having to leave all the lights on in the basement.

I still think they should have mowed my lawn for me as thanks. Now that would have made it all worthwhile.

How manly is manly?

I went shopping today and brought home two very important items. The first being the Mac lashes that I will apply with super glue to my eyelids when I am in the wedding with the five anorexics in two weeks (in hopes that my #4's will draw attention away from the fact that I am the only person over 100 pounds in this wedding). I think that between the lashes and the low-cut clothing, my diversion will be complete and effective.

The second important item was the red and green plaid flannel shirt for the Boo to wear for his Christmas picture. What I did not anticipate was his father's reaction.

K: Isn't this the cutest little shirt?
D: Yeah, it's alright (full well knowing that 'alright' is the equivalent to the 'you don't look too fat in that outfit').
K: Alright? What does that mean?
D: Well......................it's not like it is the most masculine shirt.
K: Masculine? The kid is 8 months old. It's a flannel shapeless shirt. What would make it masculine? If it was rust colored and had motor oil stains on the front of it, would that make it masculine? How about beer stains?
D: Well, don't get upset. I'm just saying that you are wanting me to say it's the greatest shirt I have ever seen, and I'm not going to say that because it's not.
K: Kind of like when you said the Sesame Crusted Tuna Medallions with Ponzu sauce I made last night weren't "the greatest tuna that I ever had but it isn't that bad" comment? Let me tell you something, mister. I went to the rack with the UGLIEST clothes on it and looked for the shirt that would match YOUR CLOTHES. I figured that in every single picture of you from the age of 7 to 20 you are wearing some DAMN FLANNEL SHIRT that perhaps you would be proud to have your own personal "Mini Me." Even though they came to mind, I kept my fantasies of the Boo wearing a pretentious, and frankly downright ostentatious red Polo SWEATER VEST to myself. You know what his friend is wearing in his Christmas picture????? It's a tossup between the red jacket with POOH in 72 font across it and a big fat HONEY POT or a red and grey argyle sweater vest. I bring home the Lumberjack Christmas Flannel Shirt and you are pissy.
D: So.....do you wanna go to bed?
K: Ah, not just no but HELL NO.

I am so going out tomorrow and buying the Boo the PeaPod Halloween outfit. You want to see unmasculine......

Mean things your professor might be saying behind your back to his wife

"Fred is like a squirrel trying to run across the highway. He is going everywhere except where he is supposed to be. Just go straight across the road. It's not that difficult."

Enough with this, Goldilocks

Last night I was too cold to put the baby back in his bed in the middle of the night and God forbid his father do it. The child then proceeded to cry and whine all night long. It's OK, cause sleep is SO overrated.

We were crowding him.
He couldn't get close enough.
He was too hot.
He was too cold.
His feet got tangled in the covers.
He wanted to sleep with his head on my pillow--his BIG FAT HEAD on my pillow.
He wanted me off what was now HIS pillow.
He wanted to stand up.
He was too tired to lay back down.
I had the gall to turn my back to him.
I was bugging him by facing him.
He didn't want to go to sleep.
He didn't want to wake up.

I need the Give-the-Gypsies-A-Baby hotline number. Anyone got it?

You can't make this up

The guy taking the picture of his kids picking out a pumpkin at FRESH FIELDS supermarket.

"Come on, Connor. Give me a smile and look at the camera."

I'm wondering if their Christmas picture is taken in front of the tree at Nordstrom's.

My father's breaking point

So let's be honest. My parents have see A LOT of hurricanes. In fact, they weathered the granddaddy of them all, Andrew. They managed to be one of the few ones in the neighborhood that had what constituted a functioning roof--one that could be lived under with the benefit of a couple of tarps.

Wilma came and went, mercifully leaving lots to clean up but not much major damage to their house. I guess the play producer, the dancer and the singer did a pretty good job when they put the new roof on the house after Andrew.

But Wilma left them powerless. Rumor has it that the power will take 4 weeks to come back on. After Andrew, it took 6 weeks to come back. In the blazing heat of August and September, they sweat it out. The neighbors all bought colossal generators, but my parents stood strong.

So I was surprised to find that my father had gone out this morning and bought a generator. When I asked him about it, he said that he was out last night, sitting on the back patio, smoking cigarettes and drinking his iced tea. He watched the lights go on, one by one, in the rear neighbor's house. The kitchen, the bathroom, the living room. As he sat in the dark, he had Monday Night Football envy.

Then the Christmas lights on the shed came on. That's when my father lost it.

So I know it's a stage and he'll be moving on to another, equally awful one

special thanks to Marelle, who bolstered me with cheerful words about how it really might get worse before it gets better (as her children were screaming maniacally in the background, so much that she had to yell the words at the moments they gasped for breath, the little monsters)

I'll send your favorite saying right back to you...

In the words of Jack Nicholson:

"I'm drowning here. And you're describing the water!"

Freakonomics in action

I'm selling my condo and I didn't get a real estate agent. Buying into the theory that "I can do it myself and get more money," I placed the condo on the market last Friday with a listing agent who just charges a simple fee to put the place on the MLS and Realtor.com. I did my research and then added $10,000 to the listing price. What the hell? What do I care?

I have not heard a peep from anyone since I listed it. Mountains of doubt, I felt that eerie panicked feeling that perhaps I was greedy and now I was going to be punished by having to pay $2100 a month out of my already empty pocket for this albatross (or Alcatraz, as my former boss once said to a crowd of 3,000) around my neck.

This morning I got a call from Rita Realtor who commented that, although I wasn't going to have a lock box on my door until NOVEMBER 14, could she show my place tomorrow?

I think the realtors are getting us back for reading Freakonomics.

Note to self:

If you are going to complain about how your husband stinks, wait until AFTER getting the little blue box.

What happens on travel, stays on travel

It's an old addage by which we lived, back in the day when I was employed and known to go on TDY on occasion.

Tonight I received a phone call from my husband. He was in his hotel room getting ready to go to dinner. When I asked him where he was going for dinner (since I am living vicariously through him and my life is currently hell in my 72-hour stint as a single mother), he said that they were just going to the restaurant next to the airport hotel where they were staying. Now may I just start by saying that my husband is one of the funnest people and to be doing such a boring plan in a fab city is a waste.

