All good things must come to an end

Just kidding.

I'm moving on. To bigger and better things. If you have wondered where I have been for the last week, I decided a week ago to start a business. You can find it a www.babybrewing.com. Too bad none of you readers are pregnant. But if you know any pregnant people, send them my way. As for the blog, I'm at www.mommyneedsacocktail.com. Because Mommy really needs a cocktail...

Here's one of my shirts. I hear Katie is ready to lose all of her fake pregnancy weight now.






If you could HASU (hook a sista' up), please link Baby Brewing on your blog pages. Every link helps put me on the Google map. As soon as I rob a bank, I'll start making blogging t-shirts for all those of you who are smart enough to NOT be pregnant. Lots of love and hope to see you over a www.mommyneedsacocktail.com. Leave lots of comments so people get the wrong impression--that I am actually readable.

Great Expectations

Today my elderly neighbor mentioned to me that she was planning on coming over to our house on Sunday to watch E hunt for Easter eggs.

She is so sweet.

Except there was no plan for an Easter egg hunt. Just like I spent $15 on his Christmas present (Matchbox cars) and only bought him a chocolate cake for his birthday, I am the minimalist mother. He is 1, for heaven's sake. But now I am starting to realize that the pressure is going to rise and that other's expectations may be unnecessarily dashed by my lack of interest in the "fun" aspect of holidays. Let's be honest. Nana could go into cardiac arrest if she finds out that the boy was denied his God-given American right to excessive candy on Easter Sunday. If I don't produce a video of the kid searching through the waist-high grass in the back yard, oooohing at the colored eggs, she might think I'm a bad mother. And she was such a good mother, especially on these points, that I really don't want to disappoint her.

So I guess I'll be going out tomorrow morning to Michael's to buy eggs. And I guess the baby is going to get his favorite--chocolate. Who said you outgrow peer pressure?

The news is big. Very big.

No, I am not pregnant. Stop asking me. You know who you are. STOP asking me. Asking me 4 times a day is not going to make me pregnant. You know that I am a contrarian and that every time you ask me, I am on the other end of the phone, taking handfuls of birth control pills. And chasing them with red ruby martinis.

Back to the news.

I got my letter yesterday from Local Community College. "Congratulations, you have been accepted!" Complete with an exclamation point. I love exclamation points. I know they are overused (often by myself) but sometimes a little shouting is in order.

D: Did you think you weren't going to get into community college?
K: Ok, so I wasn't as nervous as, say, when I applied for law school, but you never know. Maybe they were going to deny me for attending too many colleges in my lifetime. Over colleging.
D: Well congratulations, babe.

It then took me 55 minutes to register for a web design class. Fifty-five blanking minutes. I don't want to start a derogatory tirade about community colleges since I am a graduate, but WTH??? My husband thought that this was by far the funniest thing he had ever seen. His wife unable to register for community college. I guess you can be snotty when you went to a pseudo Ivy League university?

Turns out I needed to know that the code for the summer 2006 term is 2063. 2063. Who would have thought that I couldn't figure that one out? I mean, it's so user-friendly and logical.

Fifty-five minutes. If there was bus service to school, I'm sure mine would be short.

Maybe I am pregnant.

Life lessons CAN be learned at a bar

1. You are only as old as you feel.

Derek's cousin Mike beat us to the bar. He called Derek on his cell phone.

M: Buddy, I showed up at the bar and said I was here for the party and they ushered me to a back room with a huge "50" balloon. Did you turn 50?

This coming from the man that spent at least the first 20 SUMMERS of his life with D. They are 11 months apart. You think he would have noticed that Derek was 10 years old than him when they were, say 5 years old. I asked him if he took his driver's license out to check his birthday.

Crickets.

2. What constitutes morality anyway?

Dave said that when he was asked by his background investigator if he considered himself a moral person, he replied that he was morally opposed to describing himself as moral.

3. Sometimes a bar is just too loud to facilitate good communication.

Matt told us that he went to a "Meet the Puppy" party hosted by his boss because his boss was hosting. Two weeks later he got a phone call suggesting that he and his kids go to the ER because the boss had to put down his puppy for being rabid.

Now if that isn't rich enough, the whole time Matt was calling it the "Meet the Puppy" party, I thought he was saying a "Beat the Puppy" party. I kept saying "a Beat the Puppy Party?" Even I couldn't understand why someone would have a "Beat the Puppy" party, and I have a Lab.

4. Can you ever really "know" a person?

A person who shall remain nameless since he still thinks he has a shot at becoming a judge one day and they frown on these kinds of experiences told a story about how he used black powder to make pipe bombs when he was in elementary school. Several times.

5. Who says "you can't always get what you want?"

My mother called during the party to tell my sister that my niece had called my mother to ask my mother to call her mother for her. Apparently my niece wanted to buy some I-Tunes online and she needed a credit card number to do it. She called my mother because she knew that if she called my sister, my sister would not pick up the phone. When my sister called my niece back, my niece told my sister that she didn't want to listen to my sister's music anymore and wanted to order her own music. She just needed a credit card. "Your choices are MasterCard, Visa or American Express, Mom."

She is 7.

6. If you don't use a public restroom, you can avoid all sorts of problems.

For the first time in years, it was only AFTER I was done peeing that I realized there was no toilet paper. In a bar bathroom. Shocking.

7. See Number 4.

When we commenced introductions, Matt's friend Deb began saying, "Lenny, I know you, I know you." Rather excitally.

Apparently Deb is neighbors with Lenny's PIANO TEACHER. And apparently Lenny is a very good piano player. Lenny. Plays. Piano. Almost as good as Liberace.

8. It's the quiet ones that will hit you with the zingers.

Steph's contribution to the Lenny/piano story: "And Lenny calls her 'Grammy.'"

Could you ask for more material?

Sometimes it's nice to get mail

My blogger friend is very talented. And funny as hell. Check her out. If you click on her vlog, you can check out her legs too. She has her husband to thank for that one, I think.

Death and taxes

This is not a post about death. It is, however, about taxes.

I've been doing my taxes for years. Which is good because it's a felony NOT to do taxes. But this year is my first year of doing taxes with my new business. What business, you say? The one that isn't off the ground yet, but apparently is legal enough that I can write my laptop off to it. I think. If it's not, I swear I thought it was.

It also seems that I have gotten my father's genes when it comes to doing taxes. I remember one year after my father did taxes that we ended up with a negative income. I guess that would be a loss. The man knew how to write off everything. And his record-keeping left a lot to be desired. A shoe box full of receipts. I think his accountant would have jumped off a mountain he hadn't had to drive 7 hours to find a hill tall enough.

So this morning I am doing taxes and saying things to myself like, "I think it was $325 to list the condo that never sold, or was it $375?" It is too sad that I am too damn cheap to share my return with H&R Block, because they could probably save me dollars.

And the possibility of tax penalties. Ah, screw it.

Imagine a world without Direct TV and Tivo--it's called Hell

Yesterday the kid got a hold of the new remote control for the tv. He did something crazy and I thought I might get stuck watching Sesame Street on loop for 72 hours. It took me 20 minutes to figure out how to get the tv to speak English again. Not that I wasn't enjoying the German. It's just that I don't speak German. It was like the time I was in Munich and watched "The Hitcher" on German tv. The true meaning of lost in translation. It just isn't as scary.

We don't actually know how to use the new remote which is why the boy is allowed to wander aimlessly around the house with it. We gave up and are back to using the old one. Occasionally I'll hide the new remote behind a cushion in case I lose out in the remote-control-acquisition and I'm caught watching a really riveting Nova episode on the creation of evolution. Just hit "List--The Girls Next Door--enter." Pisses him off every time.

So tonight the kid starts pushing buttons and the screen goes blank. Blank, I say. But with the nasty static sound.

K: What did he do?
D: I don't know.
E: This.
K: Get it back. I want to watch Law and Order.
E: That.
D: I can't.
E: This.

20 minutes later and we have come to the conclusion that the gloriously loud lightning/thunder storm we had may have blown out our TiVo.

K: You gotta fix it.
D: I can't.
K: What do you mean, you can't?
E: THIS!
D: I think one of those strikes blew out the TiVo.
K: What are we going to do? What if we have to just talk to each other? OMG! We have to have TiVo. Is Costco still open?
E: THAT!
D: No.
K: What will we talk about? This is a crisis. I can't live without TiVo.
D: I'm going to give the boy his bath. I guess we'll just read in bed.
E: THIS!

I feel like I need one of those board games you play at mixer parties to get to know other people. You know the ones that have those cards to generate conversation. If I don't figure out something to talk about, my husband will think this is a perfect opportunity to talk about babies.

"So can you believe the crappy hiring practices at Homeland Security..."

It's good to be at the top

I'm talking to B today, whining about how I am going to have to get a job, and quick, and she offers me an opportunity to get in on the top of a pyramid scheme.

It seems that this girl she knows, who hates her, called her yesterday to tell her at she was looking for a strong member to be part of a strong team.

