The Big Shoe Shuffle

I hate Crocs.

Really.  Hate.  Like, if you're one of those people who says infuriating things like, "Hate is such a strong word!"  Then I hate you, and I hate crocs, and I bet you are a grown woman and you wear pigtails in your hair.

I hate that too.

I'm sure there are a billion people whose delicate little feelings are hurt right now because they are sitting at their computer wearing pigtails and crocs and are about to leave me an Anonymous comment telling me that Hate is too strong of a word and I should just do everyone a favor and die. 

And to you I say: let's stay friends.  I know a bunch of people who love Crocs and think that wearing pigtails past the age of 7 is adorable (and sexy, which ha.ha.ha.) and they are all my friends.  I just make fun of them. 

And in return they torture me.  For example, I had a party once, and they all came wearing pigtails just to see if I would pound my face through the wall.  I didn't, but it was close and I'm not even lying.  I was only saved by the presence of Mojitos and the hilarity of things that are sold at Pure Romance parties.

My mom knows that I hate Crocs, but she still bought me some for Christmas because LOLZ!  So I decided to wear my Crocs today for walking in the parking lot at work so that my cute work shoes wouldn't get wet. 

Crocs are the most ridiculous things.  Ever. 

I feel like a cartoon character with them on.  I feel like I need to take huge steps, or march, or something.  I feel like I should have humongous hands with big white gloves.  I feel like I should dance a little jig and say things like "doodey do".  I feel like a flaming moron. 

Or, Mickey Mouse.

Having these giant shoes on made me completely incapable of acting normal.  As soon as I put them on I felt the need to dance around and throw out jazz hands and just generally act like a dick.  I did a little jig for my coworker as soon as she came in to work.  Like, "Happy Wednesday, Melissa!  Bet you wish you had an office with a door that closes but you don't so watch this little jig I'm doing for you!"

I was in the midst of a repeat performance after lunch, and Melissa suggested that I show our boss.  OUR BOSS. 

Obviously, A Stellar Idea.  I'm in.

So down the hall I go!  I am dancing the entire way from my office to his office - complete with jazz hands and outrageous facial expressions.  But alas!  He is on the phone and not looking my way! 

I do not let the lack of attention get me down.  I am an attention whore, and I'm wearing MAGIC SHOES, and so I just keep on dancing down the hall.  At some point during my arm flailing grand finale, my hand swipes what should be the back of my skirt...

What SHOULD BE the back of my skirt.  But is actually not the back of my skirt, because it is my giant ass.  Which was, thank the sweet baby jesus, covered with tights. 

Because during my spectacular dance display, my skirt managed to scoot up above my butt.  And so here I am, dancing down the hall at work in Crocs and throwing out jazz hands and MY ASS IS HANGING OUT.*

I scream!  I run back to my office and tell Melissa!  And after she recovers from a deep belly laugh she's all...do you want me to take your picture?

Of course I want you to take my picture. 

The Big Shoe Shuffle: Not To Be Performed in a Skirt, and Also, Maybe Not At Work.**

On my way home, I call Mark and tell him about the big shoe shuffle and my ass hanging out.  He thinks it was a subconscious move on my part because I stayed up until 10:30 last night watching Jon Lajoie videos on You Tube over and over.  One can only hear Show Me Your Genitals so many times before she gets ideas.***

*Somehow, I am so lucky that everyone was out of the office.  Except for my boss who was on the phone, and another guy who was further down the hall and missed out on my performance.  I die a little bit inside just thinking about doing the Big Show Shuffle in front of my boss, and then him seeing my ass as I walked away. 

**It appears that Mah Crocs make me dance like Elaine from Seinfeld.

***I promise I won't try to show my boss or anyone else my genitals.  No matter how many times I watch that video.

Aw Naw! Itz Godzeela!

I may have mentioned that the only thing Olivia got for Christmas from her parents was blocks. And I'm serious.

All the other presents under the tree were things she already had that I wrapped up for show. They are all the clothes that I couldn't resist at Baby Gap in sizes too large for her malnourished tiny body.

Technically, we bought her a ton of "Christmas" presents the few months leading up to the holiday. And we gave them to her, because SQUEE SHE WILL LOVE IT SQUEE!

And by we, I mean me.

But anyway. For Christmas Proper, we got her Peekablocks and Mega Bloks. She likes them both about as much as a 10 month old actually likes anything - in 10 second intervals. Unless we're talking about the dog bowl, the dog's balls, or the garbage can - then she is unable to keep her hands away and will scream like you ripped the head off her doll and peed into its stuffing when you try to redirect.

Mark and I? Have found true love. NOT with eachother, but how nice would that be? No...we are totally hot for these Mega Bloks.

I started playing with these blocks with Olivia because I am a stellar parent who is always teaching through play and you can never start too young even at 10 months I mean it's only 17 short years before we start filling out college applications.

HA! I KID!

I started playing with these blocks to distract Olivia from the dog bowl, the dog's balls, and the garbage can. And then? OMG and then? I became unstoppable. I started creating the most impressively elaborate yet structurally sound buildings ever created by anyone with Mega Bloks, ever.

Well, sort of. Until Godzeela Baybee.

RAWR!  AM Gozeela Baybee!  Will paralyze you with Mah Cute and then destroy your structure!  With my frying pan, or with my fists, whatever I want to do! RAWR!

Godzeela Baybee started to walk this weekend.  A little.  Like, 3 or 4 steps before she falls on her teeny tiny Pampers-padded ass.  But just enough to come and cause death and destruction in my elaborate yet structurally sound(ish) Mega Blok galaxy. 

I wish I could just get a video of this, but I simply cannot.  Her desire to eat our camera dramatically outweighs my ability to keep her from eating our camera. 

She starts across the room.  Looks at my elaborate yet structurally sound creation.  SMILES.  SQUEALS.  And hauls ass across the room to bust shit up.  She even giggles while she does it.  She rips the buildings apart and throws the pieces.  I'm not even kidding.  To add to her Godzeela-like behavior, she spent the entire weekend saying done.

DUN!  DUN!  DADADADADADADUN! No, seriously your structure is full of the DUN!

And Mark, sitting on the couch watching Sports Center documentaries, is all:  Give it a rest with the blocks, wife!  Plus, your building doesn't even have a door OMG but whatever because I am so above blocks!  Ur so lame, want divorce, kthxbai. 

(And I was all, whatever, I get the baybee and the bloks so ha and in your face and Maturity, infinity no reversies.)

Last night, I came downstairs after putting Olivia to bed, and found this Amazing Structure proudly displayed on the toybox/ottoman in the livingroom:

I had to post both pictures so that you can appreciate the lengths to which my Dear Husband went to...what?  Outdo my awesome Mega Blok-ing?  I mean, just minutes before he was calling me lame. Now?  Now he's all Bloky McBlokerson, ya know?  Building structures with windows and balconies and an awning over the front door.  What.the.hell? 

And you know that I sat it right in front of Olivia this morning and took great pleasure as she went Godzeela on its ass.

Jolly in Jammies

Merry Christmas! 

Olivia is thoroughly satisfied with Santa's delivery of blocks, blocks, and more blocks.

We are staying in jammies all day.  Because it is relaxing, and maybe because we ate so much that our pants don't fit.

"Oh mommy, the only one who can't button her pants is you!"

True story, Olivia. True story.

Kindness of Strangers Never Ceases to Amaze

Just when I thought that there wasn't an ounce of Holiday spirit left in this world,I got this email from a generous stranger:

To: Jennepper Blog Mail
From: Grover Evans
Subject: (No Subject)
Date: December 23,2009 3:28 PM

send me some pics if you want pregnant I can help you


--

Nothing like having a stranger offer to help with your pregnant on Christmas Eve Eve!
I just hope my photos meet old Grover's standards!* I'm sure they are sky high.

(Anyone think Grover Evans sounds like a cover up name for Tiger Woods?)

Merry Christmas, or whatever holiday phrase applies to you. I hope you are jolly!

*Ok, I am lying. I didn't send pics.**
**I did try to find a picture of Wilford Brimley wearing a womens wig to send, but no luck at all.***
***I'd post some of the weird things I found but I'm posting from my phone. Sorry about your luck, because wow.

Like a gift exchange, but with blogs!

You guys, I've totally got a Holiday treat for you. No...it's not a Starbucks Peppermint Mocha, but if I could send you all one I totally would, because it would make me feel less guilty for drinking yet ANOTHER one alone.