K: I can't believe you guys aren't going to go back into town and get a real meal.
D: The food next door looks ok.
K: Does CoWorker just not want to go back out?
D: Well, I hinted that we should go back out a few times but he didn't bite.
K: Is CoWorker boring?
D: Well, (hemming and hawing because God forbid he ever say anything unkind about anyone) we are on East Coast time and we are tired.
K: You two got away from this hell hole and you are complaining about being tired. You can sleep when you are dead.
D: I know, but...
K: Is this because he just got married? It's not like I am suggesting you hit every girlie bar in the Pac Northwest. I'm just saying you could be having some amazing seafood downtown.
D: Maybe he is a little worried about it...
K: What does he think is going to happen? He's going to go to a bar and spontaneously have sex with someone without even realizing it is happening because that's what used to happen in the old days? Yeah, right. I so don't understand these kind of people.

When I relayed this story to my sister a few hours later, I complained about all those people on travel that didn't make the most of it. So what if you are dead tired. You aren't home, you don't have to cook dinner, and no one will wake you up in the middle of the night, crying, crying, crying.

My sister asked me what travel was for me.

It's all about the karaoke. You would be surprised how many beers it takes for the trifecta to appear--ABBA, Cher and Heart.

But, as we all know, what happens on travel, stays on travel...

The powers that be

After a relatively sleepless night with the Offspring, I woke to the repeated rap of the knocker at the front door. There stood my very sweet neighbor.

N: Mami, the power went out. Could you please turn it back on?

Some of you are thinking, "Why are the inhabitants of Chateau Cookie providing power for the neighbors?" It's an excellent question, and one that I now find myself asking myself.

10 days ago, the male half of my neighbors came over with a sob story about how the guys working on the construction of his McMansion made a slight error and cut his power lines to his basement, where he is living until they complete the 7 bedroom monstrosity above him. Could we please run a power cord out our window until the power got turned back on when the weekend was over? "No problem," said we. When we politely slipped the "power situation" back into the conversation the following week, there were more excuses about why they couldn't turn the power on just yet.

About three days ago, they came knocking on our door, asking us to reset the breaker because the power had gone out. Derek went downstairs to find that the power strip had blown out. He rerouted the wire and the neighbors were back in business, with promises of getting their own power that day. Not two hours later, they were back with the same request. This has continued for the past three days.

D: So what do you think is going on over there?
K: Honestly?
D: Yeah.
K: I think they are getting balls-y. I think they started out by using the cord for a lamp and an alarm clock. Now I think they are realizing the gold mine they have found and are trying to plug in the microwave, a big screen tv, a heater and possibly a refridgerator.
D: You think?
K: I think we are going to have a $1700 electric bill next month.
D: No way.
K: Right now they are over there trying to figure out how to get us to provide power to the entire 10 bedrooms once the construction is over.

But I was wrong. When I threw the switch to get the power back on in the basement this morning, I heard the JACK HAMMER power up. I threw off the light and down went the jackhammer. I flipped the switch back on and there was the jack hammer.

Even worse, we are now providing power for them to build their house that will make our house look like the neighborhood ghetto house. I'm thinking $1700 is optimistic.

Baby's first sushi

I'm supposed to be upstairs, helping Derek pack for his business trip tomorrow. His business trip to SEATTLE (one of my favorite places) on our anniversary. I think if he had more than 3 days notice and I wasn't so sassy, he may have taken me.

So we ended up going out to dinner tonight since I will be all alone (but let's not forget that, after having a child, I will NEVER REALLY BE ALONE AGAIN) for our anniversary. Did I mention Derek is going away and leaving me? Alone, with this child. The shrieking madman? Anyway, we decided to go for sushi.

There we were, giving E his first Tuna Sashimi. It was at that moment that I was so proud. My little Boo Boo Kitty, eating sushi like a big boy. Except he kept throwing his chopsticks on the floor and trying to drink Derek's beer. Come to think of it, that makes him a boy.

For all those about to get up in arms about the mercury dangers of infants eating tuna, let me just say that I don't care. I know I'm horrible.

Now I have to go iron a shirt. Renee, keep your mouth shut!

There's a little Vanna in all of us

E: BAH, BAAHHHHHHH, BAAAAAHHH (intensifying exponentially)
K: Babe, I think he is saying that he wants 'boo.' I haven't fed him in 5 hours.
D: You think he is saying 'boo'? Buddy, are you saying 'boo'?
E: BAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
K: I really think he is asking for 'boo.'
D: Buddy, I think you need to buy another vowel.

Welcome to the world, baby girl

Here is my niece Lucy, born tonight at 8:56 pm, weighing 7 lbs. 5 oz. Here she is with her proud papa, big brother and aunt.

Her mom did great and looks like a rock star.

He said his first REAL word

Other than 'ada and maaaaammmmmmmmmmmaaaaa.

We were in the car with my sister and her kids the other day when I turned around and asked the boys how school was going.

With that, E piped up with "'cool?"

My sister said, "Did you just say school, Ethan?"

"'cool," he replied.

They all proceeded to freak out cause the kid said school.

I can't even get him to say "mama" on command and the kid comes out with "school?"

With two decades of higher education between the two of us, I guess the word "school" should not have surprised us. His father was so proud.

I guess I should be glad it wasn't the s-word or f-word.

His only job is to keep the baby alive

I don't see why it has to be so difficult.

It started on Saturday. I was supposed to go to a bridal shower and of course had not wrapped the present until 15 minutes before I was supposed to leave. I stacked the presents high on the bed and wrapped them with ribbon as D and E watched. E lunged forward and his father watched him rip the wrapping off one of the presents.

K: HELLO!!! What are you doing?
D: I thought he wanted to touch it. I didn't think he would rip it.

Fine. I grabbed the boxes and as I lifted them, I noticed a small 1 inch by 1/2 inch piece of wrapping paper under them. Which, of course, I brought to his father's attention.

When I came back, the small piece was gone. I sat down to offer one last meal to the Boo but he started to wail. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He was so upset. It was then that his father started the conversation.

D: Maybe he is upset because he swallowed the wrapping paper.
K: I'm sorry?
D: That piece of wrapping paper is gone. Maybe he ate it and it is making him sick.
K: I noticed it was gone. I just thought that MAYBE you had grabbed it when my hands were FULL.
D: Yeah, no.

With that, the baby started to "eckh, eckh." I opened his mouth and out popped the tiniest piece of pink wrapping paper you have ever seen. One piece down, one thousand to go.

K: Hey, come look at this (pointing to the speck on the bed)
D: I guess he ate it.
K: You let him eat wrapping paper.
D: I didn't think he could reach it.
K: Do you realize how bad this is? That wasn't just your average run-of-the-mill Hallmark wrapping paper. That was Sally Foster wrapping paper.
D: So?
K: That crap is like Tyvek. In fact, I think it IS Tyvek. I think that Sally Foster buys it with pink high-heeled shoes on it and Home Depot buys it with Tyvek on it. It could be like gum. It could take 7 years for him to digest it. The kid is miserable. I can't believe you let him eat the wrapping paper. And now I am supposed to leave you for 5 hours?