K: Amway?
B: No, some beauty products.
K: No kidding. Isn't she the adjective queen. She didn't actually say "strong member" of a "strong team" did she?
B: Yep.
K: So what do you sell?
B: Nothing.
K: What do you mean, you don't sell anything?
B: I just have to find more "strong members" for our "strong team."
K: She is not this stupid. And she hates you. Which may explain why she is offering you an opportunity to commit a FELONY. Does she know this is a pyramid scheme?
B: How can she not? She's not actually selling anything. At least I don't think so. I didn't read any of the stuff she gave me. So how am I supposed to tell her no?
K: How about "I hate the Bureau and being under investigation does not sound fun to me." Or "you know, Madonna, I have issues with embezzling and it would only be a matter of time before I was ripping you off and I wouldn't want to jeopardize our totally fake friendship." And if you like you could add "and I mean 'friendship' as it refers to someone who goes to someone's grandmother's wake and never actually acknowledges her presence and yes it is seven months later but I can hold a grudge and I never really liked you anyway, you self-centered money-grubbing conniving bitch."
B: You know, people in the Midwest are making a LOT of money in this pyramid scheme.
K: You didn't actually refer to it as a pyramid scheme when you were talking to her about it, but if you did, you are so cool.
B: There is even a weekly conference call to discuss it.
K: Wow. Now I know it's legit. I was wondering before, but if there is a conference call it must be for real. You should totally do it.
B: You know, she said that lots of lawyers are involved in this.
K: Yes, they are. I have no doubt that LOTS of lawyers are involved in this. On retainer, I'm sure. So how are the beauty products?
B: I haven't really noticed a difference.
K: I will so give you $10 I don't have if you call her up and tell her that you don't know what is in this lotion but you have had 3 guys propose marriage already today, and that one was at a red light.
B: You think?
K: Totally.

And to think that people are still falling for this. I love it.

Mute! There's a mute button, right?

My son has developed righteous indignation. Righteous indignation equal to that of a Southern Baptist minister who has just found out that instead of going to the mall, the youth group went to see Dirty Dancing, and now the youth minister's daughter is pregnant, and we told you that dancing would lead to this, and I don't care what you say, Marelle, that baby's sunken eyes, just because she had sunken eyes, didn't look anything like my boyfriend's sunken eyes.

The latest outlet for the boy's indignation? How his evil mother who has blatantly ignored him for twenty minutes as she attempted to make chocolate chip cookies would then DENY HIM the right to the 14 ounce package of chocolate-covered expresso beans that he so faithfully and laboreously freed from their captivity and was speedily piling on the floor between his legs while occasionally snacking on a couple. You would have thought I pulled all 10 of his teeth right out of his head with a pair of plyers. I couldn't even hear myself think.

E: WWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
K: (frantically scooping the beans off the floor with one hand and yanking the beans already in his mouth with the other hand) NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
E: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! (trying to hide the beans under his legs while frantically chew, chew, chewing when he actually stopped to breathe).
K: These are for MOM and they are only for emergency purposes. Do you know that one time Mom ate 4 of these and managed to stay up for 20 hours straight.
E: WWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
K: In baby world, 4 beans is like 40 and that would make it ........................ (realizing that math was never my forte) staying up a long time!
E: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Lord have mercy. I'm buying this kid a "Drama Queen" t-shirt.

I need some help here

Why is it that my child, when handed a cup, can miraculously grip it tightly (yet in a bizarre twist, almost gently) with both of his grimy little hands, slowly put it up to his mouth and drink without spilling even a drop sometimes, but when there is a full can of Dr. Pepper (minus one baby sip because God forbid anyone give me a chance to drink a drink or actually do anything in this house EVER) resting on the back of the couch against the wall, my son has to grip it with both hands at the very bottom of the can and up-end it so the entire thing pours all over the couch faster than shotgunning a beer like you did back in the old days before domesticity and parental obligations forced you to this life of involuntary servitude?

Why? On a stack of Bibles, the kid wouldn't do it if it was a bottle of water. Just remember, it's not a consipiracy theory if it is really happening. And perception is reality.

If you thought I was a hard ass before...

I think I have found the solution to getting this kid out of my bed.

Because he has to get out of my bed. If he doesn't get out of my bed, I can already see the argument when I catch him in bed with his girlfriend--the argument about whose bed it really is.

So last Friday I put him in his crib for his nap. You know, the torture chamber. He started to scream maniacally. I called D.

K: I put him in his crib.
D: I can hear him.
K: From work?

Crickets.

Of all the things I miss since I have gotten pregnant and had a child, I miss my brain the most.

K: He is not happy. (able to actually smell my husband disapproval at my actions)
D: (clearly trying to decide of catching a cab home to save his mirror image from the EVIL MOTHER would be faster than, say, calling Child Protective Services directly) I thought we were going to get him his own bed this weekend.
K: I won't let him cry long. He has only been crying for 5 minutes. That's about how long he has cried (cumulatively) since birth.
D: Well I guess crying for a little while won't hurt. Maybe 10 minutes.

This spoken like a man who has not had to give up ONE INCH of his side of the pillow top mattress to the child I am now affectionately referring to as T-bone, because that's how he likes to sleep these days.

I then went out to Costco and bought an Elmo blow-up toddler bed. Which looks frightfully like a dog bed. Which my husband HAD to bring to my attention.

However, I have not had to share my bed with anyone (excect the person who pays the mortgage) for three whole days. So the kid sleeps in an Elmo dog bed. At least he's sleeping and it isn't with me.

A day at the zoo feels like a day at the circus

Our zoo is notorious for having to put animals to sleep or just killing them by letting them eat rat poisoning that someone forgot to put away. Frankly, it's embarrassing. It is a zoo. It's not like it's a brand new idea. I mean, they aren't killing the animals in the San Diego Zoo. The animals actually seem happy there. No, I'm not kidding. I have a picture of a bear with a smile on his face. But maybe that's just all that good weather in So. Cal. I don't know.

So yesterday I took the boy to the zoo. His father thought that maybe all of his crying lately had to do with depression and lack of playdates. I swear on a Bible. Those very words came out of his mouth. Rather than put the kid on Zoloft, I decided to expose him to wild animals. Our very first exhibit was one that truly expresses the care and concern shown to animals at our zoo.

There was a kangaroo, lying on his side, rapidly breathing.

"What's wrong with that kangaroo, Mommy?"

Mommy was stunned. I guess she hadn't anticipated a conversation with her 5-year-old at the zoo about long-term care, assisted living, Alzheimer's and death. I decided to HASU--Hook A Sister Up.

"The kangaroo is taking a nap. It's his naptime. Isn't he a good napper?"

Mommy (and the other 7 parents) looked grateful. Apparently the Wisconsonites had not heard about our less-than-stellar zoo mortality rate. The zoo had a sign posted by the hyperventilating kangaroo stating that they were keeping Roo as comfortable as possible. I'm thinking it's time to up Roo's morphine. That wasn't looking too comfortable.s

All I'm saying is that if you can't do a job right, don't do it at all. The animals deserve far better.

If you can't play with the big dogs, stay on the porch

Which has nothing to do with this post.

Last night my husband came to bed with a look on his face. That look that said "you are in big trouble."

K: Hi.
D: Hi.

Crickets.

D: Do you want to tell me what was up with the shower this morning?
K: (thinking that playing dumb might be helpful at this point even though I know EXACTLY where this is going) Huh?

Crickets.

D: What the hell was up with hair in the shower this morning? There was hair EVERYWHERE. I actually got out of the shower this morning and came back to bed to see if you were bald and I just hadn't noticed it last night.
K: Well there was this poo incident and I had to dump the little tub out and I forgot to get my hair out of the drain when I was the shower earlier and then there was hair everywhere but then it had poo in it and he was screaming and did I mention that there was poo everywhere?
D: Do you know how long it took me to clean up the hair?
K: Uh, sorry. But haven't I've been better lately about the hair in the drain?

Crickets.

D: Not so much.
K: I'm trying, babe.
D: Do you have any idea how much hair was in the drain?
K: But there was poo! Can't you give a little for the Poo Factor?

Crickets.

The baby is in the 20th Percentile for weight, and his mother is in the 20th percentile for Mothering

I have issues. I’ll admit it. I’m lazy. I’m the mother that took her shoeless infant to an Italian wake. I’m lucky someone didn’t take me out in the parking lot due to my lack of respect. Ever since this child’s birth 13 months ago, I have neither the time nor energy to deal with the torture that accompanies shoes.

I finally resorted to just putting socks on him. In 45 degree weather. My mother would be mortified if she knew that I deemed this a solution. But even the socks create a situation involving maniacal screaming akin to torture. He has now figured out how to stand on one foot while leaning against something in order to take the socks off. And if, God forbid, you put shoes on him, he takes them off and throws them at you. His aim is not so good, so we are all still OK. But the kid cannot go out without something on his feet. I just can’t tolerate all the comments. I know you are the perfect mother and your child’s clothes never had stains, always matched, and your child wore activity-appropriate shoes. Your child will also probably grow up to be an uptight accountant who will secretly cross-dress on weekends. But leave me alone. I’m doing the best I can.

So I got clever. When I take him out now, I dress him in a onesie and put his snowsuit on that has feet in it. His feet stay warm, he doesn’t get too hot, he’s pissed but I still win. Yippee.

Until the bitch in BJ’s the other night. She said to Derek, “is that pajamas or a snowsuit?”

I missed all this and when he told me about it 5 minutes later, I asked what she was talking about.

D: I think she was being sarcastic. Like either answer would be unacceptable.
K: What does that mean?
D: Well, it’s not snowing.
K: I’m sorry. Will the outfit spontaneously combust if there is not precipitation in the air? It’s 45 effing degrees out. It’s not like it’s Miami in the summer time.

