I had this really clever little intro all worked up in my head about how it's so wonderful blah blah blah that it's Friday blah blah blah because I get to do Friday Fragments blah blah blah, but it's a little hard to type because my son was kidnapped by aliens last night and that kind of occupied my time.

I can still link to Mrs. 4444, though, and tell you to visit her for more...

So, yeah, my son was kidnapped by aliens and the aliens were kind enough to replace him with a prototype remarkably like the original. There's a few kinks to work out though, because I know that MY son would never to this to my computer during the FIVE MINUTES he was alone in the living room while I was making a bottle for Ella B.

The damage? Eleven missing or exploited keys, significant cosmetic damage, and a serious dent in my ability to type faster than three words a minute.

Dear Aliens,

I appreciate your need to study the human species, I do. But I would like my son back, please. I recommend someone that nobody would miss like Tony Danza, or someone that everyone would like to see just disappear like Rachel Ray, to take his place.

Best,
Josh's Mom

I went to Sam's Club today and the check out lady really wanted to kiss my fat ass. I know this because she raised her eyebrows and smirked when I only purchased Super Pretzels and a case of Nutty Bars.

I had a HUGE Diet Coke crisis last night. I realized that I only had one left and since the kids were already in bathed and ready for bed, I had to get my mother to watch them while I ran to the store. Because you don't even want to KNOW what happens if Mama runs out of Diet Coke.

I had a Super Pretzel and a Nutty Bar for dinner tonight. I love being a grown up.

The fragments have to be cut sadly short because, well, the alien copy of my son destroyed my keyboard, and you'd be surprised how many "n", "m", and "c" characters you type in an average sentence. It's a good thing I don't really know what the other eight missing keys are for, else I'd really be in hot water.

Dear Dr. Phil,

I'm sorry, but I think we have to break up. It's just, well, you kind of drive me insane. I have given you chance after chance, mainly because I understand that stay at home moms are supposed to be glued to the screen when you and your mustache are talking.

Since I hate Oprah with unbridled and slightly irrational passion, I cannot abide soap operas and I need something to fold the laundry to, I've tried, really tried to make it work with you.

Unfortunately, though it pains me to say so, you're not living up to expectations. You don't agree, but you can't change what you don't acknowledge, Dr. Phil.

So it's over. I want to say "it's not you, it's me", but we both know that's not true. Don't worry, you'll find other - less picky - women who will be more willing to take in your jack assery with eyes wide and heads nodding. She just isn't going to be me.

I just had to put some verbs in my sentences vis a vis our relationship, Dr. Phil. You understand.

Best,
Not This Housewife, Not Anymore

It has recently come to my attention that there are times when I really enjoy having others think for me. It saves me from having to make the tough choices like how to arrange the furniture or what to write about.

As to the furniture? David Bromstad, I'm looking at you.

For the blog cop out, everything falls to Hallie at Wonderful World of Wieners and her new creation, "Is it just me or...?"


Is it just me or...is David Bromstad smoking hot? (I'm still looking at you, David. Don't worry, not in a creepy way, just in a way that makes me want to stand outside your house with a boom box or carve your name into my arm.)

Is it just me or...does Jonathan Hillstrad REALLY need me to cook for him and his crew on the Time Bandit?


Is it just me or...does Jon Gosselin get the Douche of the Year award?


Is it just me or...was this the greatest blog post in the history of time?

I went to a Chippendales show with my mother over the weekend. I'll just give you a moment to let that sink in.

Chippendales.

Me.

With my mother.

Considering my oft discussed prudish tendencies, fear of "body words" and general distaste for anything clothing is meant to cover, it's more than passing odd that I went. With my mother. But, and prepare yourselves for further shock here, when we went to Vegas for New Years a few years ago, my mama and I, we went to The Thunder From Down Under. Same thing as Chippendales but with real live authentic Australian men. So this was not my first rodeo. So to speak. I don't know if it was Vegas, I don't know if it was the nineteen dollar cocktails (of which I had a few - I miss having money. Sigh.) or what, but I was able to overcome my crippling sense of shame and enjoy the show. Quite enjoyed the show, actually. I appreciated the, um, athleticism? Of these burly Australians, which of course I would have done regardless of their state of dress. Cough.