Three hours later, he called me because he thought I had just called him.

D: Your son just learned how to go from the living room to the den.
K: (knowing that there is a step down to the den and realizing that E hasn't quite learned the whole 'step' thing yet) Did he land in the den on his head?
D: Yep.

I think this is a plot to keep me home. Must resist....

Feeding the 5,000

Conversation in bed this morning at Chateau Cookie:

D: So what are we going to have for breakfast this morning?
K: I don't know. Since someone bought a 10 lb. box of pancake mix, I'm guessing breakfast is a no-brainer.

The box advises that it will feed 80 people attending the annual Volunteer Firefighter Pancake Breakfast or the 80 people attending PETA's annual "Common Sewer Rats Have Feelings Too" fundraiser. I feel like the breakfast version of Bubba Gump.

What do you want? Chocolate chip pancakes? Blueberry pancakes? Apple Cinnamon Pancakes? Banana Walnut Pancakes? Caviar Pancakes? Scallion Cilantro Pancakes?

And let's not even start on our waffle options.

The continuation of the allergy story: fastforward two days after the "ant incident"

We met up with B in Glacier National Park. It was still light out so we decided to go to the Visitor's Center to see what was up. It was already closed when we arrived and the parking lot was pretty empty except for a ranger's truck and a couple of Brits standing beside a rental car, chatting.

We got out of the truck and out leaped Zinni with us. While there is an actual law that dogs must be on leashes, we rarely follow these laws. You know, what with Zinni being so obedient and all. I mean, he comes when you are grilling steak. I think we had a leash with us though.

Anyway, Derek had once again been bitten by ants while putting up the tent and was jacked up on Benadryl. He wandered down the little gravel road with the sign that said "PARK RANGERS ONLY." I started yelling to him but he was clueless. Taking dazed and confused to a whole new level. He took the dog with him. Realizing that I would get more of a response from a brick wall, I gave up.

It was then that we looked up to the top of the hill and saw the most gorgeous ram standing right outside the Visitor's Center. I thought it was fake because it was standing so still. As he stood there checking us out, the dog started to trot back to me. Oh, yeah. You can see this coming, right?

With that, the ram looked at the dog and then came charging at me at about a million miles an hour. Having been on wilderness trips with B in the past that involved her spewing forth directions in advance while on a flight to the end of the earth ("if you see a caribou, run. If you see a bear, stand still. If you see a beaver, ..."), I yelled to her, "What do I do?"

Sure, she can't friggin' shut up on a 7 hour flight about what the hell I am supposed to do when I see any manner of creature in Alaska (which doesn't even matter because after 4 Bocci Balls, I don't even know my OWN NAME and I clearly didn't remember all her coaching when the caribou charged me in Denali), but now she's got nothing to say. As my life passed before me and I realized that not only was he going to run me down, he was probably going to maul me as well, the dog stopped his advance toward me and the ram ran in the 4 feet between us.

With that, I heard, "GET THAT DAMN DOG ON A LEASH!"

I almost die and Ranger Rick is worried about a damn leash? The Brits in the parking lot are freaking out and B is looking like she is going to pass out.

My soon-to-be husband turns around and walks toward me.

K: Did you see that? That ram almost killed me.
D: Huh?
K: Didn't you see that?
D: No.
K: I almost died.
D: Huh?

I hate Benadryl.

Fabian Basabe is going to be the death of me

I can't make it to the Season Finale of Filthy Rich Cattle Drive. It's just too awful. Derek doesn't even understand why (or how) I can watch it. Having finally caught up with the season thanks to TiVo, I watched Fabian Basabe berate the future Lord Alexander about how America doesn't care about the Brits (using "we" for Americans). I don't need you to speak for me, you pompous ass. Let's ignore the fact that Fabian Basabe's claim to fame is as the son of a "wealthy Ecuadorian businessman" and just move on to the real question--why no one threw HIM into the campfire on Sunday night's episode.

(I figure if I use Fabian Basabe's name one more time, I can creep my way up the Google search for all those people typing in "who is Fabian Basabe?" You are certainly sending my readership through the roof. Sorry to bring you down, Fabian lovers. Watching him makes me glad that even with my lack of wealth, I still have a brain in my head. That's gotta count for something. Then again, as one of "those people," you know, those who WORK, I don't count anyway).

How many children do I have again?

Last night we got home from our short trip down south to find that 'ada and Zinni had been stung by the bees hiding out in the wood pile. We know this because 'ada met the car with his usual, glazed-eye look that suggests a trip to the ER may be in our near future.

I asked him if he had taken his Benadryl yet, but he said he hadn't. Now I knew the ER was in our future. We spent the better part of the next three minutes arguing over 1/2 a Benadryl versus 2 Benadryl. This ties back to a couple of stories.

Derek is severely allergic to bug bites/bee stings thanks to an incident as a child involving a tree and his cousin Michael. Needless to say, Michael is less allergic to bee stings because his cousin let him get down out of the tree first, but they probably got 60 bee stings between them. It makes those of us who actually anticipate consequences of things very nervous.

So this leads to our cross country trip a couple of years ago. We were in one of the Dakotas (who knows which one, or was it Missouri???) when Derek got bit by ants. I didn't think anything of it until about a half hour later when he was unable to follow a conversation and wasn't even speaking anymore. This is when he decided to tell me about this whole allergy issue. Frantically I began looking for Benadryl, and when I found it, he only wanted to take a half of one.

K: Just take two.
D: I don't like how Benadryl makes me feel.
K: I imagine DEAD isn't very comfortable.
D: OK, I'll take one.
K: Are we having this conversation because I can't believe we are having this conversation? Take the damn Benadryl. You are a lunatic. Maybe I shouldn't marry you. Frankly, I'm not even entitled to your life insurance yet, so could you just take the Benadryl?

Believe it or not, this story gets better. But I think that is enough for today. Tune in tomorrow.

All-consuming knowledge

E has his own laptop. It's ridiculous, I know, but it's true. It is the laptop from 1999 that gives the very disturbing Blue Screen when you try to access any programs. But it didn't crash when we downloaded the Muppet Babies game CD, so now Boo Boo Kitty can play with his computer when 'ada is playing with his computer.

So the other day the two boys were banging away on their respective computers when I decided that enough was enough and it was time for dad's Mini Me to go to bed. Offering him one last snack before bed, he chomped down as hard as he could, sending me to the moon. I screamed, "don't BITE" but he did it again. As he opened his mouth, there was a Q key rolling around. Many apologies from dad, but I wasn't feeling the love.