I then may have threatened to go kick her ass, but my husband was wise enough to wait until AFTER her soccer-mom-minivan-driving-fat-ass left the parking lot. She probably would have maced me anyway.

If my child had his way, he would be naked regardless of the weather. I come up with a solution and I still get opinions. So I didn’t want to spend the evening looking for socks down 37 aisles. Maybe I should just duct tape the bastards to his feet. Would that be an acceptable solution? Maybe he could throw a shoe at her instead of me, the woman who has suckled and nurtured him and still manages to get the ass-end of his moods. I hope she ran home to write a book that will help all of us 20th percentile mothers. Cause Lord knows we don’t have a clue.

"Oh, what a beautiful mornin', Oh, what a beautiful day."

No more stomach flu for the Boo.

Chocolate Mint Brownies.

I was told by a 15 year old girl that my jeans were "cool."

George Mason 86, U. Conn. 84.

Did you say Georgetown? Nope.
Did you say George Washington? Nope.

George Mason? Who/Where the hell is George Mason?

"I got a beautiful feelin'
Ev'rything's going my way."

OCD would really come in handy now

My latest bad choice of the day is offering to design and make my friend's wedding invitations. She would rather spend $3,000 on a videographer that will document the big day, all to cheesy music that will later on remind her of how bad music is these days, rather than spend $1,500 on invitations that will be promptly be thrown in the trash (damn, where the hell did we put the directions to that reception? Forget the reception, do you even remember what day, let alone what time the wedding is? If I have to call the bride's mother, I swear I am going to be pissed).

And I am not just saying this because my videographer/bestest-best-friend-and-undercover-lover-of-my-brother-in-law got hammered the night before our wedding and the video is nowhere to be found. I wouldn't be surprised if it showed up one day with clips of the Airport Bar included.

So what did I do about this invitation situation? I found lots of "pretty paper" (an odd size). I bought lots, but not enough. Just enough to have me committed to that GD "pretty paper," that, surprisingly, is not available on the internet, and apparently is no longer carried in stores. Unless you special order. Which requires talking to Jeff, the store manager, who is looking at you with an odd look. You can only imagine it is because it is 2:00 p.m. and you are standing in front of him wearing your pajamas. Which you wore, in your defense, because you thought you would just be able to run in and out of STORE NUMBER FOUR looking for the odd size "pretty paper" and only upon not finding any left did you realize that you were going to be required to seek professional attention regarding this matter.

There was then an incident with a rubber stamp company involving the purchase of the Chinese character (which must be referred to as a character rather than symbol, because if you refer to symbol, your friends will then ask if you refer to them as "Oriental" as well, which is apparently better than "yellow" but not by much) for "love" and so now there are "love" stamps coming from all over the world. Hopefully soon.

I then made the mistake of asking my husband what he thought of the changes I made to the reply cards.

D: Yeah, I think I would put "requested" on the next line.

If I had wanted his opinion, I probably should have asked for it BEFORE I printed up 250 reply cards with "requested" on the first line rather than the second. And I am not doing them over again.

My sister, the one with the OCD, she would do them over again if she thought they would look better. Me, I just think that 95% of the people won't even notice that "requested" would look better on line two, and of those 95%, 35% will not even return the reply cards and will be emailing the bride the Thursday before the wedding to tell her they are coming. So I guess it would be OCD wasted anyway, huh?

The anatomy of a "Bad Bet"

K: He is so going to throw up in my hair while I am asleep tonight.
D: No, he's not.
K: I'll bet he will.
D: Double or nothing (referencing an outstanding debt that continues to grow, because, I'm an idiot).
K: Double or nothing he vomits in my hair tonight.

(sideline: flash to Beautiful Girls)
Paul: I can't find Jan (his ex). I'll bet she's with that meatcutter Victor.
Birdie: She's not with Victor.
Paul: I'll bet you $20 she's with Victor.
Kev: Bad bet.
Paul: What do you mean, "bad bet?"
Kev: It's a bad bet. If you are right, she is with Victor. If you are wrong, you gotta pay $20. Either way you lose. Bad bet.

D: But I want to be clear about the vomit in the hair.
K: What are you talking about? you want to decide what actually constitutes vomit in my hair?
D: Yeah, what if he just vomits and some splashes up on one piece of your hair. I'm not paying $80 for vomit on one piece of hair.
K: I think any vomit, even if only on one strand of hair, is payable.
D: I don't think so.
K: So if I lie in bed beside you, with one strand of hair with vomit on it, and decide not to take a shower, you'll be OK. Just lying beside me, knowing that there is vomit in a strand of my hair, yet not knowing exactly WHICH piece of hair is foul?
D: OK, I'll pay up for one strand.

Of the 11 times he has vomited on me in two days, you think the kid could have been nice enough to do it so I could get $80. I am SO getting him back when he turns 15.

Living a charmed life

This morning I was having a lovely dream. We were on a boat with my in-laws in Hawaii. There was some discussion about my father-in-law's driving, and then my mother-in-law threw up.

K: Did you just throw up?
MIL: Yes, I hope it didn't get on you.
K: Just a little spray in the air.

Then she did it again. A WOOOSHHH of vomit.

Except we weren't in Hawaii, we weren't on a boat, and it wasn't my mother-in-law. I opened my eyes to find my child vomiting on me.

UGH! you say. Which time? The first time or the second time (Blue Raspberry Flavorice) or the successive 5 times. His father, showing his generosity by sharing his flu with his son, called at 10:30 to say that he was sick and was coming home from work. Not 30 minutes after he got home, I heard the boy working his magic in the kitchen.

E: This.
D: Do you want some bread, buddy?
E: This!


K: Why are you giving him bread?
D: He wants some.
E: This.
K: He is vomiting up bile.
D: Am I supposed to tell him no?

No? Tell the boy no? Is that an option?

Fastforward 2 hours later. The husband handed the boy over to me. And he vomited what looked disturbing like it had at some point, been bread. He had the kid for 2 hours and when did he throw up? Within 20 seconds of being handed to me.

There was a diarrhea incident, but I won't bore you. For the next 10 hours, every time the husband handed me the baby, the baby threw up on me. Not on his father, just me. I'm on my fifth outfit of the day. The boy is on his second. Because early on he figured out how to lean over to vomit, completely missing his own clothes.

If there is a God, this will be the 24, and not the 72 hour flu.

It's about time he contributed something other than lack of sleep or quiet

He has been sucking us dry. Some of us, literally, some figuratively. Let's be honest. That apple sauce, yoBaby yogurt and organic plums will hit you in the wallet. I mean, the kid must be costing us $ 10-12 dollars a week.

But it appears he has found a potential financial contribution to this family. You know when you go to IKEA and you get to the kitchen section and there, enclosed in the plexiglass is the machine opening and closing the cabinet door 37,234 times to show you how durable IKEA cabinets are? What do you think it is costing to run the electric to that thing day in and day out? I'm thinking renting the kid would be cheaper for them and would contribute to the family financial coffers.

His lastest thing is the endless pushing of the door open/close button on the X-Box. Open, close, open, cl, ope, close, open, clo. For hours. This does not bother me in the least because frankly, for years, I have been an XBox widow. All those nights I was cold in my bed, alone, listening to the sounds of Interactive Halo 2...

"I killed you!!"
"Hey, I gotta go. My mom said dinner is ready."

The loss of XBox for me would be like my loss of my birth control pills for, say, my husband. I can hear him now. "Too bad, so sad, come on over, come on over, Baaaaby!"

I wonder if IKEA would pay him by the push?

And they say law enforcement officers are stupid

On the news today, our local rug-wearing newscaster informed us of a most important cock fighting bust today (you could actually feel the intesity in the air). As he interviewed the animal control officer, the officer indicated that there had been no arrests. He indicated that in addition to the 30 to 40 roosters found on the property, there was additional evidence of cock fighting. They panned the camera to the owner of the property.

He was the one wearing the ball cap that said "Cock Fight" on the back of it. I wonder if the front of the cap said "Dumb Ass."

I guess it all depends on how you define "passive-aggressive"

You ever wake up to the realization that it is 7:00 am and you are going to be the attending parent for the morning because your husband is playing possum better than a rodent in Alabama, so you go downstairs, drink all the coffee and put on your Monster Ballads CD set just loud enough so the bass actually makes furniture move?

Yeah, me neither.

Planes, Rains, and ice cream stains

We are back from Hawaii. Despite enough rain to make one contemplate the best design for an ark (on a cocktail napkin accompanying a Mai Tai, of course), we had a delightful time. We had more sushi than people are eating in Japan and our Coppertone baby is living proof that SPF 50 really does work. He doesn't exactly glow in the dark anymore, but it's not like he got much sun.
We met lots of really nice people (Hi, Allenette!) and survived all 22 hours of plane rides.

Which brings me to the point of this post. What moron brings a baby on a plane for hours and hours to Hawaii? Apparently there are lots of us. I thought Hawaii was the honeymoon capital of the US, but there were tons of babies Ethan's size or smaller. It was bizarre. Did everyone else bring their mother along so they could wander down to the pool bar for a couple of Mai Tais, a couple of Blue Hawaiis, a couple of Pina Coladas? In one sitting, of course.

As a side note, I would like to relay a conversation I overheard in line at Cold Stone Creamery in Waikiki between two vacationing 20 year olds who were size 0 and size 00.

