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."

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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
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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
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Are the duggars disgusting?

Category: Guesses at my full name.
Jen Epper
Jennifer Epper
Jenn Epper
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Category: Hairy Hairy Hairy
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Category: The Beetus
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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.