"You have to be careful. He could swallow those keys. And frankly, Poop Scrabble doesn't sound like my idea of a fun game."

A few days later we decided to go to the Renaissance Festival. I was trying to get everything together but it was taking friggin' forever. Derek let the baby play on the computer and then tried to give him a bottle. E was having no part of it, so D just put him in his car seat. They went outside and I just started to throw stuff into a bag. Fifteen minutes later we were on our way when BBK started to cough.

D: You alright buddy?

He told me to pull over, but the baby had stopped choking by then.

We made it to the light before Derek pulled an N key out of the baby's mouth. The man's only job is to KEEP THE BABY ALIVE while I am trying to get ONE DAMN THING DONE. Maybe the baby didn't want the bottle earlier because he was trying to keep from swallowing the keyboard.

You think he would notice an N key missing from the keyboard. I mean, it's not like it's the Alt button or anything.

The phone call I got this afternoon

"I was at the baseball game last week?"

Everyone's a comedian now.

Since Amy asked....

Here's Lenny. He doesn't know about the blog so he can't be mad. If I put Carl's picture on here, he would inundate my comments with awful stories about me.

Now I'M CONFUSED

I wrote the post about the guy I met at the baseball game, a guy named Carl. A man that I had a 3 hour relationship/chat because he was sitting beside me. He inappropriately commented on my underwear that apparently was the talk of Section 227 at the stadium.

I have a friend named Carl, that commented on the post. He is very funny.

THERE ARE TWO CARLS. It seems wrong, but there are.

Now my head hurts...

The two blondes and the story of Carl

Real Carl is a legend in our household. And not to ever be confused with Baseball Carl. I clearly need to provide some clarification regarding the last post as it has caused great confusion at Chateau Cookie.

Real Carl is like Waldo from the Where’s Waldo series. At any given party at Chateau Cookie, people who have heard about Carl for years are yammering to meet him. Usually Carl cannot make it due to travel for work (Benin—you know he has to be telling the truth because who would miss a party because he is in Benin). In fact, he didn’t make it to our wedding because he was in Bangkok for the week. Doing only God knows what.

Carl has weathered the times. Carl and I worked together at a place that really could have doubled as an insane asylum. He knows where all my skeletons are buried and has agreed to keep any and all locations under wraps. Carl has witnessed all manner of odd events, to include the New Year’s Eve dinner party where my gay ex-boyfriend burst into tears in the kitchen. This remains his favorite story to tell in mixed company. He is also known to cough up a good, “So there was this one time when Kristen was stacking dates with the three guys she was dating….”

So when I told the story about Carl from the baseball game, this caused great confusion with two of my favorite blonds. My blond husband and my best friend B, whose stylist Dennis works overtime to make her blond like Derek’s.

I was on the phone with B last night discussing the baseball post which she was in the process of reading when the following conversation commenced:

B: Carl was at the game? Did you know he was there? Where did he sit? Did you see him? Did you know he was going to be there?
K: What are you talking about?
B: Carl was at the baseball game and then he commented on your blog.
K: The Real Carl commented on my blog. The other Carl was just some Carl.
B: Carl was at the game?
K: No, the Real Carl was making fun of the Baseball Carl’s comment about my getting Derek. When you read what I wrote, you HAD to know that wasn’t the Real Carl. That’s why Real Carl made the comment on the blog.
B: Then who was Carl?

Ugh.

Later that evening, because the moon was apparently full for all the blonds, Derek started in on me.

D: Baseball Carl commented on your blog?
K: (thinking that perhaps he had lost what was left of his mind) What the hell are you talking about?
D: Carl from the baseball game commented on your blog?
K: Why do you say that?
D: Well, I overheard you tell B that …
K: (instantly cutting him off) You were listening to my phone conversation? You were eavesdropping? What were you doing listening to my conversation? Do I listen to your conversations?
D: You were loud.
K: (not stopping to even breathe) And how in the hell would Baseball Carl get my blog address? Did you think that while we were discussing my thong underwear I just scribbled my blog address on the inside of his hand? ‘Carl, if you like my thong underwear, you’ll just LOVE my blog.’ Are you crazy?
D: Well maybe he just came across your blog. You know Carl is probably surfing the net at work.
K: Just surfing blogspot.com, hitting the ‘Next Blog’ button and up pops Cookies Delight and the story of him at the game? Surfing porn, yes. Surfing Blogspot, no.
D: It’s possible.
K: Let’s not get into the statistical possibilities. Let’s just not.

What happens when your husband leaves his seat when you go to the baseball game

So we went to see the home team the other night. Never having taken the Boo Boo Kitty to a game, we figured the very end of the season was the right time to go.

It didn't work out so hot since the baby hadn't taken a nap, it was 90 degrees, and we were in the two seats that were still in the sun. We gave him an ungodly amount of baby cookies, but he was not going to be appeased. Derek said he would go and change him in the lav and maybe that would change his mood as well.

As he walked up the stairs, change dropped from the pocket of my shorts. I leaned over to get it and suddenly I was getting help from the peanut gallery.

"There's a quarter to your left."
"Looks like you have a penny under your foot."

As I sat back up, local government employee/"I-left-a-leave-slip-on-the-boss's-desk-in-case-he-notices-I'm-gone"/new best friend Carl leans over and says ...

"I know you got yo' husband by wearing them thong underwear, girl."

Oops. All my complaints about being a size ... and not being able to fit into my old clothes, my shorts are now starting to rest comfortably on my hips instead of my waist.

K: Well, you know how it goes, Carl. Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get her a husband.
C: I know that's right.

With that he turned back to his conversation with his homies sitting on the row above us. Not two minutes later, Drunken Fool arrives.

DF: Hey there. Your husband told me that he had to leave with the baby and I was supposed to look after you.
K: (thinking that this was an impressive line coming from a man that had probably consumed, oh, about 9 Bud Lights) Really? You don't say?
DF: Yeah, I saw him leave.
K: Actually, I think he went to change the baby.
DF: You got HIM changing the baby?
K: That's right. How good am I?
DF: Wow. My wife tried that s$%^ on me when we had twins but I told her to forget about it.
K: Yep, I've got him right where I want him.
DF: Huh...

With that I graciously managed to get him back to his seat, unharmed by me, Carl or my returning husband.

Note to self: Don't wear the "everyday's-gameday" underwear to the game. No good comes from it.

Dirty Little Secret

After a weekend of winery tours, bellinis in stretch limos and gourmet meals, I settled in tonight to catch up on my latest vice--Filthy Rich Cattle Drive.