It's actually better!

I've been a big fan of Dusty's blog, All Things G&D, for about a year now. She is on my list of MUST READ AT ALL COSTS favorite blogs. She is adorable, she is witty, she is stylish, and her house looks like something from a home decorating magazine. You are doing yourself a disservice if you don't go to her blog immediately and ravage her archives.

I was totally nervous to email Dusty about doing a guest post. I was fretting like a school girl and had to restrain myself from gushing ZOMG I LOVE YOU DUSTY LET'S GET MAWWIED! And I was shocked when she not only replied, but asked me to guest post on All Things G&D!

So, my Internet friends, let me present you with our Holiday Blog Exchange. My post can be found on All Things G&D today, but first enjoy this hilarious post by Dusty.

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Hi everyone--thanks for letting me crash your party! I was so excited when Jen asked me to do a guest post for her fabulous blog and I'm thrilled to be here! I would have brought some booze with me to loosen you all up a bit, but I'm currently knocked up--which means if I can't have it, I'm certainly not buying it for anyone else. It's nothing personal; I'm just selfish is all.

Now before you read my little story, let me just make it clear for all the Pregnancy Police out there that this is about something that happened a couple of years ago--before I was marinating my little fetus genius. Enjoy!

Saved by a Saint

Driving home from my friend Dana’s house yesterday, I was reminded of a time I almost died on that very same road. It was about a year and a half ago, and I had gone back to my hometown to visit Dana one hot summer weekend. We’d had a long night of partying like we were auditioning for the Rolling Stones--and paid for it in the morning. I had one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had in my life. I stayed in bed longer than I was tired just because it hurt to open my eyes. Hell, it hurt to even breathe! I could have spent the rest of my life on that air mattress, but I knew I had to drag my rotting carcass home eventually. Everything hurt, so I skipped getting dressed, skipped combing my hair, and skipped brushing my teeth. I just threw on some sunglasses and flip flops, vomited, and was on my way.

I had just pulled out of Dana’s driveway when I thought, “I cannot do this. I am going to die. Must go back to the air mattress.” But then I realized--the fact that I was able to walk to my car meant this was probably going to be the best shape I’d be in all day so I’d better take advantage of it. I rolled down the car windows for some fresh air and kept on driving.

A few miles later something caught my eye. It looked like something had blown in through my passenger side window. I glanced to my right and SCREAMED, slammed on my breaks, ran my car off the road, got out, and ran for my life! When I was a safe distance away I stopped to check and make sure all my limbs were in tact. Then I slowly and reluctantly walked back to my car and thought, “You can do this. It’s okay. You can handle this.” Every piece of me was shaking so hard you could hear it, as I cautiously peered through the driver’s window.

And then I saw it.

There, on my passenger side dashboard--threatening to end my life--was a huge spider.

I let out another scream as we made eye contact, and then did the heeby-jeeby dance just to be absolutely sure there was nothing but cotton touching my skin. Now what? I was panicked and didn’t know what to do. I considered calling Dana to see if she would drive out and help me, but my cell phone was on the passenger seat and there was no way in hell any part of my body was entering that vehicle. Not while that spider sat there, ready to attack. I cursed the deserted Wisconsin highway for having no sign of a weapon in sight, but knew even if I had a weapon I wouldn't be able to use it--even from outside the car. Touching something that touches a spider is like practically touching that spider yourself. It cannot happen.

So I decided to wait.

Yes, just wait.

That was my plan.

I waited outside my vehicle, on the side of the highway, in my flip flops, pajama pants, tank top, no bra, ratty hair, and oversized sunglasses. Someone was bound to drive by and realize I was in distress. (And although I looked like hell, the good news is the adrenaline pumping through my veins had instantly cured my hangover--a little fact I was too strung out to realize until hours later.) While I waited, I made sure that spider didn’t leave my sight. Before long someone in a big pick-up truck pulled over. I was thanking God for sending a good ol’ farm boy to my rescue…when out jumped a woman.

“Is everything okay?” she asked as she walked toward me. “Not exactly,” I replied as I took a breath and tried to remain composed while I considered my next move. But then she went and said the magic words that unlock the floodgates of anyone with estrogen: “What’s wrong?” True to cue, I started BAWLING as I exclaimed in a high-pitched voice I typically reserve for singing Prince songs that there’s a spider in my car and I need someone to kill it, and I know this sounds so stupid, but I’m so afraid of spiders, and I tried really hard to take care of it myself, but I couldn’t find a sledgehammer, and I wasn’t sure if I threw something in at it that I could hit it at the perfect angle to make it go flying out the window, and I’m not usually like this, and I couldn’t call anyone because my phone is in there too, and I considered walking back to town but I didn’t want to leave my handbag, I love that handbag--you can see it through the window--and I don’t know what to do...and on and on and on.

By now the woman is hugging me and telling me it’s going to be okay while digging for a Kleenex and wishing she’d have just kept on driving. Meanwhile I’m snotting all over her shoulder and wishing last night’s tequila really had killed me. When I finish with my breakdown, she miraculously informs me she is not afraid of spiders, and she will take care of it for me.

Unbelievable!

We walked back toward my car and I was about to point it out to her, although I was certain no introduction was needed, considering the size of that sucker, when my situation went from bad to worse. The spider was no longer sitting on the dashboard--I’d lost sight of it! Which meant it could be anywhere!! I started crying all over again, but the woman calmly assured me it was okay and she would find it. She opened my car door, and I watched wide-eyed as she climbed inside and told me all about how her best friend is also terrified of spiders so she has to kill them for her all the time, they don’t bother her one bit, but she understands about having a phobia, she’s scared of the dark and knows that’s silly to most people, and I shouldn’t feel bad for how I feel because that’s not something you can help, and try to remember spiders are more scared of you than you are of them…and on and on.

While I listened to her calmly talk me down from the ledge, she pulled out my front seat floor mats and shook them out. Still no sign of the spider. So she moved to the back seat floor mats. Still no sign. Next came the blanket I’d brought with me for my sleepover. And then my overnight tote--which was open-topped. I thought it was possible the spider may have ninja-jumped to the backseat and into my tote when I wasn’t looking, so not only did she visually inspect my tote, she patiently pulled out every last thing inside to shake it out and be absolutely certain--including my bra. I considered asking for the bra back, post-shake, so I was no longer the braless hysterical girl in her pajamas on the side of the highway crying over a spider--but by then what was the point?

In the end, she had taken out and shook every last bit of anything that wasn’t bolted down in my car, inspected every nook and cranny of my empty car, and then re-shook everything one more time before putting it all back in. There was still no sign of the spider, but by then she had calmed me down enough to talk some sense into me, and told me she probably shook him out and we just didn’t see it. I tried believed her--because saints don’t lie--hugged her and thanked her profusely. Then she watched me to make sure I really was brave enough to get back in my car and drive off. The only thing that kept me from having an all-out nervous breakdown was that amazingly kind and patient pick-up truck driving, spider-killing, phobia-sensitive saint that took the time out of her day to rescue me on the side of the highway.

In honor of her, I tried really really hard to believe that spider was gone, but my adrenaline was still pumping like crazy as I white-knuckled it the entire drive home--all windows securely up, of course. My heart stopped beating the second anything caught my eye unexpectedly. When I got home, I walked in the house and promptly stated to my husband:

“We need to sell the car.”

Bodybuilder Magee

Yesterday was another banner day for feeling like a total hoss.

You know how everything is just completely worse when you're exhausted? Olivia was up for three hours Wednesday night, just crying and whining and keeping me up for THREE HOURS.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking that she is probably teething, right? I KNOW, me too! But no, no teeth. Not even a hint of a tooth. This kid is not getting teeth, I swear. We are going to have to purchase a set of hand-crafted baby dentures for her first birthday present.

So. Anyways. I was really tired. And for some reason, I thought it a good idea to wear a skirt with tights on Thursday, even though I was slightly annoyed by the tightness around my tank gut when I left the house. As soon as I got to work, I was cursing my sausage encasing. I'm not very smart, you see that. And then! AND THEN! It's the last couple weeks of the year and so work just totally blows a big fat fattie, and that's all I'm really going to say about that.

I should just stop telling this story, because it requires so much back story that it makes me want to die, and so you are probably already dead and not even reading this. I DO NOT BLAME YOU.