0: I just love ice cream.
00: Oh, my GOD, BECKY. That ice cream is TOO BIG. Do you know how many grams of fat are in that thing?

Side note: Saying that an ice cream cone is "too big" is like saying the Pope is "too Catholic."

0: I guess you are right. But I just love ice cream.
00: We are going to be here a few more days.

At this point I interjected, because a) I'm old enough to not care and b) they were idiots.

K to 0: Aren't you on vacation? This ice cream is so worth a little indulgence (while subtlely trying to suck my fat gut in and blatantly trying to justify my own bad behavior).
0: Well, we are going out for a drink after this.
K: Maybe you could just drink light beer.
0: Oh, we are already going to do that.

I got the most colossal ice cream cone you have ever seen which had a half gallon of mint ice cream with 1 cup of chocolate chips and a giant brownie mixed into it. And it was orgasmic. I turned around as I left, just in time to see 0 and 00's grand purchase. A kiddy cup of vanilla ice cream. That they were sharing.

Lucky for them that they finally figured out the key to true happiness in this world. Staying skinny.

Maybe I should have gotten the hot fudge on top?

Getting caught up in the letter, rather than the spirit of the law

There is nothing better than being I.D.'d on a trip to the supermarket.

"You want to see my I.D.? That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day."

Until you forget your I.D. at home, you are at the liquor store because it will fit into the 7 seconds available today and you are getting ready for a party of 50 to celebrate your friends getting engaged.

Clerk: Can I see I.D.?
K: (while searching through the wallet) Uh, no. I don't have it.
C: Well I can't sell you anything if you don't have I.D.

You can only imagine how ugly this is about to get.

K: Isn't it your policy to I.D. under 30?
C: That's why I'm I.D.-ing you.
K: I am (insert age that passed 30). I was born in (insert year that is not 1976).
C: (with a head shake) Well you look under 30 to me.
K: Uh, yeah, no I don't.
C: You do to me.
K: Let's try a little realism then. Do you think I look under 21?
C: I think you look under 30.
K: Last time I checked, I have to be over 21. My I.D. isn't to prove that I am over 30.
C: Well once I ask, I can't sell unless you show me I.D.
K: You are joking right. Cause there couldn't be anything more asinine than not letting me purchase ORANGE VODKA and HYPNOTIQ because you think I might be under 30. Not that I'm under 21, but under 30. It's not like I'm buying a case of Busch Light Draft and I'm paying with change. I'm buying the ingredients for a Reserve Red Ruby Martini. That I am serving at an engagement party for 50.

I haven't been this mad since they cancelled "V" What a bitch.

Probably not what the girl bargained for

This morning my husband was filling out a recommendation form for a girl that took his class last semester. He mentioned that she was apparently trying to get into a study abroad program in London and she asked for a recommendation from him.

K: What's the program?
D: Hell if I know. This form is bullshit.
K: Does she realize that she has put her life/future in the hands of a total slacker?
D: This form even asks about her proficiency in English.
K: Do you even remember who she was from last semester?
D: I think so.
K: Is she a native English speaker? (a valid question for his class)
D: She's American.
K: Then why are you bitching about about the proficiency question?
D: I think I am going to write that she has excellent American English skills.
K: Why do you have to solidify Britain's poor opinion of us?
D: How do you spell "cultural?"
K: Oh Lord.
D: How do you spell "receive?"

This girl isn't gonna even be able to get into an MTV Spring Break party at this rate.

At least he'll have legroom and free drinks as he watches the baby

D called today with the news that his flight got ticketed and he managed to use his miles to upgrade to First Class (note the capitals--first class doesn't look as good as First Class) so he'll be joining us "up front" on our trip to Hawaii next week. I had already booked my First Class ticket on miles (his miles--that's why I married him) but his ticket is courtesy of the federal government and thus requires ticketing 20 minutes before departure and that he be seated in the middle seat on the last row right next to the lav.

After I booked my ticket, he said, "You booked a First Class ticket on my miles? You didn't even try for a Business Class seat? You went right to First? Was Economy available?" Apparently his memory is short regarding our last flight with The Boy. I'm going to need all the free cocktails I can get and please keep them coming.

I was going to feel so bad for him if he was stuck in peasant class with the baby while I was sipping cham-pag-ne in First Class. Now we get to be one big happy family. However this has presented me with a dilemma. If my husband is sitting beside me on the plane, it forecloses all hope that this man will be sitting beside me in 1B. Damn.

I hope the supermarket isn't my Magic 8 ball

It all started when the old lady in the produce section said to E, "aren't you so adorable" and then leaned over to me and said, "you are going to be fighting off the girls with a broomstick."

Was that a reference to me being a witch?

Then it happened again in front of the meat counter. We were approached by a 60-ish woman sporting the exact same bouffant hairstyle she wore to her senior prom in 1959. She went on and on about E's eyes, blah, blah, blah. She was telling him she loved him and was kissing his forehead. I know I should have been concerned but I figured that between the e coli and salmonella on the surface of the cart handle that he was sucking on and the afternoon at the rotavirus infested pediatrician's office, what the hell could this woman give him? And then the conversation went haywire...

Bouffant: Look at how long your fingers are...maybe you'll be a piano player. Wouldn't that be nice? You could be just like that Liberace.

She hesitated long enough for me to envision E, fastforwarded 50 years, wearing blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick and a full length fur coat.

Bouffant: But you don't have to be a faggot like him. You can just be a good piano player.

I looked across the meat counter in time to see the guy behind it double over and hide behind the counter in order to block anyone from seeing the hysteria that descended upon him.

K: OK, we need to keep shopping. It was lovely talking to you.

Sometimes it is just nicer to lie.

When I relayed this story to my husband, he took a twist that really could, once again, only come from a man.

D: I don't want him to be gay, but if he is, I sure hope he has better taste than Liberace.

Lord, help me.

A solution only a man could come up with

There are many a discussion these days regarding what to do with The Boy, specifically how the hell to get him back in HIS bed before I kill him. We crossed some line and now the crib is viewed as a torture chamber into which babies are thrown by mothers that are only seeking to desert their children in order to go downstairs and eat Cheerios and climb on the dog. That must be what we are doing because what is better than feeding the dog Cheerios while playing king of the mountain? Even walking within 3 feet of the crib causes unabashed wailing and hysteria.

So my sister suggested that we just put a mattress on the floor, babyproof his room, gate the door and let him have at it. She also suggested that maybe if the kid was sleeping on a pillowtop mattress with 600 thread count sheets of his own he might stop jones-ing for mine.

I made mention of this to my husband. He immediately suggest the race car toddler bed at Ikea. The kid is a year old. Who the hell is the race car bed for? Really? We also discussed how we might be able to keep him from falling out, if only to keep his sleep uninterrupted so that the rest of us could make a valid attempt at making it until morning without being BOTHERED (and that really is the only way to explain it) by the child that ALREADY bothers for 16 hours a day.

K: Maybe we could just put one of those bed rails by the mattress on the floor so if he rolls against it, he might stay asleep.
D: You know what he really needs. One of those dog beds with the foam sides on it.
K: You didn't just suggest that your child sleep in a dog bed, did you?


Crickets.

Email I received this morning regarding the behavior of my dog while I was off being tortured

so i'm up early this morning, buzzing around, trying to put the house together in a vain attempt at achieving a peaceful existence over here, and it dawns on me that zinni is nowhere to be found. figuring it would be just my luck for zinni to be lying dead in the middle of the road directly in front of my house, i check the street, but thank god, no zinni. then i check all the usual places--the piles of laundry in the basement, my lovely creamy white sofa, the lush (formerly cream) shag rug--alas, no dog. then i hear a little puppy sigh of bliss which sounds like it could be coming from upstairs. i search the piles of laundry in various rooms, and alas no dog. where could this 100 pounds of soft, wispy black hair be hiding, for god's sake? i crack open the door of my bedroom, squint in the darkness to see madeleine and...what???? the ever so comfy, ever so snuggly, zinni, who is practically UNDER the lovely yellow down covers, deep in the sleep of toddlers on their way home from disney world. evidentally everyone on the planet--including small children and large black dogs--prefers 400 thread count sheets.honestly, guys, he looked like a goddamn william wegman portrait. maybe zinni needs an agent. i guess he must have figured after days of being subject to the drama world of madeleine where she makes kubrik look like a cake walk, he can sleep anywhere he damn well pleases.

Elvis has LEFT THE BUILDING

It's finally over. Hopefully forever. I'm back at home, in bed, thinking that a Valium would sound good right about now. Thanks to everyone for all your thoughts and prayers. They were greatly appreciated and I think they did the trick.

During the test today I drafted several posts in my head, to include "Why Do We Have To Be Such A Butt Ugly Occupation?" and "That Hair Style Went Out With Working Girl And Why Do You All Insist On Keeping It Alive" and finally "Who Picked Out Your Clothes This Morning?" The last is certainly the one for which I am the biggest hypocrite because as I was drafting the post this morning in between question 47 on easement appurtenants and question 48 on depraved heart murder, I looked down and realized what EXACTLY I was wearing. Recycled from yesterday (except for a new shirt and new underwear, and maybe new socks but I'm not so sure), I realized that the jacket I had pulled from the closet to go with my black pants was actually my NAVY jacket. Did I mention I was wearing a chocolate brown sweater? And I had a broken heal on my boot?

Cookie is so wrong. On so many levels.

I'll be selling the t-shirts soon. Stand by.