Don't think that the patheticism of my attraction to this train wreck of a show has escaped me or those closest to me. I was so enthralled that when the baby started to heckle the tv, I screamed at him to be quiet to I could hear whatever horrible thing was about to come out of Fabian Basabe's mouth. Fabian Basabe of Barbara Bush fame.

So many choices, I'll have to pick "I will never again feel bad for those less fortunate than me." This was said after he spent 4 hours failing to properly read a topographical map that clearly showed where the object of his search--Coke--was located. As the son of a "wealthy Ecuadorian businessman" who seems to have made his money from some indeterminable manner, I'm guessing that "Coke" would be pretty easy for Basabe to find. The only thing shocking was that he was unable to contact someone with a helicopter to pick him up so he could look for the bucket from a vantage point whereby he is most comfortable--above everyone else.

Will Alex Quinn save himself for Brittny Gastineau or will he continue to pass the time with Courtenay Semel? Will Fabian continue to threaten to sue everyone and to make random calls to 911 when he gets pissed off?

Will I ever get a life?

I knew I would find some of me in him

The kid may look like a carbon copy of Derek, but he is all me.

We went to Gymboree and the movie today. One of those theaters that provides the free Gymboree every other week to all those moms out there that are cheap asses and don't want to pay $17.80 a session to have someone blow bubbles over the top of the kid's head. For $17.80, I want you to nurse my kid for me AND teach him how to do his own laundry. I can do bubbles at my own damn house. But free is good.

The kids were playing in the center of the parachute and off squirrels E. Right over to Logan (who is a girl, for those of you who weren't sure--I know this because she was wearing a dress). He put his arms around her and gave her a big wet kiss on the back of her head. All the moms "ooohed" and "aahhed" and Logan just swatted the back of her head like she was trying to rid herself of a pesky fly.

Pulling Rico Suave off of the girl, I gave him a short lecture on showing decorum or at least obtaining consent prior to any and all public displays of affection.

He was then off to kiss Marissa. The child is 7 months old and has now kissed half of the amount of girls his father has ever kissed. Now his mother, on the other hand, well... let's just say E is well on his way.

Notes to self (continued):

4. When Father Paul walks by you and the sleeping baby at Viewing #2 and says, “Ah, the sleep of the innocent,” go with the second comment that comes to mind (“Finally….”) and just let your first reaction (“I think he is sleeping off all his evil deeds for the day”) go. Father Paul is nice but I am guessing his sense of humor wouldn’t go as far as yours would.

5. Don’t worry about the red tank top/potential haunting incident from Sunday. Thanks to the Olsen twins in matching midriff tops on Sunday and twin #1’s hot pink peek-a-boo bra under the blank mini tank top from Monday, Grandma has her haunting work cut out for her. Special thanks to the girls for giving us a veritable runway show of what’s new a Wet Seal this fall. I wasn’t up on the latest funeral ‘ho wear…

7. When discussing the funeral arrangements for the next morning and your best friend says, “the service isn’t at my church,” don’t say, “don’t you actually have to GO to a church to call it YOUR church?” At least not in a public setting. This will not be considered funny by anyone other than yourself. Further, don’t add, “and you are probably so going to hell for not going” either. Just don’t.

8. When your best friend’s “third-time-heartbreak-had-better-be-the-charm” ex-boyfriend shows up and you have been required to be pleasant to him as part of your contribution to this depressing affair, allowing him to watch the baby for two hours will soften your heart towards his pathetic situation. He will not be forgiven, but he will no longer be threatened with handguns in dark parking lots. You got a break, for heaven’s sake. Who cares if he put the baby’s ass on top of the shooting button of Centipede so he wouldn’t have to get carpel tunnel from pushing it?

Three wakes and a funeral

Note to self:

1. Wearing a red tank top under your black suit at Viewing Session #1 will get you strange looks. Especially when the woman you are honoring has promised in advance that she will come back to haunt everyone who dresses inappropriately at her final hoorah. OK, so you may have done it on purpose, hoping to get one last rise out of her. At least you aren't like the cousin who is threatening to wear a brown suit to Viewings 2 and 3. She is SO gonna get it. Bad weather and bad hair days for year for that sin.

2. Put socks and shoes on your infant before going to a funeral home. Otherwise he will look like a little Amish baby sans straw hat. Actually it is probably important for your child to own socks and shoes. Or even just socks. Or be prepared for a barage of wrath from Aunt Margie about people that don't dress their kids properly. As she is standing beside Grandma's casket. With 20 other people. And everyone turns around looking at you like you are obviously NOT FROM JERSEY and NOT ITALIAN.

3. Just buy the damn shoes, even if they are from Payless, they are $12.99, they don't fit him and he screams so loudly when you put them on him that the nice man who works at Payless is torn between coming to see what is going on or calling 911 to report your abusive ass. Overlook the fact that the baby got a crazed look in his eyes and started pulling the shoes off with his teeth. He'll be fine.

It's going to be quite a day.

The End of an Era

I was lying in bed after my long shift at work when I heard her come in the door at quarter to twelve. It was a common Saturday night occurrence. The 25-year-old tenant lying in bed alone, after a dateless evening, while the 80 year old cruises in after her weekly date with her 82-year-old boyfriend Benny. “He is no Mel,” she said, “but he drives a Cadillac, buys me dinner every Saturday night and takes me dancing too.”

True he was not the love of her life like her husband had been for several decades before he passed away, but Benny sure liked her. As the door slammed, I could hear them arguing in the kitchen. The door slammed again and Benny was gone. About three minutes later I heard a knock at the back door. But what happened next you could not make up.

“Ann, I just want a little love,” Benny said with a whine.

“You get out of here. GET OUT OF HERE!” she said.

Then came the crash of the furniture and the sound of him chasing her around the kitchen table.

She told us later that he was trying to feel her up. As I recounted the story, obtaining the perfect reaction from her horrified middle-aged children at a family gathering, one asked me if I had contemplated going downstairs to help her.

“Hell, no. Would you get between your mother and a good fight? She is a 5 foot nothing Italian grandmother that could kick your ass to Timbuktu and back. She knew that there was a ‘no boys in the house’ rule. That and I was having too much fun listening to her.”

For three years I lived with her. She used to give me crap about store bought spaghetti sauce and for dressing like, and I quote, “a hobo.” Once she even called me a “sporty girl,” whatever the hell that meant. She wanted me to dress more like my best friend, her granddaughter B. I told her that I didn’t have that amount of class. She used to laugh.

When I got engaged to Derek and she met him for the first time, I caught her flirting with him like he was a flyboy home from WWII. I overheard her asking him if he knew how crazy I was. He replied that he did and that he loved me anyway. She then regaled him with stories of every stupid thing I ever did while living at her house, to include her favorite story of me falling down the stairs while carrying a mattress.