Perhaps you remember my coworker who volunteered to become my punching bag fitness coach? We will call him Bodybuilder Magee, even though he is older than electricity and has flat old man ass, and wears cologne that smells like a hamster cage.

Well, he's a repeat offender in the asshole department. I get up at 5, and I'm usually hungry for all or part of my lunch at around 10:30. And Bodybuilder Magee is always commenting on what I eat and how early it is. Like, "oh, digging into your lunch already?!" Or, "uh oh! Eating cookies!"

OH MY GOD.

I'm not even a nice person. I'm not going to lie. I have to try really hard to not kill people, like, every day. So my ability to leave my machete at home every work day is amazing. Bodybuilder Magee should be glad that he survived Lupron, because Mark barely escaped, and I actually like Mark.

Now. Yesterday. I was "digging into" my salad at 10:30. And don't you know that Bodybuilder Magee comes into my office and - I kid you not - peeks into my bowl. Like, he puts his face near my bowl. Or, more to be more specific, he put his eyeballs near my really sharp fork.

"Oh, good job! Eating salad! Already?"

Really? Are you insulting me for eating early, or congratulating me for eating a salad before my thighs take over the world? BE MORE SPECIFIC, OLD MAN!

"Oh, hahahaha..." Fucktard.

Later in the day, I was eating some delicious candy from the corporate gift basket, and it was all just too much for him to bear:

BM: "Uh oh...you're eating all the candy! Good thing you ate that salad earlier, and that soup...did you plan to eat the salad so that you could eat the candy later?"

JK: "No, I ate what I ate because I wanted to eat it, why do you feel the need to comment on my eating all the time? Do you need something from me?"

This is exactly why I hate people, in general.  I swear to god I'm going to tell him he smells like hamster cage.

--------------------

In news that is exciting only to me: I have 1,000 Google Reader subscribers!  Which sounds awesome, except Amalah has like 5,000, so.  That is exciting only to me, obviously.  But I remember not too long ago, being excited about having 100.

"I Started Piling Maxi Pads on Nate's Workbench"

That title?  That, right there?  That's why I love Blair.

(It was a tie between that and DOES A FAT BABY FART? )

How excited was I to snag this guest post? 

(Very excited, is what I'm getting at.)

And how glad are you that Blair has written this fantastic post for you this fine Monday?

(Pretty glad, since I appear to be having some sick love affair with parenthesis.  Annoying.)

Blair is hilarious.  I LURVE her blog.  You read this post first, but then you take your sweet ass over to her blog and read all of her archives.  I promise, you will not need Kotex, but you may want some Depends.

(She is funny, and you might pee in your pants, is what I'm getting at.)

--------------------------------

So.

This is awkward. I don't even know where to begin. Normally, in my own world of internets best known as The Heir to Blair, I begin with a tale, or a picture, or even a long drawn out "Y'ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT S-DASH-DASH-DASH." But since I'm a guest of Jen's, I figure it best that I a) introduce myself & b) not drop profanity in the first paragraph. oh, & use a coaster for my sweet tea.

& since it is flu season & I don't shake hands for fear of smallporks, I shall introduce myself simply as "Blair." As previously stated, I normally run rampant in my own little world of cupcakes, baby puke, & discussions about my sex life, but a week ago, I opened an email from Jen. "Would you be interested in guest blogging?" it read. "DOES A FAT BABY FART?" I responded. (the answer is yes. just ask my kid) When I questioned her on topics, she gave me free reign.

BIG MISTAKE, JEN.

So I emailed her back. Because I had this topic I was itching to tap out, but I figured I should ask her permission before regaling her readers with tales of my bleeding vagina. Manners matter, people! & with her permission & the most incredibly dull, drawn-out introduction, I begin my guest blog:

Y'ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT.
Disclaimer: I typically shy from writing about family members. Or friends. Or relationships. & definitely work. I am of the opinion that no good can come from blogging about those topics, but this is WAY TOO GOOD to be kept a secret. & I have my husband's permission.

Back in January 2009, I peed on a stick. & this appeared:

I'M PREGNANT! A BABY IN MY UTE! It's awesome! I won't have a period for almost an entire year!! I saw this as a blissful opportunity to make the world a better place. To be the attention-whore I always wanted to be as people stared at my belly, showered me with gifts, & rained compliments upon my glowing, happily knocked-up self. (by the way, mission totally accomplished)

My mother-in-law saw my pregnancy as an opportunity to boost Kotex's market power. (mission also accomplished)

The first time she brought me a pack of pads back in March 2009, I was a wee bit dumbfounded, a little embarrassed, but silently accepted them. Maybe she found them in the back of her closet & is going through "the change?" Since I am not one to question the fruitfulness of another's womb, I stuffed them in the back of our own bathroom shelf in case of emergencies. Until her next visit, when she brought 5 packs of pads. & the next, when she brought 3 more economy packs, plus 2 packs of panty liners. "These are for after you have the baby," she finally warbled in explanation. Listen, lady - there is no need to hold stock in Kotex. MY VAG IS NOT GOING TO BLEED PROFUSELY FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. "Oh, I know," she chirped. "But like I told your stepfather-in-law, you'll get your period again!" OH MY GOD. You're discussing my monthly cycle with a man my husband doesn't even share DNA with?! Stab me in the eye with a dull spoon. NOW.

So I contemplated saying something to her after we hit 500 pads, ran out of room in the guest bathroom, & I started piling maxi pads on Nate's work bench in the garage. It's not that I didn't appreciate the generosity. Or gesture. But honestly, there are certain boundaries that should not be crossed by mother-in-laws.

I happen to lump my bleeding vagina into that category, along with discussing how I lost my virginity & the cost of our mortgage payment.

But I just couldn't. I was weak! I was intimidated! Despite over-sharing my procreation methods on the interwebs, I was a prude! & in all honesty, watching her stagger into my casa with bags of Kotex was sending me into fits of giggles with every visit. I could not explain to this woman that with the exception of healing from the D&E after the miscarriage, I never used pads. That the moment I discovered that first wee bit of womanhood at the tender age of 12, I demanded that The Momma teach me to use tampons. I could not stare my mother-in-law in the face & tell her that what emerges from my vagina past Harrison was none of her business. & so I stayed silent, watching with hilarity as the pad count tick up over 700...800...850...

(thankfully, Walmart pretty much accepts any return, other than children & dead pet hamsters. I have spent many, many hours waiting in line for a pimple-decked 15-year-old sophomore to issue me a gift card in return for said feminine products.)

Last weekend, she sent the total over 1,000. & when she leaned over my son in a conspiratorial manner & whispered, "These are for Mommy" while winking & patting the pack of Kotex, Nate stood up. & doing what I could not do with quiet male dignity, explained that he has never, ever seen me purchase maxi pads. While I, ever mature & helpful, muffled my laughter into my sweater sleeve.

That, my friends, is the definition of a good man. One that can stand up for your vagina to his own mother. I married a good man.& to date, I have returned 1,028 maxi-pads to Walmart.

Well, first I eat an entire plate of cookies...

Since Olivia is all shiny and new now, I feel all kinds of pressure to start some holiday traditions with her.

The thing is...I don't really have any traditions. Besides stuffing myself until I wish for death eating.

For Christmas, I'm thinking Christmas jammies for Christmas eve, some sort of treat for breakfast Christmas morning after gifts. Maybe a new ornament every year?

What holiday traditions do you have? For Christmas, or any holiday? I need inspiration.

Ten Months: You know who else can do that? MY CAT.

It's getting harder for me to keep track of and blog about the new, exciting things that Olivia has been doing.  Because they are amazing...to nobody but us. Like, OMFG, Olivia watches us walk across the room! And she follows us! Isn't that amayZING?!

But it is. She's gone from a sleepy little pile of cute, to a huge, interactive, silly pile of cute.

Fun things Olivia does at 10 Months:

-Sits on her knees and bounces when she is excited. Usually paired with wild-woman arm flapping and squee noises heard 'round the world.

-Notices and loves the television. And FAIL of all FAIL, she loves Barney. I mean, really. She loves that purple douchetard. She also loves Elmo. This makes me die a little bit inside.

-She knows exactly what "no" means, and it totally pisses her off. Her favorite things to go after are the dog food bowls, and the garbage can in the kitchen. She babbles and squeals as she crawls toward them, and when you tell her no, she sits and screams her head off in agony. "BUT MOM! THA BOWLZ!"