You LOVE me! You really DO!!

As overheard getting out of the car this morning:

K: Buddy, if God loves me, this morning I'll get a wills question involving testamentary capacity.

It was the 2nd question. Not only did I nail it, I wrote a treatise that would make a hornbook look trivial.

What more does a girl need? 8 hours down, 8 to go... Keep praying. He is clearly listening.

Redefining the term "fun"

So we swung by the scene of the crime this evening when we strolled into the sleepy little town that will make or break 700 lives by the close of business Wednesday. Up, up, up the escalator. Nice airy ballroom. With a dance floor that has probably seen the "Chicken Dance" at one too many weddings.

D: Let's go down the elevator.

You know how you know in the pit of your stomach that something is a bad idea? But you just ignore it?

We walked into the elevator already occupied by two blondes.

B#1 to B#2: I already passed (insert embarrassingly easy/lame/communist adjoining state) bar so I'm just taking this for fun.

Colonoscopy fun? Root canal fun? Passing a 15-INCH-HEAD OUT OF YOUR VAGINA fun?

Derek slowly moved in between me and B#1. I guess he didn't think he had enough cash to get me out on bond before tomorrow morning.

I'm in my tree, chopping up the Board of Bar Examiners with a machete, while Celine Dion sings "My Heart Will Go On"**

Two job fields for which I am qualified should this whole test thing not pan out:

1. Mall Security
2. Bouncer

**reference to "I Heart Huckabees" for those who missed it.

How bad can the bar exam be?

Seeking validation, I now give you the list of subjects that I must know by Tuesday...

Agency
Partnerships
Conflict of Laws
Personal Property
Constitutional Law
Professional Responsibility
Contracts
Real Property
Corporations
Sales
Creditor's Rights
Suretyship
Criminal Law and Procedure
Taxation
Domestic Relations
Torts
Equity
Trusts
Evidence
Uniform Commercial Code
Commercial Paper
Secured Transactions
Federal Practice and Procedure
State Pleading, Practice, and Procedure in law and equity (including appellate practice)
Local Government Law
Wills and Estate Administration

You think I could just suck it up, huh?

It's his sensitivity that I love the most

I came home from the library yesterday and confessed to Derek that I had contemplated throwing myself into traffic yesterday.

D: Well, that’s stupid.
K: Why?
D: You are still taking that test. Even if you broke your leg, I would carry you into that room because you are taking that test.
K: You and what army?
D: Very funny.
K: Do you know why I didn’t throw myself in front of traffic?
D: Tell me.
K: I knew that if I threw myself into traffic, everyone would know that I did it because I didn’t want to take the bar exam. No one would think, “oh, poor Kristen got hit by a truck.” Just, “I can’t believe she got hit by a truck just to get out of taking that damn test.”
D: Can you imagine how bad the test would be if you had a broken leg?

Lawyers are viciously superstitious

My husband would disagree with me, because he is not superstitious, but he's an economist in lawyer's clothing.

Ask Bob if he is superstitious. He is sitting in the exact same study booth that he has been sitting at for the last 4 days. Bob is studying for the CA bar. This is his second time, actually second bar (he clarifies) so he is feeling OK. I tell him that it is my second time, SAME bar and that I too am confident.

As long as I have Elvis. This morning I drove frantically, cutting off school buses and old ladies. What would happen if I got to the library and someone was sitting with Elvis? I only have $3. Would you get up and move if a strange woman with a glazed look gave you her forlorn tale of missed opportunities and superstitions? For $3? I got lucky today and was not faced with this dilemma. But there is always tomorrow.

Nobody hassles Jeter for tugging on his shirt one last time before stepping into the batter's box. I feel like I should pull a Sosa and kiss the tips of my index and middle fingers twice and then plant them on the tacky gold ode to Elvis at the top of my study booth. Would it help?

Does Elvis care? If someone else sits in my chair? After 9 weeks of studying, am I really going to forget everything if I can't spend the day with Elvis?

You betcha.

Oh, there'll be a birthday, damn it.

Thanks to my sister for realizing that yesterday was E's birthday and for pulling a party out of her ass, a-la-(insert last name here) style.

My brother-in-law came back from picking up Derek and takeout and said, "did you just make all those decorations while I was gone?"

Oh ye of little faith.

I, of course, was studying because that's all I do these days. If you want to see pictures of the impromptu party, they are over here. You can tell the kid hasn't had much sugar.

Happy Birthday to my Favorite Boy in the Whole Wide World

To the "Mouth-Breather" on the other side of the Elvis desk

In my ears I have placed ear plugs that will successfully reduce the sound of a shotgun blast to a mere "pop."

If I can still hear your MOUTH-BREATHING through these magnificant earplugs, you need to seek some form of medical treatment for that condition before I am forced to create a situation that will REQUIRE medical attention on your side of the partition.

You are killing me.

Happy V-D

I'm torn in my decision of which I liked best. My present or my Valentine sentiment from my husband.

Here's hoping you and I remain in long-run equilibrium.

For you I could find no substitute,For you are my perfect complement.

For you, my love knows no budget constraints.

Sweetheart, you're the only one on my indifference curve.

May this love be more than just an intertemporal choice.

Whichever way the wind shall blow,You will always be in my contingent consumption plan.

Today I throw diversification to the wind,And make you my single asset portfolio.

Price sensitivity be damned!Inelastically, this heart does demand.

If an optimized utility function borne of love is wrong,I don't want to be right.

Darling, as you consider the cost curves of our shared future,Does the marginal lie below the average?

If I called your body a dependent variable,Would you regress it on me?

You had me at "interpersonal utility comparison."

As my love for you grows stronger,A public good can you be no longer.

Sweetheart, on the distribution of possible love interests,You are a two-sigma event!

Roses are red,Estimators are BLUE,I longed for the Best,Until I found you.

Dork. Yes.
Dork who thought about putting a stripper pole in the kitchen. Oh, yeah.
Hot dork. Definitely.

Happy VD to you to, Baby.

And now, to add insult to injury....

I have done 2,424 multiple guess questions in preparation for the multi-state portion of my exam.

Wow, Kristen! That's great.

I've referred to them as "multiple guess" for a reason.

So there I am doing Criminal Law questions. I've read hundreds and hundreds of questions about Brown doing this and Adams doing that. And there it was.

"(Insert last name here) was planning a bank robbery." The question went on to refer to a felony murder that my relative apparently committed and was subsequently convicted for that murder. Idiot.

To the Browns and Adams out there, I'm sorry. Not only have you spent a lifetime of getting called on first at the beginning of the school year and having to sit in the front, left corner, you are the easy out when someone has to make up a name. But you know what? It's common. That's all there is to it.

I'm not a Brown or an Adams. I'm a (insert last name here). I've been a (insert last name here) for over 30 years and I didn't even give it up for love. I like being a (insert last name here) because it makes me the individual I am. Don't get me wrong. My last name isn't what I would describe as uncommon. There is a (insert last name here) city in one of those middle states, but I think everyone has a last-name city in those middle states. They seemed to have missed the creativity boat.

But I have never met another person with my last name that was not related to me. This is impressive considering I have worked two jobs that required interaction with at least 1,000 names a day (and upwards of 3,000 names) for over 5 years. But back to the injustice.

How do you go from hundreds of Browns to (insert last name here). That's a mighty big stretch.

To the National Board of Bar Examiners. Screw you. It's not bad enough that you stood between me and bliss the last time around, you are now making it personal. If my peeps were hitting banks, we wouldn't be killing anyone nor would we be getting caught. Don't offend me.

The cat's out of the bag

We live in Minnesota. Just kidding. It just feels like Minnesota. Except with 5 less feet of snow.

Moment #123 when I wish I hadn't left my camera at home aka You Cannot Make this Shit Up #123

As seen on the gold plaque attached to the top of my study booth at the library today:

"Gift to the Library Foundation In Memory of Elvis Aaron Presley from Loretia."

Thanks for the memories, Elvis.

Can you feel the love tonight?

To my son, who woke me up this morning at 2:41 a.m. with a screech, thanks for the Helen Kellering (running your hands all over my face, in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth, in my ears) that you did to be sure that I WAS the mom you thought I was. Because Lord knows how many nights you have awakened to find a strange mother catering to your ever whim. Try NEVER. I'm your same bitch, waking up to serve YOU, every night for the last 359 nights. Thanks for throwing me off from months 3-7 by sleeping 10-hour stretches in your crib without a wimper. Month 7 helped to wipe that self-satisfied grin right from my face and it hasn't been back since.

And to my husband, who offered me a slightly condescending speech about how if I just fed the boy in the middle of the night and didn't get mad I may be able to go to sleep faster, thanks for leaving your alarm clock on from yesterday so it could go off at 6:00 a.m. today, 34 seconds after I finally fell asleep from the aforementioned debacle with your son. Because I was so pleased with the alarm clock going off at 6, I allowed your son to play with it for 15 minutes this morning. The Boy's fastball has GREAT potential.

Adventures in Showering #4 (at least I think it's #4)

The Boy and I were not on speaking terms this morning when I got into the shower. He had me up since 4:00 a.m. and I, in retaliation with cruelty known only to mothers, put the toilet bowl brush into the sink so he couldn't chew on it while I was in the shower. I know what he is thinking...

E: Dad always lets me chew on it when HE is in the shower. Or maybe he just gets tired of taking it away from me.