I loved her like she was my own. She leaves behind a son, two daughters, her very favorite granddaughter and five grandchildren. But now she is with Mel. She threatened us for over a decade that she wouldn’t make it another year without him and she finally made good on her promise.

You will be forever missed, Ann, and the void you leave behind will never be filled.

Rest in peace.

It's all about the presentation

Barrrrrrrrrrrring! Barrrrrrrrring!

There it was on caller I.D. The number of my spineless, lazyass, "I-have-9-months-to-retirement-so-don't-give-me-any-trouble," "I-don't-know-what-you-are-talking-about-but-you-can't-work-part-time-now-and-you-have-to-come-back-full-time-as-of-next-Monday" second in command of yet another worthless governmental entity formerly known as my employer before I got the huge shaft.

K: Hello?
SL: Hey, Kristen. It's Spineless Lazyass. How are you doing?
K: I'm doing well. How are you? (getting excited because I'm sure he is calling to grovel)
SL: Well, we were thinking that you have the manuals that you were working on updating before you left and we hope to get them from you.
K: (thinking that the depth of his daftness had exceeded my every expectation) Of course I brought the manuals back on my last day of work.
SL: Well, bipolar, pathological liar, "Is-it-OK-to-purchase-anti-depressants-from-those-emails-that-I-get-even-though-I-run-a-law-enforcement-department," "what-are-you-talking-about-I-never-would-have-told-you-that-you-could-work-part-time-after-you-had-your-child-even-though-you-left-a-better-job-to-come-here-because-of-my-false-promise," bigoted ex-boss of yours looked on the shelf and didn't see them.
K: Wow! Let me guess. She took three seconds to look for them on one shelf and then called it an 8-hour day. Tell her she can find the manuals where she left her integrity. Oh, that's right. She never had any. You are giving me a hard time because of that comment I made that the only thing that would make her and the job tolerable would be to have Prozac put in the water cooler. Funny that you got rid of me because you needed the work done in a short period of time and couldn't afford to let me work part-time and you haven't touched the project in five months.

What a piece of crap! It's crap like this that earns the government all its lawsuits. I hope he got hit by a bus on the way home from work. Nothing terminal. Just something to ruin the weekend.

What is that banging?

Disclaimer: For those readers that don't have kids, I am so sorry that you have to be subjected daily to the neurotic workings at Chateau Cookie. I remember when I didn't have kids and I hung out with those people that had kids and I thought, "for God's sake, could you please find something else to talk about other than how the sweet potatoes looked running down Princess's face. Get a life or at least start drinking more." I would KILL for a life right now. A job which would provide me with an escape from the black hole in which I find my self spiraling downward... And I promised my mother I would stop referring to E as "the Monster" or "Satan" or "the Evil One." She thinks it could, like, harm his psyche or something. At least I'm not calling him an "f-er" behind his back like SOMEONE I know.

These baby books are crap. "At so-and-so age, your child will start to exhibit the following characteristics: ..."

Where the hell is the part that explains that the sounds you hear emanating from the room are the entire contents of the crib being thrown across the room and hitting the door. Don't get me wrong. The kid is clearly destined for Little League. I'm on it. But he is 7 months old, for heaven's sake. Why did I think that he would be an infant until he was 1? You know, one of those kids that coos and cuddles and plays quietly in the corner. Maybe even keeps his clothing clean and smiles at the camera occasionally. I know I should be happy that he has the attention span to weather several increments of the Senate Confirmation Hearings on a daily basis and that he can heckle with the best of them. I know, where else in America is a baby being forced to watch the hearings? Hey, he was born into this family so he is just going to have to put up with us--lock, stock and Glock barrel.

On the bright side, I spoke to my friend Becca yesterday and she is 37 weeks pregnant. I asked her if she was contemplating killing herself yet and she said yes. As bad as my life is now, I'm am sure glad I am not 37 weeks pregnant. THAT was the worst. I think I would rather have the entire contents of my house thrown down the stairs than feel that way again.

So Becca, good luck. Just think "Ben and Jerry's." The only two men that never talk back and will truly know how to make you happy for the rest of your life...

Male logic

I have taken lots of hits over the years for my inability to obtain a logical conclusion to any process. "Just because" suits me just fine. I don't need to really, really understand why something should naturally occur as a result of action A. When I decided to go to law school and was getting ready for the LSAT, I realized to my dismay that the entire test is a logic test. My ex-boyfriend, with whom I was still speaking, thought it was just HILARIOUS that I was going to do this.

"How exactly does a person void of logic take a logic test?" said he.

Well, I learned how to come up with the right answer by studying the patterns of the questions. I have absolutely no idea Betty seat should be next if Billy, Susie and Tom are seated first. I just figured it out somehow.

So after all these years of getting crap, I am at a loss for how male logic, or lack thereof, is more logical.

Matt called the other day to tell us that he will drop Zinni's sister Blue off on Thursday night so we can watch her while he goes on vacation to Colorado and Wyoming for a long weekend. Remember Matt? When I asked what his plans were for his trip, he mentioned that he was going to run a half marathon with some of his friends. He also mentioned that he anticipated that this may prove difficult since he tore his Achilles tendon a few weeks ago.

K: Excuse me? You tore your Achilles tendon?
M: Yeah, it's been kind of hard to train.
K: You think? And you are going to run a half marathon on it now?
M: I have to.
K: (thinking all men truly are morons) And why do you have to?
M: I have to cause I paid $40 for the race.
K: Are you an idiot? You are going to run with this injury because you paid $40? I've seen you have bigger bar bills. Do you need the $40? Do you want me to write you a check for $40 cause you need the money that bad?
M: Nah, that's alright.
K: So you are going to risk doing long term damage to your foot by running 13 1/2 miles on it because you paid $40?
M: Yep.

Thanks for reminding me that all men are exactly the same person.

When will the chewing stop?

He's driving me nuts. Phone cords (I know, who the hell still has a phone with a cord), power cords, briefcases, the dog bowl, dog toys, baby toys commandeered by the dog and recommandeered by E upon rediscovery, rubberbands, Tums containers, stray utensils, Microeconomics by Pindyck, clothes, the dog's ear, the vacuum, shoes, toes, homework ("I'm sorry but my baby ate your homework, class"), laptops, dog beds, dvd cases, kitchen tiles, napkins, the television, furniture, the dog's stick, the side of the kiddie pool, grass, and, of course, SAND.