- Still working on the whole walking thing. She easily cruises along furniture. She has a stroller and she walks all over the place behind it, smiling like she just found out that she won a million biter biscuits. She tries to stand, too, but it only lasts about 3 seconds before she falls on her butchie.

(I call her butt her butchie. Because I like to squeeze her butt cheeks and say buttcheeksbuttcheeksbuttcheeks. And it is easier to say butchiebutchiebutchie.)

(And I am totally amazed by her 3 seconds of standing, so much that I yell for Mark every time - DID YOU SEE HER STAND FOR THREE SECONDS ZOMG?!)

- The past couple of weeks, she has started clapping. Which, adorable. Enough said.

- She likes music. She shakes her arms and wiggles when she hears it.

- Still a total attention whore. I'm going to just stop mentioning it in updates.

- It seems like she says ma, da, dah (doggie), and ba (baba/bottle) with purpose. I'm not confident enough to say that she has words yet. The only constant is HAI! which she has been saying for a few months.

- BEGS for food. Comes up to you, smiles, coos. Drools. It's insanely adorable. She loves to eat. Table food. Bottles? Not so much.

- There is one new development that I absolutely HATE: separation anxiety. I don't mind holding her, and calming her down when I just walk out of sight. But, oh god...the daycare drop off. BRUTAL. She reaches and cries. Even when my mom watches her. The upside is that I get a giant smile when I come home, but ugh. The drop off is awful.

This is what she does when I get the camera...definitely fun to come home to!

We go back to the ped for a weight check soon, and we also go to the pediatric gastroenterologist this month. I'm curious to see what they will say about her weight and switching her to milk in a couple months*. I can't imagine that she managed to gain too much after the Great Illness of 09. I'm just hoping she's not too far off the charts.

*A COUPLE MONTHS! I'VE GOT A BIRTHDAY PARTY TO PLAN!

Ho ho ho and a bottle of Pedialyte

On Saturday night, we went to a Christmas party for kids. Santa was there.
And don't get all excited to see a delicious picture of Olivia screaming her fool head off on Santa's lap. She freaking loved Santa! He gave her a candy cane and she was all, "I want a Barbie Hot Tub Palace and a $200 gift card to Baby Gap, and I also want to yank on your beard. Kthxbai."

The party was a success for everyone involved, until Olivia barfed on the floor.

The evening started off swimmingly. After three families showed up with kids dressed in their Christmas finest, I had to send Mark home to get Olivia's Christmas getup. Because I am not competent enough to realize that you dress your kid in her Christmas dress at a Christmas party, and so I put her in a pink and navy blue dress with leggings OH MY GOD.

The thought crossed my mind before we left. But, I was afraid that she would spit up on her dress and then be dressless on Christmas. Which, HA.HA.Motherfucking HA.

So, yeah. Olivia puked pizza.

Now, this isn't Mark's version of puke, which is a tiny bit of spit up. This was...projectile. Rank. Chunky. VOMIT.

This was...all over me, the carpet, the toys. Luckily? No children were drenched in the Great Christmas Barf of 09. Luckily? Three of our friends were there to wipe me off and bring me a towel.

Olivia has only done one other actual VOMIT. Both times I was totally mature and responsible, and yelled "HALP! HALP! HAAAAAALP!" And you know how people always say that it won't be gross when it's your kid? Yeah, that's total bullshit. It was completely disgusting.

The thing is, is that I didn't care. I felt bad for her. Awful. I went to Walgreens with vomit all over my pants and sweater to buy a new rectal thermometer (ours broke*) and some Pedialyte.

The girl in line in front of me sniffed the green cloud air around me and crunched up her nose. That sounds like an exaggeration for the sake of this story, but I promise you it is not. She was totally disgusted by me because I smelled like a drunk lightweight whore after a fraternity party. But really, who shops the coupons in the Walgreens ad at 9:45 pm on a Saturday night? Don't you expect to see people who smell like vomit at Walgreens at 9:45 on a Saturday night**? I just gave her the wide-eyed, "What. No, really, what?" look.

You'll remember that Olivia shat on someone's floor, too. It's like she's going for some sort of bodily function trifecta. I don't even want to know what the third part is...

So this was all on Saturday. Sunday she was not her usually peppy self, but she was playing and eating and PEEING, which is key, apparently. And then Sunday night when I put her to bed I was all, she's fiiiiiiine.

Then she had massive diarrhea in her sleep, all over her crib. And then she threw up. And then she dry heaved. And then we all died. The end.

Oh, but seriously. How sad is a sick baybee? SO SAD, that's how sad.

I was up most of the night with her Sunday, and managed to drag my bedraggled*** (not bedazzled) ass to work for a half day. My mom stayed with Olivia so that I could go in and clear out my inbox. I finished an entire day of work in 4 hours. I don't know if that means I was a superstar on Monday, or if I am a lazy bitch waste of space on a normal day.

She seemed OK on Monday night. Tuesday was a good day. I'm hoping we're over the worst of it. But I know you've been waiting for a good poop story, so, you're welcome.

Quite possibly completing the trifecta at this very moment...

              Photo: Portrait Innovations; Dress: Gymboree, may it rest in peace.

*Just rereading, and WTF? Why do I feel the need to tell you ours broke? So you don't think we lost it in a rectum? Or that we use it in our mouths now?

**I was a Walgreens employee after college, at a 24 hour store. You'd be surprised at the late night clientele. Or not surprised. Whatever. One time, this old lady came in the store at 2 a.m. and she walked a circle around the store while she pooped her pants. It ran down her leg, and left a trail of poop. I'm not even kidding at all.

***5 minutes before I had to leave, I finished drying my hair and realized it was an oil slick.  I forgot to rinse my conditioner.  Too late, went to work with my roots all separated.  I'm sure they are going to send me a $10,000 bonus just for trying so hard to look like a stone cold fawx.

Mommy Wants Vodka

I couldn't think of a better title for Aunt Becky's guest post. Because isn't that the best name for a blog, like, ever? It's the only one that I like better than mine.

Yes, I somehow managed to talk Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka into doing a guest post on my blog. In her defense, I tricked her with an email subject lined "Twinkies!"

I love Love LOVE her blog. Somehow, she manages to write a great post every day. And not just throwing out pictures or whatever, she actually delivers every.single.time. If you do not read her blog, you should. She's funny as hell.

Enjoy this post from Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka, "The Drink of The Apocolypse."

------

A couple of years ago, when my husband, The Daver and I still lived in a Oak Park, I was making a trek back from St. Charles, when he called my cell phone. When I answered, he asked if I needed anything from the local CVS—this was my boyfriend before Target became my boyfriend--because he was there picking up Twizzlers.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I need some Slim-Fast. The strawberry kind, please. Don't get me the chocolate stuff.”
“If you say so,” my husband said. “I think it ALL tastes like donkey ass. But whatever, where is it?”
“It’s over by the dietary stuff, against the south wall,” I informed him. Then I giggled. “Wait, I thought YOU were all directionally superior to me!”
“Dude, not here. The layout to this place makes zero sense,” he snipped, annoyed that I was mocking his directional sense for the eleventy-hundredth time that month, after he’d gotten lost in Wisconsin, the state WHERE HE CAME FROM.
“Okay, so do you want the 200 calorie or the 300 calorie stuff?” He asked me, obviously standing in front of the dietary aids.
“Wha…?” I asked him while lighting a cigarette. “SlimFast comes in one variety and it’s all about 200 calories.”
“Well, all they have is generic in your fancy STRAWBERRY flavor,” he replied. “Do you still want it?”

Knowing that drinking the generic stuff was better than being tempted by the bacon and eggs he and Ben would be having for breakfast the following morning, I agreed to have him grab the 200 calorie stuff.

About a half an hour later, I pulled into our shared garage, about 4,000 years away from our actual condo building and about twenty minutes after that, I was finally up the twenty flights of stairs, and standing in our armpit of a kitchen, panting in the sweltering heat.

I immediately noticed, sitting jauntily on the counter, was a case of Ensure.

Generic, Strawberry flavored, ENSURE. Which, were I a geriatric with digestive issues trying to pack on the pounds, would probably be a delicious and high calorie snacky-poo. But, since I was a 23 year old with digestive issues trying to REMOVE the pounds, I wasn’t so thrilled.