So there I am in the shower, trying to wake up because I have the boy for 36 hours on my own and how the hell am I going to get any studying done so I had better make the most of my 5 hours this morning.

I sneaked a peek around the corner of the shower curtain and there he is, standing at the back of the toilet. And his mouth is foaming. Foaming. He seemed to be enjoying the foam so I quickly ruled out Comet and Mr. Bubbles. I mean really. Comet can't possibly taste good. Mr. Bubbles, maybe. Being the conscientious mother that I am, I decided to try to solve the puzzle on my own without getting any hard evidence, say, from the child's mouth.

"Is it toothpaste, Pat?" I felt like I was on the Wheel of Fortune and I was trying to guess the word before all my counterparts so I could take a spin for the trip to the teeney-bopper mecca of spring break, Cancun. 7 days, 6 nights and they'll throw in a box of Immodium for good measure. But where would he get toothpaste? I'm trying to get that last little speck out of the tube myself these days. If he has a toothpaste stash that he is holding onto, I'm gonna be pissed.

Ultimately thwarted, I reached into his mouth and pulled out a Mint Tums. You gotta wonder what makes Tums foam in a baby's mouth.

When his father gets home, I'm gonna kill him.

I've become "that" mother

You know her. The one that lets her child crawl around the top of the table at Outback Steakhouse. The one that has decided that once those really long knives are taken off the table, it's "safe enough."

So there The Boy was crawling on the top of the table. When the waitress showed up, it was clear that a) she was an only child, or b) she was an only child.

W: Oh dear. Hi, welcome to Outback.

I could give you a blow by blow of all of my totally fake apologies ("I'm sooooo sorry. He is just soooooo independent") but you would be able to smell my insincerity from a million miles away. Reality is that I wanted a 22 oz. Sam Adams and I didn't want to be bothered with the likes of my offspring while I nursed the only thing standing between me and a nervous breakdown.

"Step AWAY from the ledge."

The kid crawled all over the table. Then he tried to touch the lightbulb hanging well within his reach. His father checked to see how hot it really was and verified that it was hot enough to learn a lesson about "hot" but a lesson that would not be coupled with a trip to children's hospital for a skin graft.

Then DAD decided that maybe he wasn't sure how hot it was and he touched it again. Right after I told The Boy NOT to touch it.

K: Jesus, Mary and JOSEPH! What in God's NAME are you doing? I just told him not to touch it and now you are touching it. Like he's going to be able to keep his hands off now.
D: I wasn't sure if it was REALLY hot or not.

11 months or 39 years. There is no difference. Still checking the lightbulb again to see how hot it is. Or is it a blond thing?

If I wanted to be covered in hairballs, I would have gotten a cat

Tonight I was lying down in bed, trying to convince The Boy that he too should lie down and perhaps, GO TO SLEEP. It was 9:30, for heaven's sake and how the hell am I going to be able to study if the kid is climbing up, climbing down, climbing up, climbing down. Off of me. Do I look like El Cap? STOP TOUCHING ME.

So he was lying there beside me (finally) when he sat up with a start, leaned over and put his head on my side. My shirt had ridden up a little (since God forbid I buy clothes that actually fit me. I'd rather walk around all day with pants that are now two sizes too big and shirts that are two sizes too small--the Muslim neighbors just LOVE seeing 6 inches of my midriff every day) so he was laying against my skin.

Awwww. How sweet. My boy is snuggling me.

Yeah right. The little monster spit up. And it rolled right down my side and across my belly. Grossed out, as I always am by the biological functions of the fruit of my womb, I reached down to get him the hell away from me. It was pitch black and suddenly I felt this weird feeling on my stomach.

I think the kid spit up a hairball. He really has to stop chewing on the dog. It's disgusting.

Weekend at Bernies a.k.a. Why the Rolling Stones should have called it a day--years ago

Dear Lord in heaven. Wasn't that halftime show a classic case of hiring someone on reputation alone? If Mick can only hit 3 out of 5 notes, we shouldn't have to be subjected to it. I never cease to be amazed that Keith Richards is able to function--what with the fact he has been dead for like 7 years. Even the wardrobe malfunction of 2004/supposed loving between Janet and Justin was less painful to watch than this.

For all you people out there who are still buying tickets to Rolling Stones concerts, STOP it. For the love of God and country. STOP! If you people keep buying, they'll keep doing farewell tours.

You put the tv on mute too, didn't you? Admit it.

The question is-----will she use her powers for good or for evil?

Certain things strike a cord in my husband. The depth of my desire to pass this test seems to be one of those things. He is doing whatever I want to do because he is so frightened that I will have a nervous breakdown and he will have to go back to eating hot dogs for dinner every night.

I'll give you a couple of examples. Last night I wanted to go to The Cantina. Him--not so much.

K: But babe, I think I really need to go to The Cantina because I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

Off we were to The Cantina.

When we got into bed last night...

K: That 3 watt light bulb around 3 corners and down the hall is shining in my eyes.
D: So why don't you get up and turn it off?
K: I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

Off he was to turn the light off.

K: My hands smell like fajitas still. And I washed them.
D: Maybe you need to wash them again.
K: But I'm having a nervous breakdown. Can't you get me a wipe?

Off he was to get the wipe for my hands.

It's wrong, I know, but it is so good. The last time I had this much power is when I failed the exam and he almost, almost let me name the baby.

K: I'm such a loser (while sobbing hysterically). Can we name the baby Ian?
D: (stunned and desperate to make the waterworks stop, but mortified that we could have a lifetime with at Brit-sounding baby name) Uhhhhhh, ok??????

At that moment I realized the extent of my power and that maybe even I needed to have limits. Thus no Ian, but Ethan.

I wonder if I cried if I could get a new car?

I feel the need. The need for speed.

This morning when I woke up I may have mentioned to my husband that maybe all I need was a little extra energy, a pick-me-up if you will, in order to survive. I was up in the middle of the night with insomnia but I had my trusty PMBR Constitututional Law CD #5 to put me right back to sleep. I am still dead though.

I like to occasionally make reference to my potential illegal drug use to my husband as he finds it most amusing. Having gone to a California school, he has seen it all. And I am the Pollyanna of virtually all illegality (excluding driving laws--they are merely suggestions for the weak at heart). I have had the old codeine in the cough syrup, but that's the extent of my drug use. OK, then there was the valium for my pulled back muscle. Valium good. But besides that, nothing. Not even pot. I am SO boring.

D proceeded to tell me about Bob, a guy in his class who apparently slept on his desk for about 95% of the final exam. Someone told D that Bob had been so panicked about the final that he had stayed up for three days (with a little help from speed). What kind of bad luck is that? You manage to stay up for over 100 hours and you just couldn't go 90 more minutes? If that isn't the perfect anti-drug campaign. Maybe now is the time to take up caffeine again.

This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?

"It's fun to smoke marijuana"

Having said that, I can now roughly place your reaction to that title into four categories:

1. The "damn skippy" contingent,
2. The "huh, what the hell happened to Kristen?" contingent,
3. The "when-I-typed-'its fun to smoke marijuana' into-google-how-the-hell-did-I-get-to-this-blog" contingent, and last, but certainly not least,
4. The "Rock.Music.Is.Evil.Must.Not.Listen.To.It.For.It.Will.Drive.Me.To.Do.Drugs" contingent.

I distinctly remember that day in the 3rd grade when I sat in the auditorium of my fundamentalist school and listened to Queen backwards and forwards, about a million times. We were supposed to hear "it's fun to smoke marijuana." I couldn't hear it. It was gobbly-gook. I listened desperately, fascinated that I had now heard my first rock song AND found out about drugs all on the same day. We were then exhorted to not listen to rock music ever because it was just a few steps away from a 5-bag-a-day heroin habit. Marijuana, heroin, whatever that was.

Fastforward to 7:23 a.m. this morning. I had headphones on while still lying in bed and was listening to PMBR's Constitutional Law CD #2.

Why was Kristen listening to a Constitutional Law CD in bed? Why is Kristen now referring to herself in 3rd person? Has Kristen lost what is left of her mind? The answers to these questions are inconsequential to the story so Kristen will stop to say that Kristen is taking the bar exam in 19 days and today Kristen is feeling like Kristen is probably going to fail which is why Kristen is listening to CD's every given second. Having said all that, Kristen will just move on with the story.

So maybe I had wandered off to sleep. But what I heard at 7:23 a.m. awakened me with a fright. In the midst of a discussion concerning the Dormant Commerce Clause (and now you know WHY I fell asleep), the CD began to skip. And there it was. In a deep voice that was CLEARLY not the voice of the professor droning...

"Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex."

I came careening out of bed dying to let Derek listen to this, only to have the cd player skip ahead one second. Back to the professor. It skipped again. Still the professor.

D: Are you sure you heard it? You need to go back and listen again because maybe he was talking about sex.
K: The Dormant Commerce Clause has NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX!! I heard it, I swear to God, I heard it, I swear on my grandmother's grave (God rest her soul), I heard it. PMBR Constitutional Law CD#2, Track 11, 10:09.

So did I hear it? Or was I just hearing what I wanted to hear, just like all the fundamentalists in the 70's?

If I had listened to the damn CD the first time around, maybe I wouldn't have needed to listen to it now....

Fantasies and food

As we drove home tonight, we passed a big hub-bub at the elementary school. D mentioned that he thought maybe we were missing some special election of something-or-other that he had heard about on the radio but to which he had paid no attention. I slammed on the brakes and veered to the side of the road.