Do you know how bad it is that when you have your friend watch you child, you have to apologize in advance that your son will probably spend the better part of the morning chewing on the legs of her dining room table.

He's not all bad. I should be happy because he did watch about 10 minutes of the Roberts confirmation hearing today and yelled at Ted Kennedy. I was so proud.

But the chewing has to stop. Ever mindful that the baby is frighteningly like the dog (the dog that was included in the "for better or worse," I asked Derek about the similarities.

K: So how long did the dog chew on everything when he was a puppy?
D: Until he was about 6 months old. I saw a marked drop in the chewing between 6 and 12 months.
K: So there is hope for us?
D: Well, in the people/dog years conversion, that means E's chewing should start to wind down at around 3 1/2.
K: Shit.

I'm guessing he's playing me for a sucka

To my husband, who has perfected the "golly-gee-I-guess-I-can't-find-it-maybe-you-could-help-me" syndrome, also known as the "can't-find-my-ass-with-both-hands" technique, you had no problem finding that ham and cheese croissant I hid in the fridge last night behind the cottage cheese and beer.

The croissant that I thought about for 24 minutes before finally dragging my ass down the stairs to discover, to my dismay, that you suddenly can find missing items when it means the difference between eating Puffins cereal or the best croissant this side of the Eiffel.

You suck.

Back by popular demand

I posted the vacation pictures at the photo blog. The vacation was fabulous and my child was his usual entertaining self. I tried to steal someone else's wireless service, but the city was a ghost town. I didn't even have dial-up.

To my son, could you have possibly have smiled in a least one of my photos? What made you wait until I sent your photo to a modeling agent to decide that you didn't want to smile to a camera anymore?

To the woman who walked up to ask me about my sleeping son, thanks for sharing that you were never able to get your kids to sleep on the beach. And thanks for using that loud voice that accomplished your goal of ensuring that I too could not have my kid sleep on the beach. Don't feel bad though. Just because it was the first nap he had taken in 5 days and you woke him up. It's OK, really. Be thankful I don't know where you live.

To the two ladies who graciously agreed to help to get the baby to smile when I was trying to manipulate the reflection disk, make E smile and then take his picture, I will forever be greatful for your help. As you sang and danced and laughed, you made it all worth while. Even though he waited to smile until you both walked away laughing, your kindness will always be remembered as a treasured moment in our lives.

To the Russian working at the funnel cake stand, thanks for flirting with me. I know you were hoping you would get a green card out of it, but I am taken. I noticed that you were over it about an hour later as you flirted with a girl MUCH closer to your age.

To the crusty old man operating the Carousel, thanks for given me and E the only smile you offered for the evening. We knew we could break you.

To my son, you make your Marmie proud by firmly deciding that you wanted to go into the waves and you didn't stop yelling until someone took you into the water. We are very sorry that you haven't learned how to body surf yet but you still have a couple of years.

To my son, after days of the scootch/crawl debate, you decided to just get from point A to point B at the speed of light, whatever the hell we wanted to call it. And way to go for learning to pull yourself up to standing beside the couch. You did make me ill with the up/down/up/down/up/down a million times but I guess that's the way it goes.

To the guy in the arcade, I'm sure I'm not the only mother with a small infant in her backpack who has put too many quarters into Time Crisis III at 10:30 p.m. at night. And yes, I am a very good shot and thank you very much.

To my husband, you made a great sand castle and a great Bloody Mary. Or so the rumor goes...

To the person who said that he would realize how bad sand tasted, on what handful will that happen? I waited. The third handful, seventh handful, how about the 10th? So much sand that the kid had a loofah diaper for the next two days. I had to finally cut him off.

Baby's all growed up

Today was the first day of school. Derek's first day teaching his class on something incredibly boring to me but very exciting to him. And at a very prestigious university, one that neither he nor I could get into back in the day. I should probably remember what his class is, but I was just so overwhelmed by his outfit this morning that I really couldn't get past that.

As he crawled out of bed at some ungodly hour, I asked him if he was going to wear a dress shirt today. His, "ah, no" should have been my first clue.

When I dragged my lazy ass out of bed to make him breakfast (keep your "what a good 1950's wife" comments to yourself. Renee already gave it to me when she heard the story. LOL), I walked into the den to find him wearing a polo shirt with three holes in the back of it. Three holes where the tag probably was at one time.

K: You are not wearing that to class today.
D: Why not?
K: It's full of holes.
D: So.
K: Did you just decide one day that the tag was bothering you so you just reached back and ripped it as hard as you could?
D: Yep.
K: Did you happen to notice the holes?
D: I don't know.
K: Do you think that those kids paying $1200 a credit hour will really respect you with those holes in your shirt? Or those kids getting $1200 a credit hour in loans?
D: I don't know.
K: I know the geek factor is going to be WAY HIGH in your class, but that is too much. Change that shirt.

Renee said that her father can't even get dressed in the morning without her mother's help or he would be wearing ripped up clothes that he found someplace.

So you are saying I have another 46 years of this to look forward to?

Lowest of low

I cannot, nor will I, get political. But I just have to say that I cannot understand the depths people have sunk to in New Orleans. Snipers outside hospitals, rapes, not giving children water, leaving old people to die on overpasses. Blame it on whomever you would like but how can we fix it? How do we give the water to the babies and the old people? Those reporters better start looking more dehydrated. I can't do stand to watch it anymore.

High points and low points

My sister always has her kids tell her their "high point" and "low point" of their day. Something about promoting their emotional knowledge at a young age. So here are mine for yesterday. I have several of each.

High Point
Getting a Job. YIPPEE for me. I'll be an overpaid government contractor writing investigative policy for a small quasi-federal agency. It is only a small step on my way to total world domination.

I'm not quite sure how to write anything without using the word "poop" now. Oh dear.

Low Point
To date, the biggest poop bomb ever. After sitting quietly in his car seat during lunch at Mark's Kitchen, I decided to spring the Boo Boo Kitty from his nest. Except he sprung on me. I had to change his diaper in the trunk of the car. There he was standing in the trunk, buck-naked, with poop which extended up to his ears. After 17 wipes, at least he didn't smell God-awful, but who was I kidding? He was standing in the trunk and I was wiping with one hand and gripping him under the armpit with my other hand. Realizing that my hold on him was precarious at best, he decided to trot out onto the bumper. There he was walking up and down the bumper of the sedan. I was throwing the wipes on the ground because there was no place to put them at the instant time. Of course, I was in the People's Republic of Maryland and people were glaring at me like I had just poisoned a tree full of squirrels for fun. I was gonna pick them up when I was done. Geesh. I then tried to lay him down to put on his diaper and he started to knaw on the trunk latch, which is the cleanest part of the car, I'm sure. He was rolling his naked ass around, all over the binders that I am supposed to review for my high paying contract job. I hope he didn't leave any butt-prints on the Quality Standards for Investigations manual.