“Dave…” I trilled into the house, “Honey?”
He walked into the kitchen to give me a hug hello.
“Baby…” I asked him hesitantly, wondering if he were punishing me for singing Rod Stewart at the top of my lungs when he was in a bad mood the previous night. “Baby, are you mad at me?”
“No,” he replied, genuinely confused. “Why?”
“Because you bought ENSURE. Not SlimFast. Are you trying to fatten me up? Or are you just trying to give my guts a low-residue treat?”
“WHAT?” He asked, now looking more closely at the box of cans. “I totally thought this was SlimFast!”
“No baby, that isn’t even close to SlimFast. This shit is for people who have no colon left. And maybe in 30 years, I’ll need it myself, but for now? Not so much.”

“Hm.” He said, looking at the box.
“Well, I suggested. “On the bright side, if zombies attack, I guess we're going to be pretty well stocked for a couple of days, I guess.”

Let me toss your Google salad.

How about a fun list of Google keywords that lead people to my blog?

Category: Vagina Topics
Needle up your twat IVF
Look at my vagina
blowing out candles with vagina


Category: All about Asses
mercy butt cream
best prescription medicine raw chapped butt
best thing for chapped ass
my ass hurts and i'm real mad

Category: The Duggars (WTF, I've mentioned them like 3 times in 2 years?!)
The duggars
I hate the Duggars
The Duggars are gross
Hate the Duggars
Duggars Disgusting
Duggar broken vagina
Are the duggars disgusting?

Category: Guesses at my full name.
Jen Epper
Jennifer Epper
Jenn Epper
Jen E. Per
Jenny Per

Category: Hairy Hairy Hairy
Big Hairy Legs
Hairy Legs
Hairy Underwear
Hairy Go Peeing
Hairy Relax
hairy clown underwear scary

Category: The Beetus
bitch don't know 'bout my diabeetus
diabeetus cat is not happy about this one bit
wilford brimley stupid

It's Jaci, like Jackie, not like Jaycee.

I wonder how many times you've said that, Jaci?

Oh, Jaci and I got in trouble when we were little.

I hope that Jaci won't mind me telling you how we got yelled at in the hall in 5th grade for throwing little wads of paper into someone's exposed butt crack. OR how we got caught passing notes about our awful teacher's wig and painted on cheek freckles (Mrs. Edison, I'm looking at you), and she called us IGGERNET, and then we laughed in her face.

Jaci is hilarious, and so is her blog. She writes what she thinks, and what she thinks is All Kinds of Awesome. It is one of those blogs that never gets Marked As Read on my reader, and I am so excited to put her in charge of my blog for today. So enjoy this guest post from Jaci and then head over to her blog and get caught up!

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Yeah! I’m a guest on Jen’s blog! Jen and I go way back (to 4th grade when she’d invite me over for sleepovers and we’d watch The Little Mermaid on a continuous loop and laugh at kids we didn’t like until we almost peed our pants).

Jennepper has always had the gift of sarcasm, internets.

I never heard of blogs until I read Jen’s a couple of years ago—then I thought, “If she can write one so can I, damn it!” Annnnd…that’s how I created Ravings of a Mad Housewife out of pure jealousy and high school immaturity.

My blog falls into the lame category of Mommy Blog, but I write about whatever comes into my head. For example:

Have you ever had someone get all up in your face about how you could afford to be a stay-at-home mom if you just learned to “sacrifice”? I got that over Thanksgiving dinner—from GRANDMA.

It’s bad enough when some pro-homeschooling blowhard gets all up in your biznass, but Grandma? Gawd. I had to sit there, pregnant and bored, while she told me how she stretched Grandpa’s $48 per week and how she hasn’t worked (or driven a car thankyouverymuch) since 1944.

(Want to know her reason for quitting her cushy secretarial job? She was afraid the big time CEO’s would tempt her away from grandpa. I’m totally going to use THAT excuse on my husband when my maternity leave is over.)

Then my aunt jumped in with her SAHM advice—“I didn’t go back to work until your cousin was 16.”

My jaw dropped. “You mean you didn’t work full time until then.”

“No. I didn’t work. PERIOD. I stayed home.”

As they both tag teamed me with promises of the money I could save if I just learned to sew our own clothes (Argh! Duggar jumpers!) I couldn’t help but feel that their lives had been such a waste.

Don’t get me wrong—I want to stay at home with my babies—but I don’t want to stay home waiting for my pimply-faced 7th grader to climb off the school bus at 4 pm. What is there to do all day? Dust the baseboards? Bake my own bread? Snoop through the kids’ bedrooms?

If Grandma had gone back to work in the 60’s, she would have qualified for her own social security instead of pinching pennies on Grandpa’s. If my aunt had even worked part-time during her kids’ school years, maybe they would have had name brand clothes, vacations, and dinners that didn’t involve hot dogs.

So, while I wanted to scream out, “How could you find any personal fulfillment in NEVER leaving the house? I want more out of my life than that!” I kept my mouth shut. It takes a certain breed to be a SAHM-lifer, and it’s best not to look them directly in the eye or speak loudly or they’ll tear your face off.

It’s also pointless to argue that your husband’s income will not cover all of the bills and you have to work, because really? Sewing machines, coupons, and dinners made out of dried beans can easily cover $18,000 of missing income.

Duh.

She makes this face...

When I take her picture:

The guy at Portrait Innovations called it a Stinkface, just before I punched him in the wiener*. Would you believe me if I told you that I can't write a real post because I am in jail for punching a Portrait Innovations "photographer" in the wiener?

I'm slacking. Like, a lot. I have stuff I want to write, but it's all jumbled in my brain. I blame it on Turkey and Starbucks. Our Thanksgiving weekend could not have been better - it was relaxing, Olivia was adorable, lots of good eats and visiting, some Black Friday deals. My brain is protesting the return to normal life.

I hope everyone had a filling Thanksgiving. Feel free to tell me about it in the comments. Or tell me a joke. Or give me a diet tip.

*I wrote all the Wieners in this post as Weiner and had to fix them all in the spell check. "I before E except after C and in words like Weird, Neighbor and Weiner." But don't call your neighbor's weiner weird, because that would be impolite.

A Great Blog? Definitely!

Another guest post by another of my favorite bloggers: Beverley.

I can't even remember how I found Bev's blog, A Baby? Maybe... Most likely some lucky Googling about Infertility. But I've been a big big fan of hers for a few years now. Her posts are always clever, and she always closes with the very best quotes.

I love Bev. I love her style, her sense of humor, and her honest yet polite way of writing. If we lived near each other, I'd beg her to be my real life friend. But since we live far far away, we are stuck being Internet friends. Her adorable little Lucy is a month older than Olivia, and OHMAHGAH is she just so freaking cute you won't be able to stand it!

(I'm not going to post for Thanksgiving - I think we all know what I am thankful for this year. So make sure you enjoy this post from Bev before you pass out from your Turkey coma, and have a fantastic Thanksgiving!)

-------------------

Oh man, I’m so excited to be here. It’s like a birthday present in itself because I luuuurrrve me some Jennepper. Truly. She’s amazing, and she didn’t even pay me (very much ) to write that. Anyhoo…

Well, here I am. I had the big 2-9er yesterday and I am now officially in the final year of my twenties. Do I think that 30 is old? Absolutely not, but the recent streak of gray hairs on the top of my head and the wrinkles on either side of my eyes say differently.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was graduating college, soon to turn 23. I was going to be big time. A big time journalist. Traveling all over the world. No settling down for me, no way. Husband? No thanks. Kids? Absolutely not.

Then I met Rob. Freshly single and looking for a summer fling. He was visiting Oregon for the summer. He would be gone by September. It was perfect. We’d have fun, he’d go home and I’d get my big time job and start living my glamorous life.

Fast forward to the end of that summer, I was not letting that boy go anywhere without me. We were madly in love and that was it. I picked up and moved thousands of miles across the country to a city where I knew no one. All alone in New York City living above Wall Street with two complete strangers, a curtain as a wall and a low paying job at a crazy animal magazine that I hated. All for him.

We married the next September, just before I turned 24, barely over a year from when we first laid eyes on one another. In a vineyard in the breezy late Oregon summer. There was dancing, laughing, so much happiness. The thought of needing anything else, anyone else, in our lives, far from our minds.