K: We can't NOT vote. It's just wrong.
D: We don't even know if it is a vote.
K: Look at all the old people going into the building. It has to be a vote for something.

We jumped out of the car and ran inside, only to find the old people setting up chairs in the gym. Suddenly I got the "slimy lawyer" vibe. I turned around and one almost walked into me. Then another. And another. To attend this meeting it appears that you had to be over 80 or wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit.

K: We gotta get out of here. Too many lawyers.

D corralled an old lady to find out what was going on. She said it was a civic association meeting to discuss the proposed buildup of the town. She implored him to attend. It was like "Cocoon" meets "Rock the Vote." We left, of course, because we are for big business, big buildup and all those other horrific capitalist qualities.

K: You know, if they build up this dump of a town, that deserted restaurant down the street could be a real hotspot.
D: You aren't kidding.
K: Maybe we really could have our own brew pub.

Then we got home and realized that we can't even afford our Direct TV and now I am going to have to give up my Starz package or put the thermostat down to 55 degrees. The brew pub will have to remain a fantasy.

We sat down for dinner and my son initiated a hunger strike. He has decided recently that he only likes the food he is getting at the babysitter's house. Apparently my food is too bland. The babysitter has taken to sending food home with him so now he looks at me like I'm a lunatic when I offer him carrots or mashed potatoes. I remember when he used to LOVE wasabi mashed potatoes. Oh, now he is too good for them. A regular food snob. When I offered him pork tenderloin last night he threw it on the floor. I think he might be Muslim now. Which would be helpful to know by perhaps saying, "I don't eat pork, you heathen" rather than screeching maniacally and throwing the food directing into the dog's open mouth below.

So it appears that until I learn how to cook Middle Eastern and Ethiopian food, I'm going to have to ask the babysitter to send home a little extra. Either that or I can just start putting berbere in his YoBaby yogurt. Whatever.

Who are you and what have you done to my husband?

This is the link my husband sent to me this morning as a suggestion for a present for E's impending birthday.

Only if you promise to get a matching one, babe.

It's only because he is such a great mediator

Lately we have been having all of our important conversations through the baby.

D: Hey buddy. Do you want a baby brother?
K: Huh?
D: (thinking that perhaps he has just made a gender error) A baby sister?
K: Buddy, since Mom took an antibiotic that has the half-life the same as, say, uranium, Dad's penis won't be coming anywhere near Mom's Vahh-GIII-na anytime soon.

Oh, that's what I said. Vahh-GIIII-na. I let the "gi" hang in the back of my throat and then roll off my tongue just like my niece does. My niece realized that she could say the word "vagina" and it would have the fabulous effect of making everyone slightly nervous but no one would ever tell her not to say it because who wants to be responsible for contributing to the cultural dysfunction that will descend on its own by junior high?

D: Why do you have to say that?
K: What do you want me to say? Do you want me to refer to it by the anatomically correct term of "woo-woo?" How about "cooch?"
D: Why do you have to do it?

Just to bug you. See button, will push.

A Meme

I never have any time to do meme's but this one was just too easy and Jenell was so nice to tag me.

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD:
1. Selling pantyhose at Parklane Hosiery
2. Selling Turkish rugs
3. Kept 10 2-year olds from killing themselves before mommy and daddy picked them up after work
4. Customer service rep for a now-defunct two-bit airline started by old (and I mean OLD as well as former) Eastern airline employees

FOUR MOVIES I'D WATCH ON REPEAT:
1. Overboard
2. Dave
3. Sense and Sensibility
4. Pride and Prejudice

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE:
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. House
3. One Tree Hill
4. Deadwood

FOUR CAREERS THAT APPEAL TO ME:
1. Professional wrestler
2. Barista at Starbucks
3. Chef at a bed and breakfast
4. Owning my own brew pub

FOUR JOBS (FILLED BY PEOPLE I KNOW) AT WHICH I WOULD BE TERRIBLE:
1. Economist (what the hell do these people do anyway?)
2. Meeting planner (who cares if you got your invitation a day late--you were one the backup list anyway)
3. Lawyer
4. Lawyer

FOUR VACATION LOCALES I'D LIKE TO HIT:
1. Tierra del Fuego
2. Antarctica
3. Moorea
4. Beijing

FOUR FOODS I LUST AFTER:
1. Chubby Hubby
2. Penne a la vodka
3. Creme Brulee
4. Flourless Chocolate Torte

FOUR CHANGES I'D MAKE TO THE HOUSE
1. Burn it down.
2. Throw out everything owned by my husband.
3. Extend my kitchen by 750 square feet and add a double oven and a six burner stove
4. Burn it down.

FOUR BEERS I LIKE:
1. Amstel Light
2. Any Hoppy Dog Brew
3. Grolsch
4. Heineken

Oscar isn't the only one using the trash can for entertainment purposes

Remember all that crap I wrote in a prior post about being a good mom. It was BS. Because I resorted to writing about it, I clearly am trying to convince myself that no, I don't need to be carted away for my poor maternal behavior.

Take this morning, for instance. I was in the shower trying to decide if my nasal passages were ever going to feel the air again or if I was forever destined to walk the earth with a head full of snot.

As I contemplated this, the baby was wandering around the bathroom. I figure that as long as I don't hear the toilet seat go up, we're good. But then he started to cough. I peaked around the side of the shower curtain and there he was, standing in the middle of the bathroom, trying to cough out little pieces of toilet paper from the last square left on the the roll that had been thrown in the trash can.

You guys know that last square. The square of toilet paper that is stuck to the roll that you neglect to liberate now because, by God, you have a little more money and you don't need to get that roll out of the trash can and use the last square like you did in college. The efforts you used to take to liberate the last millimeter of toilet paper on the roll back in college because damn it, you didn't have any money to buy toilet paper and you meant to steal some from the john at school but you got distracted by that really hot guy that sits in front of you in English, and now you are going to have to try to use the brown roll because the last square isn't cutting it.

I went back to my shower because if I don't figure out how to breathe soon, we are going to have bigger problems than toilet-paper-breath on the baby. I finished my shower and flung open the shower curtain to find my child standing in the middle of the bathroom with a used Q-Tip dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. Gross? yes. But did I get my shower? yes.

I say there is another side of that Q-Tip when you are finished with that one, buddy. I still have to get dressed.

A monk, a nun and 2 red bras

Every year my in-laws go to the Caribbean for 2 weeks with three other couples. They have been doing this forever. They come home every year and regale us with stories that would make your ears curl up and fall off your head. Tales of costumes, skits, songs. It sounds like kid's summer camp, except instead of bug juice there is a lot (A LOT) of gin and tonics. And wine. And beer. Enough that my FIL always says that one of these years they are going to swing by Betty Ford for a couple of days on the way home to air out.

Apparently crazy things always happen at the beach. Just last week they were discussing the nun habit that my FIL got for my MIL to wear this year. He has a monk outfit. But our favorite story is the year my MIL was showing the vacation pictures to a friend and she had forgotten to take out the picture of my FIL, wearing only an apron. I didn't ask if the view was from the front or the back. I now refuse to look at vacation pictures. You can never be too cautious.

This year the 'rents decided to swing by our town on their way down. I picked them up from the airport yesterday, with the Boo in tow.

MIL: Can we stop by a department store? We need to buy red bras for FIL and Tommy.

That kind of comment will send you careening off the road. Into opposing traffic. Full of semis. What do you say to that? Part of me was freaking out but part of me was fascinated that I could participate in this psychosis. So off we went to Target. I couldn't see buying my FIL a Victoria's Secret bra that he would only wear for 2 weeks. Really. 15 minutes later we were in the Lingerie department.

And there he was. My 6'5" FIL, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, trying on a lovely red lace bra over his green shirt. It fit.

I could go on about Gonzalo, Target's Customer Service Representive/Traumatized Checker, but I have already gone too far. These people sure know how to have a good time.

Lack of information? I think not.

I'm a slacker. I'll admit it. But every once in a while I'll take hero's measures to rise up above mediocrity.

Like childrearing, for instance. I own 37 books on pregnancy, what to expect when you have run out of things to expect, how to make your child a friggin' Einstein. Blah, blah, blah. Did I read every single one of them? Hell, no. I made a good faith effort.

But I am pretty sure that the stuff that continues to surprise me will not be found in any book (other than the one I will be writing when this is all said and done). Last night would be case in point.

I'm sitting on the couch and the boy is playing with his cars on the floor. Happy as a clam. Which is when I should have realized that something was very, very wrong. I got up to get something off the book shelf above him and I thought I caught of wisp of something foul.

"Buddy, did you fill your diaper?"

He kind of looked at me like I had three heads and I sat back down. His father said that he couldn't smell anything. Convenient, wouldn't you say? I figured that I would give the kid a few minutes to work it all out.

But the smell was getting stronger. I went over and picked him up.

There... in the middle of the floor... was a pile of poop. It looked strangely like that gag-gift plastic poop that you would get when you were a kid. The one that you would slip onto someone's chair before they sat down so everyone would laugh when the victim jumped up in surprise.

My 11-month old crapped in the middle of the living room. Right out the side of his diaper and onto Ernie, as a matter of fact. I took a picture of it to put on the post, but I think it would be too offensive for my mother.

I just never realized that having a baby would be so much like having a puppy.

