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.

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.