All that no husband stuff that I thought before. Silly! Ridiculous! At 25, when he jokingly asked about having a baby, I did a double take. A baby? No thanks, I told him. I’m not the motherly type. I’m not good with babies. Children don’t like me. I’m not silly enough. I don’t like cartoons. Hate them actually. I haven’t changed a diaper since I was 13, and even then I doubt I did it right (and now that I think about it, who the hell leaves a baby with the 13 year old? Really?) I’m never the one who “wants to hold the baby”. Besides, I would go nuts if I had to stay at home with some sticky child all day long. I don’t even know how to do art projects or whatever else you do with small children. No thanks! He laughed and told me he’d gladly be a stay at home dad, think about it Bev.

I did. The more I thought, the more I liked the idea. Maybe I could do this. I could be a mother. Hell, why not?

So we tried. This is exciting. And fun! We’re going to be parents. What should our baby’s name be? Do you think its going to be a boy or a girl? I’m certain it worked this month. Maybe next month. I so don’t want to have a baby in January. I’d prefer a spring birthday. Maybe next month. And then we tried some more. Why hello there 26th birthday. And tried some more. Hmmm. Turns out they lied in high school. It isn’t that easy to get knocked up.

See you later 26, here comes 27. Damnit, I want that baby. I don’t care what month. I don’t care if she’s a girl or he’s a boy. I don’t care. How can I want to be something so badly, something that I never thought I wanted in the first place? But I did, more than anything. Then it happened. We were pregnant.

28th birthday I’m huge. I’m ecstatic. We’re waiting. It’s almost been 9 months. I get a girdle-like belly contraption to hold my enormous girth that is hurting my back and a pregnancy massage for my birthday. So glamorous! My feet look like sausages in my too small shoes. I waddle around at work, need help getting up from the couch at home. Hey, 23 year old self, look at me now? Betcha never would have guessed it. Ultra glam job? Nope. Married? Yes! Baby on the way? Yes! Happier than I’ve ever been? Absolutely.

29th birthday. Yesterday. My last year in my twenties and how I have changed. What I wanted for my birthday at 23… probably a pair of designer jeans and that chunky Tiffany necklaces that EVERYONE wore back then. What I wanted for my birthday at 29? A maid, because damn it’s hard to keep a house clean these days, and my post-pregnancy OCD has kicked in to high gear so much so that a maid is my ultimate dream. A not very feasible one, but a little wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

What I got? A husband who stayed home from work in order to clean the house top to bottom, cooked a traditional English dinner for my birthday. A beautiful baby, who is the light of my life, that went to bed without so much as a peep last night so that Mama could watch So You Think You Can Dance and read her new book in absolute peace.

No maid? No problem. I couldn’t want for more (ok, maybe I still want the maid a wee bit). I’m living my last year of my twenties with all the things I thought I didn’t want, but in the end have made my life complete. A very Happy Birthday to me indeed!

Thank you Mrs.Jennepper for having me!



“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.”
- Robert Browning

My body is a wonderland. Ish.

Oh, post pregnant body is surely what inspired John Mayer.

(Speaking of: I say you can't get stoned, John Mayer. ME! That's who.)

Right after I had Olivia, I felt SO SKINNY. My stomach looked so flat on the top, and huge on the bottom. Like a big human butternut squash.



That looks awfully phallic, doesn't it? My abdomen looked like a giant flesh colored penis squash. Definitely inspirational. My uterus was huge and it was pulling everything down and making it appear that I was the Ohio version of Heidi Klum, except at least a foot shorter and with bigger thighs (ESPECIALLY when my milk came in...because RAWR).

Eventually my uterus got way smaller, and I was left with a belly full o'pizza dough. And somehow my thigh cellulite made its way up to my stomach. At around 8 months post partum, the doughyness started to disappear. But now my hips are moving back in and it is causing my belly to pop out in the most Three Months Pregnant fashion.

So, yeah. I look ridiculous. I don't really care that much because I am ridiculous. And every time I type ridiculous, I think of Balki Bartokomous.

Exhibit A: Don't be ridikalas, Cousin Larry.


Most disturbing, in my most humble and worthless opinion? Hair loss. When Olivia was three months old, I started losing hair. And for me to say that I was losing hair is serious, because I am basically a human Golden Retriever. But only in the hair loss department, not in any of the good desirable ways like loyal or friendly.

I really started going bald at my temples and my hair line went back about half an inch. So my movie theatre-sized forehead went to drive-in movie theatre-sized in the span of a month. This is the best picture I can find.


Title: In Which I Sport A Combover and A Bald Temple. (But Look At That BAYBEE! With Two Bald Parents, Bless Her Heart.)


And now all my hair is growing back, and I look like a chia pet. Here is a pretty good view of my itty bitty short hairs...


Today, my hair is really dry and so all the short hairs are sticking straight up on one side like some demented version of the Kate Gosselin haircut on the front of my head. It's really inconvenient because all of these men are swarming me and OH GOD I'M MARRIED (unless you are Robert Pattinson then YUM).

(Or Taylor Lautner)

(I'm seeing New Moon tonight.)

(I'm just gonna end this awkward post right here, mkay? Bai.)

Not the kind of baby weight I wanted to lose.

This may surprise you, but sometimes I make a big deal out of things that are totally not a big deal. I know. It's a very shocking revelation. I'm sorry if I sprung this on you at a bad time. I hope that you did not fall and hit your head or puncture your scrotum or twist an ovary.

Right.

Olivia had her 9 month well visit today. And she is well. Oh yes she is!

Howevever, she did lose weight. Which the pediatrician thought was totally uncool, especially since she is an itty bitty pretty one to begin with. Which prompted all sorts of questions about why I'm such a shitty mom, like do I feed her healthy foods? Does she eat enough formula? Does she seem happy? Does she poop and pee? Do I steal her food from her hand right before it gets to her mouth because I want to eat it because I am a total hoss?

OH MY GOD.

The problem is that Olivia was up with a runny nose until 2 last night. And I get up at 5. So I had three hours of sleep, a full work day, and then less than desirable news at the pediatrician. I'm using this as a free pass to be dramatic.

Woe is my skinny baybee! WOE! I feel like a bad mom, and other really ridiculous feeeeeeeelings! DRAMA! Want candy! Someone needs to gain weight around here, might as well be meeeeeeee!

So, the plan is to come back in a month for a weight check. This month, I need to do three of these four things:

1. Add an extra scoop of formula to her bottle.
2. Scoop some Crisco into her mouth before bed.
3. Add olive oil or butter to all her veggies, potatoes, anything I can lube up.
4. Try full fat yogurt and cheese.



Dear Internets...do you have any experience with this? Do you have any suggestions for fattening up my itty bitty baybee?

All the cool kids know Murgdan!

A while back, I asked you about your favorite blogs. A while back, like, the beginning of September. And some of you asked about my favorite blogs.

Look, I meant to get on this, like, three months ago, but then all kinds of stuff happened (no it didn't) and I got really bizzy (not really) and then I forgot (sort of a half truth here) and I've been up all night for weeks trying to make this happen (nope).

BUT, what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to try to show you my favorite blogs by bringing them to you via guest post. I'm going to try to do this once a week, but I make no promises since I am a lazy ass whore.

First up: Murgdan at Conceive This! If you don't read her blog, you should. She is funny and adorable and well-spoken and I've loved her blog for a long long time.

(Murgdan: Me love you long time.)

Jennepper Readers, Meet Murgdan.

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I have arrived.

I have arrived because this guest post will appear on the first infertility blog I ever read. I didn’t find it by searching for things like “oh-my-GAWD-my-husband-has-wonky-sperm” or “we-need-IVF-so-I’m-drinking-alcohol”. I didn’t even google, “maybe if you just relax”. I actually searched for “Infertilty Humor” and ended up here. And I’m still here. So. That being said. The mere fact that I was even asked to guest post here means that I have arrived.

Most importantly, I have arrived pregnant. And needing clothes.

As an on-the-plus-side-but-hiding-it-well woman, I could have comfortably garbed myself in elastic waist pants since my last year of college. But, thanks to my official yet still unbelievable state of expectedness, I now have the official green light go ahead and purchase maternity wear, you know, legally.

