So, apparently having a temper tantrum about the horrifying state of disarray in my house paid off.













Here are my helpful boys...

















Emptying the dishwasher. Am I not the luckiest woman alive, and do I not have the cutest boys on the planet? Who am I kidding? Of course I do.

They don't let a little cranky mama and her anaphylaxis get them down. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ted Turner!

So, today was a complete and utter waste. In an effort to get better, and because this was the only way I could bribe my doctor into not making me stay in the hospital, I have spent the entire day in bed. Doing. Nothing. I cannot remember the last time I was this miserable or this bored. Yikes.

And plus, my entire house has fallen down around my ears. I swear, I am out of commission for one day and it is as if I have hosted the flipping Dallas Cowboys in my living room for the past month. Ugh. But I'm not supposed to get worked up. {Taking calming breaths...} That really aren't all that calming, since I can't breathe them fully through my swollen throat. It's like trying to breathe through a straw filled with play dough. And there's an elephant on my chest. It's my own little slice of heaven, really.

But I am determined to be over this by Friday at the latest, because I will be getting on the plane on Saturday morning for a week of fun in the Mexican sun. Meanwhile, I'm going to devise cruel means of torture should I ever happen to stumble upon Ted Turner in a dungeon, and I believe I'll stay away from Tentcamper for awhile, because that much panting cannot be good for me in my condition.

I? Am completely freaking miserable. Stupid shit ass restaurant and their stupid shit ass care about the environment. Wah. These idiots, these buffoons at Ted's Montana Grill - after none other than Gallatin Gateway's own Ted Thrice Damned Turner - have decided that in order to be kinder and gentler to the environment they'd use straws made out of beeswax instead of just regular old plastic.

Spectacular!

The problem is, they did not inform this Gucci Mama of their desperate love for the environment
until after my face puffed up, my eyes swelled nearly shut, and my throat began to collapse in on itself.

I suffer, and I mean that in every sense of the word, from severe allergies. This crap has landed me in the hospital more than once. I'm allergic to pretty much anything that lives; cats, various grasses and foliage, lemurs, democrats, and bees. And beeswax, apparently.

The only reason I am not pining away in a hospital bed hooked up to oxygen and epinepherin right now is because I've shot anti-histamine directly into my veins (well, I had the kind folks at Urgent Care do it) and I've spent the majority of the night sucking on my inhaler. I am hoping against hope that this will just go away, because I don't need anything screwing up my trip. Last time I was hospitalized for, um anaphylactic shock, I learned then that they tend to take the whole breathing thing (or not breathing, as the case may be) fairly seriously. I had to stay for a week. That cannot happen right now, because I am set to leave for Mexico in three days. Simple math will tell you that I do not have a week to spend in a damn hospital because of Ted Effing Turner and his desire to dry hump the environment.

Who in the hell makes straws out of beeswax, anyway? Good God!

Husband (Cheapskate): So, theoretically, since this trip is all-inclusive, you don't really even need to bring your purse.

Me (Spendthrift): Um, theoretically kiss my shopping butt; I'm theoretically bringing my theoretical purse with my theoretical credit cards.

Husband (Cheapskate): But everything we need is right there on the resort. You made me book the one with five bells, or whatever. That's plenty! We have food, drinks, a nice beach to lay on that's right outside the door of our suite...

Me (Spendthrift): Ah, that would be stars, dear, five stars. And that's all well and good, but you see, I? Will be going shopping. Furthermore, it has been my lifelong dream to canter along the beach on the back of a graceful Palomino while my hair flows in the breeze and all the girls on the beach who see this glorious feat want to be me, while their men just plain want me. You wouldn't crush my dream beneath your penny pinching foot, would you? (Sniffle)

Husband (Cheapskate): Wow. Far be it from me to crush your dream, I'm just saying that perhaps we don't need to bring a ton of extra money, which you will then of course be compelled to spend. On crap.

Me (Spendthrift): Crap? CRAP? Riddle me this! What if, and believe me this is a hypothetical, but what if you got into some trouble with the federales? What if I need to bribe them to let you out of some dank Mexican jail? What then? Do I just tell them, "Hey sorry guys, my husband wouldn't let me bring my purse. I have nothing to give you as a 'gift' to set him free. Should I just check back every six years or so to see if he's still alive and if he has a release date?"