Just wait until the credit card offers come

Ever since he has been about 2 months old, my child has been getting mail. I would like to say that it is from his various college trust funds, informing him that his education investment has been growing at 15% yearly, but who are we kidding? Trust funds?

It started with a letter from Robert Kennedy, imploring E to contact his congressman and strongly urge him to vote against drilling in Alaska. I asked E if he wanted to call his congressman, but he just threw up on me. The only thing more apropos would have been crapping all over me. He apparently is precocious when it comes to politics.

Then it was a slew of mail from all manner of wildlife organizations--Save the Whales, Wildlife Land Trust, The Jane Goddall Society, The National Audubon Society, Friends of the National Zoo. You get the picture. He has gotten stuffed animals, pennies, and return address labels.

This seems extremely odd to me. We aren't animal people here. We have a dog, we love our dog but reality is that we would rather have a night out eating sushi than pay for a stray to get neutered. It's the cold, hard facts.

So, is E crawling into the bedroom, climbing up onto the top of the dresser, stealing a 20 from dad's billfold and sending it off to PETA? I mentioned this situation to my friend when we were talking on the phone this morning and she mentioned that she had begun to get a stack of fitness magazines in the mail recently. Appalled at her husband's insensitivity, she asked him why he was doing this to her. He maintains his innocence and ignorance on the matter. She said that they now think their 7-year old daughter is ordering them online. Probably while she reads the Washington Post in the morning (dear Lord, is this what I have to look forward to?).

My guess is that my mother-in-law, the champion of all four-legged creatures, contributed some amount of money to an animal cause in my son's name. Let's just hope it wasn't ALF or ELF. I can't wait to see the FBI agent's face when he comes to interview Ethan regarding his involvement in ecoterrorist organizations.

I'll take a picture for you.

I'm not going to die. I can just see death from here...

I have now been sick for the better part of 3 weeks. I thought it went away last week before our trip, but it is back in full force. I wasn't shot up about going to the doctor because I know I have a bacterial infection which means antibiotics, but considering I can't raise my head off this keyboard, it's time to succomb to the health care establishment.

(I do wish I could go by my old job and cough on all the doorknobs before I get better. I wonder if I could get my friend to get me though security.)

I tried self-medication yesterday.

What's the one drug that will dry you out so much that you will even consider drinking out of the toilet if you just don't get water RIGHT NOW????? Benadryl.

What's the one drug that will make you so sleepy that your child can bite your face for 10 minutes and you will only wake up enough to seek assistance from your spouse before you are picked up by Family Services for throwing said child through a two-story window? Benadryl.

(I don't think you got the full affect of the biting. I definitely should have gone with the all caps --BITING)

What's the one drug that will send you into a sleep coma so deep that the distant roar of your 11-month old yelling his displeasure at his father for failing to read baby's mind cannot stir you? Benadryl.

That's some bad stuff.

Zithromax, here I come.

It isn't a vacation until someone goes to the hospital

Wow, that American Airlines is a good deal. $189 to go to Portland and they'll throw in a free upper respiratory infection and a middle ear infection for the baby.

On Sunday E woke up with a 102 degree fever. Not Friday, not Saturday, but Sunday. Since we were getting to go on the 'big airplane' twice on Monday at noon, we had to figure out what was wrong with His Royal Highness. Since we know people who know people, we were off to the Pediatric ER.

Where we were treated like royalty. It was the first time I didn't have to spell my child's last name to someone since his birth.

"Oh, it's THE GRANDSON." If you have to go to the ER I would recommend going to the hospital where your FIL has worked for the last 20 years. Someone even carried my coat for me. The last time I was in an ER, I waited 5 hours and everyone was mean. At this hospital, someone brought in toys so the baby wouldn't be bored during his 7 minute wait.

(Sidenote for which I am too tired to find the right segue: as we were boarding the flight yesterday, one gate agent asked another gate agent why she was delivering paperwork to the cockpit. She said that the pilot had forgotten the flight plan. I guess I should be glad he remember it BEFORE we left. And I thought United Airlines had gone to hell in a handbasket.)

So the baby was drugged up and he did fine. His eardrum didn't burst but by golly, his diaper did. Does anyone have any idea the exact number of airplane poop bomb posts I have written because it feels like old hat. This time it was all over his father. I was only covered in residual poo. I hate poo. Really really hate it.

And does anyone know what's up with the booger bubbles the size of golf balls? That is just messed up.

Apparently 27 days of rain WILL make people want to kill themselves

We here in Portland, visiting the 'rents. Shock of all shockers, it's raining. Raining in a "we may have to spend the night in a hotel on Saturday night if the river rises anymore" kind of rain.

They have lots to offer here in Portland. Powells and Dungeness crab will keep a girl busy for a while. That's if a squawking bird and a squawking 11-month old aren't tying up all your time.
But the rain is slightly excessive. Maybe we should start building an ark over here.

(As a side note: you know you travel too much when you are able to pack for a 5 day trip in 42 minutes. Lord knows on a good day it takes me an hour to get out of the house to go to the grocery store).

But let's get back to the excitement of the trip. The parrot. Evil little monster that she is. Her name is Clyde. "Her name is Clyde" you find yourself saying? Her name is Clyde because she says "Hi, Clyde" when you walk in the door. And for some reason, the fam started to call her Clyde. But don't let her male name fool you. She is ALL female.

When we walked into the house, she shrieked her displeasure so loudly that the baby BURST into the most pathetic scream you have ever heard. For the next hour, the two of them went back and forth. Derek threated to drown the bird, shoot the bird, strangle the bird. She didn't give a rat's ass.

"SHRIEEEEEK, SHRIEEEEK, SHRIEEEEK."

I called my sister from the bathroom to ask her advice. Big mistake asking a non-animal lover how to create a peaceful co-existence.

"Isn't there a closet they can put the bird in?"

Well E finally won Clyde over. As much as that is possible. When Grandpa was holding E in one arm and Clyde was on Grandpa's shoulder, E desperately tried to become friends. Clyde was having no part of it. I envisioned Clyde pecking E's eyes out at the first opportunity. Let's be honest. Every shirt Grandpa wears at home has a reinforced collar patch that Nana has sewn on to cover up where Clyde ate the shirt. But Clyde just hid behind Grandpa's ear, doing a quick peek every once in a while to see of the little mongrel taking up HER owner's time was still there. But she stopped shrieking. I should have done a video, Missbhavens style, but I'm not that technically saivy.

Thank you, God, because I was this close to opening up the back door and giving Clyde her freedom.

Tackier than breaking up by a Post-It note

Text-messaging your ex-husband to tell him that you thought he should know that you are engaged.

Because you thought he never noticed anything when he was married to you (which, by the way, was until about 10 days ago-literally), so he probably didn't see your ring when you flashed it around on the day you dropped the kids off last weekend.

Who says internet love can't work out?

May karma bring you all the karma you deserve.

TODAY is your BIRTHDAY

Bah, bah, bah, bah...bah, bah.

To my bestest, best friend in the whole world.

I hope you had a great birthday at the St. Regis today.

Thanks for forgiving me for sending you The List, which you finished last night--just in time to realize that you are going to have to get rid of Mr. January--and apparently on your birthday.

I love you!

I'm not supposed to be posting

Because I am supposed to be studying. But there is something just bugging the crap out of me.

What the hell is up with men and flashlights?

My husband has 8,000 flashlights and apparently my son has the same affinity. If you don't get my husband a flashlight for a present for any holiday, he is slightly disappointed. My mother got him a flashlight for Christmas and apologized repeatedly because she thought he already had a similar one. Little does she know that he plays with it when no one is watching.

Last night I went upstairs to find my husband lying in bed with the boy, reading a book on wine making, with a headlamp flashlight on. He told me that he couldn't turn the overhead light on because it would wake the boy and he couldn't turn the flashlight on until the boy went to sleep because all the boy wanted to do was put the flashlight on his own head. The flashlight attaching to the head with straps that looked disturbingly like a pair of thong underwear. So there they were, lying in bed, warmed by the LED light of the headlamp flashlight. Snug as bugs in rugs.

What a bunch of whack jobs.

New Year's Eve 2005

Menu

Cheese Fondue
Sesame-Crusted Tuna w/ Ponzu Dipping Sauce
Spinach Salad
Beef Wellington w/gorgonzola
Black and White Creme Brulee

Carl followed me into the kitchen on Saturday night when he arrived for dinner.

C: Am I going to read everything I said tonight, tomorrow?
K: Yes.
C: Uhhh.....that "Mommy Needs a Cocktail" picture?
K: Yeah?
C: Was...that....
K: All me.
C: Well I'll be shutting up right now and start by drinking a beer.

It's not that I have so much to say about New Year's. It's just that we met Matt out on Friday night to have drinks (doesn't everyone take a baby to happy hour?) with some chick he had picked up at a bar on Wednesday. I felt like a chaperone. And I am not a very good chaperone.

Matt's Friday date. Not to be confused with his NYE date that has been his on again, off again flava' for the past year. Who he intends to dump just after NY's. Who doesn't eat beef. She got the Chicken Wellington.

It was a relatively uneventful evening with friends. Derek managed to not let it slip that Matt was stepping out on Model Democrat Lawyer Girlfriend.

Matt: She's NOT my girlfriend.
K: If you are getting naked with her, she thinks you are her boyfriend.
Matt: Who said I was getting naked with her? (which he barely got out of his mouth without choking)
K: Whatever.