I wouldn’t fit my belly into the ‘baby bump’ category just yet. While I don’t yet have a perfectly rounded bit of cuteness, my lower bit of what used to be squishy is slowly becoming more firm—which is awesome because I have always wanted rock hard abs. I’ll take what I can get. I love that for the first time in my life I don’t feel the need to ‘hold it in’, ‘suck it in’, or ‘tuck it in with an old lady girdle.’ I finally feel comfortable in this pregnancy and in my own skin.

Clothing-wise, I am frugal—and not too picky. I first made an attempt to purchase a lot of maternity clothes from a greedy maternity snob on Craig’s List. Craig needs a new list though—because this lady thought there was a difference between ‘used clothes’ and ‘only worn 3 or 4 times clothes’. I offered one hundred dollars for 20 items of used, as in previously worn, clothes, and she turned me down. “But I only wore some of this stuff a few times…I won’t take less than $150. I mean, it’s name brand stuff.” Name brand? It’s from Motherhood, bitch. I’m not trying to steal a deal on your Prada Armani Gucci Secret Belly Cashmere. You can drop that shit off at Goodwill, because for $150 I’ll buy my own new clothes and wear them 3 or 4 times and then sell them for 100 bucks myself.

I was off to the pregnant lady store--which was not an easy step. How intimidating is it to actually step foot inside a shop you’ve been rolling your eyes at for two years? Enough that I sat outside in my car for at least 5 minutes debating if I could put this shopping extravaganza off for just one more week. My bladder made the decision for me. I had to go in—now.

And there she was. Pregnancy Store Sales-Ho. Hunting me down faster than a used car salesman. Stop right there. “I just need one pair of jeans and a pair of work pants. That’s all.” Pregnancy Store Sales-Ho proceeded to show me at least 5 styles of pants, and introduce me to all my waist options. Over a pair of cords she exclaimed, “Oh my GAWD, and these are SO comfortable. I’m wearing a pair right now.” I gaze down at her belly. There’s not one. “Oh, I’m not pregnant. I just love the pants here.” What a strange perfect-bodied woman…who admits to wearing maternity clothes though she is not with child. Freak.

I picked out my pair of jeans and black work pants, and then headed to the restroom prior to trying on my long-awaited purchases. I am not quite sure what happened during my minute long trip, but I returned to a dressing room chock full of maternity pants, maternity t-shirts, and maternity sweaters. I was also given some type of strange fake pillow-belly that made me look like I was gestating an elephant—so I just trashed that under the chair. All I had to do to look 8 months along was stop sucking in—duh.

I was momentarily pissed off at perfect-bodied-maternity-wearing-sales-ho for putting so many things in my dressing room in an obvious attempt to trick me into buying a million dollars worth of stuff. Until I tried the stuff. And I liked the stuff. I was the best maternity customer ever. I bought every item she originally stuffed into the little curtained dressing room. Every item.

I love that these maternity clothes aren’t the flower-print empire-waist muumuus I imagined they would be. I am better dressed now than I have been in the last 3 years. Mostly, more than anything, I’m happy I have a perfectly good reason to wear clothes designed for pregnancy. I’m thrilled that I had a motive to even try them on. I’m ecstatic that I have cause to know the difference between a mid-belly an under-belly and a three-way belly.

Sometimes I don’t think this can get any better, but I have a feeling it will. Still, I’m not selling you my used name-brand clothes for anything less than $150, Craigslist. So don’t even try it.

38 Weeks, 6 Days

Mark posted this picture of us on Facebook. After I recovered from the brief horror of my unrecognizable ankles, I felt all nostalgic. It was about three weeks before we had Olivia. We were so excited! We had no idea what we were in for!

I loved being pregnant. I thought pregnant was the beez kneez.
Pregnant thought I was an asshole.

But I didn't care. Cankles, Gestational Diabetes, Preeclampsia, Second degree tear and all - I still loved it. I loved feeling her move all around. I loved watching her teeny little ass move along the top of my belly every night at 7. She was all mine then. Sure, other people could put a hand on my gigantor belleh and feel her, but I was the only one that knew her then.

I always thought I would be one of those people who went two weeks past her due date. I obviously thought very highly of my uterus, and assumed that I was running a Ritz-Carlton type of operation down there. Nobody would think of removing my baybee from my four star uterus! It's like a world class vacation resort in there!

As it turns out, I was running more of a Motel 6 operation. And the general idea was to get her out in one piece without giving her a wicked case of bed bugs or Hep C.

And so at 38 weeks, 5 days, I gave birth to Olivia. And now she is HUGE and about to take over the world.
But she would rather not be fully clothed, thank you very much.


Do not worry. She has not let her power go to her head - she's got a great sense of humor about things.
RUGS! LOLZ!


Today is 38 weeks, 6 days.
Who needs two more weeks of pregnant when we got to have two more weeks of you?
Happy Out Longer Than In Day, Olivia!
Pregnant was great, but it was nothing compared to Parent.
We are so glad you are here.

FET: makes me feel all stabby

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned to you how much I love Dunkin Donuts coffee.

But I love it, like, a lot. If it had a leg, it is possible that I would hump it. Or I would have to try really hard to refrain from humping it. Or I would only refrain from humping it because I wouldn't want to burn my Lady Business or waste the delicious coffee that would surely spill from the gyration of my lumpy body against that sexy styrofoam cup.

It's pretty much the Bon to my Jovi, is what I'm trying to say.

But I've been making monthly goals, and my goal since September was to stop getting Dunkin Donuts Coffee every morning because it costs $2/day.

I would share my other goals with you, but,
a.) I don't want everyone to know the asinine things for which I strive, like my number one November goal to Be Nice, OH MAH HELL WHO HAS TO RESOLVE TO BE NICE, and,

b.) because I don't really succeed every month (like, November. Because AM NOT NICE, like, at all, must aim lower in December - perhaps just be tolerable? Or just accept failure, which would be easier and markedly more enjoyable).

Anyway, I was telling someone the other day, "It's been a long time since I got a coffee from Dunkin Donuts. I just got one yesterday." And, don't worry, she did point out that I am possibly (definitely) the victim of a mental defect.

I was thinking today that it has been a really long time since I had an Infertility Bitterness Episode! Except, it hasn't been a long time at all really.

Since it's open enrollment time, I have to start making the big decision about doing a Frozen Embryo Transfer. And the prospect of it all just makes me a whole lot STABBY.

(I'm sure that if you read this blog, you know what STABBY means, but if not, see #1 here.)

I feel like I've done a pretty good job of suppressing The Bitter. I can handle pregnancy announcements pretty gracefully (like, no crying or shaking of fists at the heavens). Baby showers are not a problem. Accidental pregnancies make me roll my eyes, but do not cause days of insanity. It's just not really in the front of my mind. I'm more worried now about people whose asses fit in their jeans two weeks post partum when I can barely button my work pants.

(WHORES, you skinny people! All of you! Dirty whores!)

So I was kind of surprised when I got my Open Enrollment memo and was totally pissed off because I realized that we would have to decide on baybee #2 now for next year so that we can contribute to our medical reimbursement account.

Why do I so desperately want to be the person who can make fertility decisions at the drop of a hat? I've had plenty of time to realize that this isn't a reality for us. Why must there be so much turmoil and hand wringing and FIST SHAKING?!

I'm like a bad after school special, except instead of being jealous of the popular girls, I'm jealous of the fertile ones.

I'm pissed that I have to decide a year in advance, and I have to call doctors and rearrange my work schedule and communicate with my insurance and my doctors and I have to be really nice to people in November so that they will be more tolerable of me next spring when I am shooting up Lupron and shooting off The Angry.

It annoys me that people can decide one month to try to have a baby, then have sex, then find out the next month that they are pregnant. FOR FREE. WITHOUT DRUGS (well, I hear that crack really helps with fertility)! WITHOUT STIRRUPS! WITHOUT MEDICAL BILLING CODES!

God, I want to punch myself in the ovary over the whole ordeal, but there it is.
I'm sexual over Dunkin Donuts, and I'm angry about misshapen sperm.

My name is Jennepper, and I am full of The Giddy over New Moon

Random Thoughts:
What is the drawing in the classroom that has an ovary in its head?
I'm going to start choking people. By accident.
Anyone else think that Taylor Swift should be a brunette?
I want to molest Robert Pattinson.
Three weeks until I see New Moon.
I miss Will Ferrell.

Jennepper's Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009

There are 8 weeks left before Christmas.