Husband (Cheapskate): Just give them your shoes. As expensive as they are here, they'd probably feed the federales' whole village for a year in Mexico.

Me (Spendthrift): I can't speak with you when you're this irrational.

The moral of the story? I'm bringing my purse. Well stocked with credit cards and cash to exchange. In case I have to save anyone's life or limb from corrupt Mexican policios. It's just the responsible thing to do.

We leave for Mexico in T-minus four days, and while I am close to beside myself with excitement, I am also apprehensive. About the airport. It's not the flying; it's not the long lines or endless lay overs. It's pretty much the band of idiots in blue slacks and white knit shirts with TSA emblazoned on the front.

I have a history with the TSA morons. Aside from the fact that I cannot freaking stand them because of their supreme lack of common sense, they just effing annoy me, and sometimes I cannot help myself; I become belligerent. But I have good reason.

The first, ah, incident, occurred when James was flying back to Iraq after a two week leave. He flied commerically all the way to Kuwait, but he did fly in uniform, and his travel papers indicated that his final destination was Iraq and, you know, a WAR ZONE. So one would think that the TSA buffoons might look at this soldier returning to Iraq and think to themselves, Huh. Probably not much of a security risk. One would be wrong. Aside from making him strip off his boots, blouse, and belt, they searched his bags and his person. In his carry on bag was a battery powered fly swatter that was still in the package and therefore useless until such a time as it was removed from the package, assembled, and supplied with batteries. TSA? Unable to see that. They pulled both of us into their little room to be interrogated and called in a flight marshall to determine not if, but how many felonies to charge us with. It may not have helped our cause, at that point, when I asked them whether "TSA" stood for "Terribly Stupid Asses". This turned out OK, after James informed them, much more politely than I would have, that they could keep him as long as they wanted and charge him with as many felonies as they wanted as long as they were willing to call his Commanding Officer and explain why they were detaining a United States soldier on his way back to war for carrying a fly swatter on a plane. They were able to dig their heads out of their asses long enough to let him get on the plane. Thank God. They did not want to mess with the shit fit I was going to throw if they didn't.

The second incident occurred when I was flying home to Minnesota just after Josh was born. When I couldn't walk through their stupid metal detector without making it beep six hundred times, even though I had removed every shaving of metal from my person, they took me and my infant into a little room so I could be searched more effectively. Turns out it was the underwire in my brassiere that was offending the metal detector's sensibilities. "This almost never happens," the Terribly Stupid Ass told me, "unless a woman has a really heavy duty bra." I think I would have been let go at that point, except I took it upon myself to inform the idiot woman searching me that while she was wasting so much time with a mother and her infant, she was probably missing some asshole in a turban dragging a rusty ax onto the plane; at which point the FBI was brought in to determine that I was not, in fact, part of a plot to distract TSA with my "heavy duty bra" while my cohort brought an ax aboard United flight 1382.

So I cannot help but wonder what trouble my big mouth will get me into this trip. If they weren't such gigantic retards in the first place, there would be no problem. I appreciate idea the of TSA; I mean, I have no interest in being hijacked, so I'm glad somebody's doing something to prevent that from happening, I just don't think they're all that effective. Ideally, I'd like them to perhaps begin a hiring campaign that involved intelligence screening. Perhaps then they can prevent the detaining soldiers in uniform, young mothers with infants, and ninety year old grandmas so they can find the real perpetrators of in-flight crimes. Until then they're just going to have to deal with me, and I? Am going to have to learn to curb my tongue if I want to get to Mexico the same time as my family. I'll do my best. Anyway, my bark is much worse than my bite.

Dear Garage Door,

Just me. Your owner. The one who takes care of you, cleans you, oils your hinges, and doesn't expect all that much in return. Remember me? It really hasn't been all that long since our last communication. You'll recall the incident, it took place only about ten minutes ago; I in my car, and you sitting upon your foundation at the end of my driveway. I thought it was really cute how you refused to open even in the face of my fist shaking and creative swearing.