I've never seen the Chippendales in Vegas. So I could be making a rush to judgement here. But these guys? The traveling troop they send to Cloquet, Minnesota population 4,012? Sucked. I mean sucked. They couldn't dance, a few of them couldn't have been a day over 18, and they were just...dumb. It's not like you can expect these things to be tasteful, but the vulgarity in this show was really over the top. I didn't appreciate the Douche Patrol parading around on the stage. Sorry. We left early, actually, and threw away twenty bucks into the slot machines. Much more entertaining, and no cause for burying my face in my turtleneck.

We were still there when the show let out, and the ladies room was flooded with scantily clad women applying six more pounds of make up because they thought, apparently, that maybe some of the "dancers" would see their garish faces and think, "Ooh, I'm taking Face Paint up to my room. That clown face is HOT". I made this comment to my mother, and apparently my voice carries. I started a girl fight. You haven't lived, my friends, until you are at a strip show with your mother and one of the drunk, haggard audience members attacks you for something she overheard. It was awesome.

Here's how it went down.

"You talkin' 'bout me, Fat Bitch?" She was like an inch from my face and I have this *thing* about germs if you haven't heard.

I plucked her sleeve to pull her away from me, dusted my hands off, and said, "I didn't realize you heard that. It was a private conversation."

"You jealous, Fat Bitch?"

"Of...?"

"They not takin' your fat ass home, that's fo SHO!"

"Ok, well that's true. But first let me let you in on a couple of secrets. One, you're white as a sheet. Don't talk like that. Two, I will take being a fat bitch over a skinny whore any day. If you'll excuse me."

So then she throws this gem at me whist I'm walking away, which I will admit, did get the best of me for a minute because, well, you'll see.

"You don't even RECO'NIZE it, but you just gave me a compliment!"

I halted my retreat in stunned silence. She liked being called a whore? I'm going to have to bring my insults into the 21st century apparently. But then she reco'nized what she said.

"The skinny part I mean! You know what I mean! I ain't no whore. You get your fat ass home ALONE and I'm going upstairs with one a'dose MEN!"

I hope I'm conveying the faux accent well. There's no way it wasn't feigned, we were at an Indian casino in MINNESOTA. Anyway.

It's really hard for me not to get the last word. I don't let things go easily. So rather than take my fat ass home as she suggested, I turned around, walked back up to her and said, "Let me tell you a little secret, sweetie. You clearly haven't picked up on this, but based on the fact that these men earn their living dancing around in neon thong panties with each other, I'm much more inclined to believe they're taking one another to their rooms. So it doesn't matter how skinny or...available you are. Sorry to burst your bubble."

So the show sucked, I got into a pissing match with a drunk and slutty (yet skinny! I'll give her that!) twenty something, and I didn't win a dime in the casino. But I walked away from my fight in the bathroom chins held high in victory. I'd call that success.

OK. I'm totally seriously. This was the best contest ever in the history of contests. Just ask Tracey at Just Another Review Blog. She's the one who hosted the contest, so she would know. And plus then you can visit her at her regular haunt, Just Another Mommy Blog, because I told you to. And I'm the winner, which means I am the superior human. So you have to do what I say. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. But before you do ANY of that, feast your eyes on the prize.

I won the spring collection of these gorgeous baby clothes by Jeanine Johnson.



I'm really glad I have the spring line instead of anything for winter, because it's going to be awhile before they fit Ella B.



At seven and a half months old, she now weighs nearly twelve pounds, measures a full twenty three and a half inches long (measured to her long leg - twenty three inches exactly to her short leg. Courtesy the hip dysplasia...K - getting off track. Longest parenthetical segue ever) and she wears a size "newborn" or "0-3 months" though a lot of the "0-3" things still fit her pretty loosely.



So while she looks perfectly normal to me, whenever I see another baby her age (or younger) that's twice her size or clothing that should fit her this age I realize that, well? I realize that my baby is perfectly normal and everyone else's is a mutant.



But they WILL fit her sometime, hopefully by spring.





And even if we have to wait a little longer than that until she can wear this (with these ADORABLE pink Polo shoes I already had)...



Well, that will probably be just fine because we could very well find ourselves soon in warmer climes...

Stay tuned.