Listen, I know how hard it is to think of gifts for your preshus baybee - especially those pesky little 6-12 month-ers. Sure, they won't remember their first Christmas, and will be more interested in the paper and packaging and OHHHH LIGHTS than anything you actually buy.

But! We have an economy to stimulate here, people! And plus, you've got to spend more than the other mommies and then take a lot of pictures or else your preshus baybee will know that you do not love her/him. You're really just saving yourself the cost of much mommyhate therapy down the road. This is money that you can use for a tummy tuck or liposuction!

(Or, maybe just some tall brown boots?)

I've been diligent in my research, and am confident that I have come up with the Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009.

Are you ready?
I don't think you are.
Sit down.
Prepare.
The greatness-ish of this list will be mind numbing.
Soul crushing, even.
Here we go...

Jennepper's Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009:

Electrical Outlets and Cable Cords Fisher Price cannot create enough Colorful Baybee Junk to distract your preshus from outlets and cords. As soon as I sit Olivia down in a room? She crawls straight toward the cords.

This is a picture of her in her playroom, and if I had a wider lens, you would be able to see that Santa barfed all over the place and Olivia couldn't care less because ELECTRICITY! And RUBBER! And CHOKING HAZARDS ZOMG!

And lest you think that you will go all Scrooge McDuck and spoil Christmas by covering up the electrical outlets? HA.HA.HA. Because your preshus will LOVE fondling those plastic outlet covers. And you know what else? There is no childproofing solution that you can buy at Target to cover up the awkward cords sticking out of your wall.

(Dear Internet/Better Moms Than Me: is there a childproofing solution that I can buy at Target to cover up the awkward cords sticking out of the wall? Kthxbai.)

Dog Bowl

Nothing screams !!!Put Me In Your Mouth!!! like a bowl full of dog food laying on the floor. I think all babies love the petri dish appeal of the dirty dog bowl, but my daughter does especially since she grew up (for three days) in a petri dish at the Cleveland Clinic.

And really. We should have named her Typhoid Mary for the speed with which she infected our entire family with the Snot of the Century cold that lasts for three weeks. It is only fitting that she contract some sort of disgusting intestinal parasite from the dog dish and spread it to everyone.

My only hope is that I can maybe catch something that will help me lose 5 pounds. Illness is useless to me if I don't lose a little weight.

Blinds
Anything that hangs down is just generally fun to play with. Olivia loves the vertical blinds at our house, and at my mom's. Not limited to blinds, Olivia also loves to go after the dog's balls. Not the balls in the toy bin, either. I'm talking about testicles. Did you catch that? No? I'm talking about Dog Testicles. Testies, testies, one...two...three? Like that.

Yet another reason to neuter your dogs instead of buying more clothes for your baybee? I think so. But GAHD it is so much more tempting to shop Baby Gap.

Crib Bumper
Great for tossing around instead of taking A Lame Ass Nap, but also for completing the look of Bitch, Come And Get Meh NOW angst.
"I will cut you. Seriously. My fingernailz is longz."

Olivia has mastered the Big Girl Crawl. I'm thinking of putting her up for hire on Craigs List - you can pay me $100, and I will bring her over and let her find all of the horrible, rotten, no good, downright dangerous shit in your house.

"Am Comin ta getcha RAWR! Hide ur doggiez!"


What's on your Top Baybee Gift List of Death and Destruction for 2009?

I love an excuse to eat candy

Happy Halloween!!!!!!

As it turns out, I cannot stop taking Olivia for cheesy photo shoots and putting weird things on her head. Also? I cannot stop spending an unholy amount of money on said photos.

Olivia is going to be a ladybug for Halloween.



I'm going to be a First Time Mom Who Has No Sense of Style and Needs a Root Job and Possibly (Definitely) Some Lip Gloss. It was incredibly easy to put together.

Mark doesn't have a costume, but I think he should go as Flavor Flav. Or Dick in a Pumpkin.

What is your halloween costume?
Whatever it is, have a happy weenie!

The day I struck my mother blind with my Lady Business.

I wish I was kidding.

Last week, I went for my Annual Exam. For the Lady Business.

We all know that every Lady Doctor in Northeast Ohio has seen (and probably had an arm elbow deep in) my Lady Business in the past two years. But still. I've gotten kind of used to that region going back to being one of the least publicly viewed parts of my body. Call me crazy.

I was feeling a little apprehensive, and that was probably the reason that I almost crapped my pants when the nurse told me to take off all! my! clothes!

Nurse: Take off all your clothes and put on this gown.

Me: You mean waist down?

Nurse:No. ALL your clothes.

UGH! I hate when I ask those kinds of questions. If she meant waist down, she would have just said that, jerkstore. But who knows? Maybe she told me to take off all my clothes because she was bored, and how funny would it be if a patient was naked when the doctor came in muahahahahahaHAHAAAA!!!!!!!

For some reason, I have a strange fear that I will take off the wrong items of clothing. I'm afraid that I won't be paying attention, and they will tell me to take off my socks, and I will take off my bra instead. I believe it's along the same lines as my hiding my underwear neuroses (not aware of my underwear neuroses? Catch a glimpse here, and here).

So. I took off all my clothes, explained to both the nurse and midwife that no, I am not using birth control, and I do not plan to use birth control but hey! Thank you for your concern. And also? Let me school you on the difference between a fresh InVitro and a Frozen Embryo Transfer - no problem at all, because I totally enjoy futility! No, really, I look forward to explaining it to you next year!
I'm even willing to explain to you annually how 'transfer' is different from 'implant' and no, actually Jon and Kate did IUI so I wasn't really afraid that I would have 8 kids too but hahahaha YOU ARE DARLING, do you know that? Can I get a pap every month? Because this shit right here is the highlight of mah life.

I was so glad to put my Lady Business away and get home to mah baybee.
My Lady Business? She had other plans.

My mom stays at our house on Monday nights. She lives an hour away and watches Olivia on Monday and Tuesday, so it's just easier for her to spend the night and avoid an extra 2 hours in the car.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I've started taking baths with Olivia because she wants to drown herself and I am just so not down with that. So it's easier to restrain her and her death wish if I am in the tub with her. I don't believe I ever mentioned this to the Internet. Or to my mom.

I do have a point.

Since my mom was supposed to be in the basement using our treadmill, I left the bathroom door open while I was getting Olivia ready to get a bath.

And my mom...
My poor, sweet, innocent mom...

See, she didn't know that I was bathing WITH Olivia, so she thought that she would come up for bath time.
And I? I didn't know. I thought I had two floors of safety.

We decided to perform a brief reenactment to better describe the horror that followed...

Scene 1: I was completely nekked, bent over Olivia like this, taking her clothes off and just generally letting my Lady Business enjoy the scenery.



Scene 2: My mother innocently reaches the top of the stairs to see EVERYTHING. It was hard to hear her over the sound of her eyeballs bursting into flames and immediately turning to ash, but I think she said something to the effect of, "I DIDN'T KNOOOOOWWWW! AHHHHHH!!!!!"



And then we agreed to never speak of it again. Except to the Internet.
Mah Laydee Biznass: She can't be contained.

So, how 'bout that swine flu?

I had a few ideas for blog topics this week, but some of them required thought. And I have a cold. And it's been at least a week since I pissed off the Internet. So I'm going to leave this up to you and the comments section, and just hope that someone calls me a disgusting human being because I simply CANNOT HEAR THAT ENOUGH, thank you.

Here's the short of it: We aren't getting the H1N1 Vaccine.

The Swine Flu vaccine. I hate when people call it the Swiiiiine Flu. It makes me picture a pig with barf on its chin and snot running out of its nose. Which is gross and makes me afraid that I will stop having a love affair with bacon, that dirty sexy salty piece of pig ass.

So just call it H1N1, mkay?

(I realize this is not your problem, my weird mental images, but I've got to share it with someone and I choose you, Internet. I choose you.)

I do vaccinate, according to the AAP schedule. But we aren't a flu shot family. We don't get the regular flu shot, and we aren't getting the H1N1 either. And I can just hear the cracking of knuckles getting ready to rip me a new pig hole for not getting it, and to them I say:



I did some research, but really just never planned on getting it. I don't really think that it would hurt, but I also don't think it would help.

I know lots of people are undecided and want to hear both sides... Tell me, are you getting the H1N1 Oinky Oinky Ruin Bacon Enjoyment For Life Flu Vaccine? Or not? Why?