High Point
I was walking out of the quasi-government building yesterday while talking smack to my husband about how I was going to make money when I felt the eery sense that I was being watched. I looked down but there was no toilet paper sticking out of my pants or stuck under my shoe. I looked up to see two HOTTIES in suits TOTALLY CHECKING ME OUT!!!!!! After 16 months of being totally ignored, I SHRIEKED and got into the car. It was a high point of my adult life. Imagine if I had my jacket off and they saw my rack?? Derek found this very entertaining as I recounted it live.

Low Point
Laying down to take a nap and having E rip off one of my favorite necklaces and then eating my cell phone as I pretended to sleep in hopes that he would give up and go to sleep. He proceeded to crawl back and forth over me until 3 minutes before it was time to get up. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

High Point
Suprising Mada at the end of her second day of 1st grade by putting E in the bag for the Pack'n'Play so she could unzip it and find the surprise. It wasn't quite a surprise when E realized that there was a huge hole in the bag for the handle and he got both arms out of the bag and was waving them. What kind of people put an infant in a canvas bag to cheer up a 7 year-old?

More conspiracy theories

I am not emotionally prepared to discuss today's poop incident as it involved a public parking lot and 17 wipes, so you'll all have to settle for YESTERDAY's story.

I would first like to say that Dan Brown has it all wrong. You know, that whole conspiracy theory about the Catholic Church hiding the evidence that Jesus Christ was actually married to Mary Magdalene and they had kids and now their descendants are driving 1989 Ford Astrovans with New York plates in the left hand lane on the Jersey turnpike, clogging traffic.

This is not the Catholic Church's greatest sin. The church's sin is the conspiracy it is running with CVS and Blue Cross to deny me MY BIRTH CONTROL PILLS.

My disclaimers up front:
1) I'm not Catholic, but I know some Catholics and they swear to me that the church thinks it is bad news to be standing in the way of prolific procreation ("I know some Catholics" sounds remotely like what you would hear out of a person's mouth accused of being racist--"I was friends with an Asian person once"--sorry to all you Catholics out there.
2) I am not against Dan Brown. I didn't think the book was as earth-shattering as B said it was, but then again, B is Catholic.
3) I am against all people clogging the left hand lane, regardless of race, religion, sex, ect. and do not give a rat's ass about the person driving.

Back to the story...

So I called CVS to reorder my prescription of BCP's. Since I managed to lose 2 months worth a couple of months ago. I ran out 2 days ago so I was already in trouble. I tried to order the generic brand because it is $25 cheaper. And this is how the conversation went with the pharmacist/Satan as I had already explained that I LOST THE PILLS AND NEEDED MORE.

P: This doesn't come in generic.
K: (thinking, nice try, B-e-och, I took a damn FDA law course) Ah, are you sure about that?
P: Oh, yeah it does but your doctor hasn't authorized you to get generic. You have to call your doctor.
K: Fine.
P: You know your insurance won't pay for this because it's too soon.
K: I know. I'm gonna pay.
P: You aren't authorized to get more until September 1 because it's too soon.
K: Once again, I LOST THE PILLS AND I AM GOING TO PAY FOR THIS MONTH. I would just like to get the generic because they are cheaper.
P: Your doctor hasn't authorized generic.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. WTF? I'm off to explain to the nurse why I need generic. She agrees to call CVS and authorize the generic.

I show up at CVS.

P: You know, this is too soon and your insurance isn't going to pay for it.
K: I know, I'm going to pay for it.
P: The insurance will pay for it if you wait until September 1.

It cost Blue Cross $8900 for me to give birth. Do they want to F$#&ing pay another $8900 in 40 weeks? I swear they have to both be working for the Catholic Church.

So I get home and I'm explaining this whole thing to Derek in bed.

K: You would have thought I was trying to get 8 boxes of Sudafed, and 3 months worth of Zoloft, Paxil and Adderall with prescriptions from 3 different doctors. I was just trying to get BIRTH CONTROL. Let's be honest. You-know-who has 2 kids, 13 months apart, and she fantasizes about killing herself to get away from them. Right now I am only fantasizing about being like that mother in the Oprah book club book that gets out of her car and leaves her purse and ice cream on the front seat, never to return. And for the entire book, the family is not trying to figure out why the mother left but why she couldn't have put the ice cream away before she did. Yeah, that's my fantasy.
D: I'm sorry, babe. It is a conspiracy. (as he snuggles closer)
K: WTF are you doing? What are you looking at me for like that? Which part of this story did you miss?
D: (sheepishly) You said you got your pills, so I thought...
K: Two days late. GET THE HELL OVER TO YOUR SIDE OF THE BED AND DON'T EVEN LOOK IN MY DIRECTION. And I am SO blogging this tomorrow.

Things not to be said in public and sanity just in the nick of time

The third tooth finally came in on Friday night. When we were all out on our date. So what if 3's a crowd?

We went to Carlysle Grand on Friday night because I was craving the Jambalaya. Normally a haven for the powerful Shirlington singles crowd, things were quiet and we got a table in the baby corner. At the next table over were three babies.

This is the way the conversation went with the unidentified father at the next table.

UF: How old's your baby?
D: 6 months.
UF: Really?
D: Yeah. How old's your baby?
UF: Five months. (as his baby is bouncing non-stop on his lap, like one of those freaky toys that you just end up taking the batteries out of to regain your sanity)
D: She's a bouncer, huh? You guys have a Bounceroo?
UM (jumping into the conversation): We have a Jumperoo.
D: Yeah, that's what we have. He likes it so much that he gets blisters between his toes.
UF: Wow!

My mortification is now complete. Whispering/hissing, this is how our private conversation went.

K: What the HELL are you doing, telling people that the baby got blisters from the Jumperoo? And it was only one blister.
D: I think it's funny that he jumped so much that he got a blister.
K: Or, that we are awful parents that leave him in the Jumperoo for hours on end, long enough for him to get a blister. As opposed to the 20 minutes it only took for him to get the blister. Do you want those people to call DHS on us for being neglectful parents?
D: He just likes to bounce.

Whatever. Then we went to see Grizzly Man. Instead of just watching a movie about being in Alaska, they wanted us to feel like we were ACTUALLY IN Alaska. It was so cold in the theater that the baby managed to clench his jaws so tight that he sprang a tooth.

OK, I don't know how he did it but that's when we noticed the new tooth. Of course its brother is hovering right behind so it is only partial sanity.