I know, garage door, that yours is not an easy task. You open to a portal that my SUV just barely fits into. Your brother and sister on either side of you are housed with another car and James' old disgusting truck, respectively. Let us not forget to mention all the tools, bikes, and other miscellaneous equipment that you must condescend to contain. So, I feel your frustration, garage door. I'm sure you were built to envelop beautiful cars...Bentleys, Jaguars, et cetera in your garage womb. I'm sorry I have just a plain old Yukon.

Still, that is no excuse not to perform the one duty you were created for. When I push the button that tells you to open, I expect immediate obedience. This has been an ongoing problem, garage door, and while it may seem that I can give or take optimum performance on your behalf, let me assure you now that I expect you to be at the top of your game from now on.

We are heading into fall and winter soon here in Montana, and I refuse to scrape four inches of ice off the windshield I cannot reach when I have a perfectly good garage to park my vehicle in. You'll do well to remember this, garage door. Because I will not countenance defiance. If you continue with this belligerent attitude, I will have no choice but to have you replaced, at which point you will go to live with a nice family on the farm. Or the metal recycling plant on the outskirts of town. Don't think I can't make that happen. My husband knows a guy who knows a guy. We can get this done real "hush hush" garage door. Think about it.

Best,
Stephanie

I just got back from this week long writer's workshop called "True Fiction". I enjoyed it, and learned quite a lot, since the majority of my writing is decidedly non-fiction. I thought I'd try my hand at writing stories; and it turns out I don't totally suck. So here's the beginning of one I started working on in this workshop. Let me know what you think. The working title is...

...He kicks himself in the face. The only thing that can cut Chuck Norris is Chuck Norris. My dear, beloved husband would do well to remember this, because if I have to hear one more "your butt" joke from him, I'm calling the Total Gym people to get me in touch with Chuck Norris. Let James feel the wrath of the roundhouse kick next time he says, "your butt [fill in the blank]".

Here is a sample conversation.

Me: I'm going to run to the grocery store; I need some broccoli for dinner.

Butt Man/Child: Your butt needs broccoli for dinner.

Me: Cute. I'll be back in a half an hour.

Butt Man/Child: Your butt will be back in half an hour.

Or, how about this...

Butt Man/Child: Do we have any beer left?

Me: Check in the downstairs fridge.

Butt Man/Child: Your butt checks in the downstairs fridge! There's none here!

Me: Um, then go get some if you want.

Butt Man/Child: Tell your butt to go get some!

Chuck Norris, where are you to whip this man into shape? I'll find you, Chuck. Or you'll find me. In the meantime, I shall have to remind James that Chuck Norris is not afraid of the dark. The dark is afraid of Chuck Norris. Spooky.

Well, we're off to Mexico in less than two weeks, and I have my packing list all typed up (anal retentive anyone?) and all that needs to be done is physically putting the items in the suitcases. And then, cue horror movie music, bathing suit shopping. Currently my only bathing suit is my, um, maternity suit, and that? Is not going to freaking cut it. Here's the thing, other than my maternity suit I have not purchased a bathing costume since well before babies and double digit sizes. Trust me, friends, long gone are the days when I can pull off an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini. There's no need to cause an endemic of hysterical blindness on the beaches of Mexico.

I'm tempted to buy one of those really long T-shirts with the hot bikini body on it, but I don't think I'll fool anyone. The thing that bothers me is not actually wearing a swimming suit in Mexico, because I don't know anyone there. I don't care if they see my fat white ass. What I do care about is the photographs. The last thing I want to do is look through the pictures from my trip and wonder why there is a white dimpled whale wearing Gucci sunglasses and Prada sandals posing with my family.

Apparently my husband has decided to travel back in time two hundred years and pay homage to gentlemen of yester-century by having an after dinner port and cigar. Unfortunately, his "port" is more like "Pabst Blue Ribbon" and his "cigar" is a stick-like thing made up of tobacco leaves, but I think it cost him approximately five dollars. For ten of them. Am I not married to the epitome of class?

It's not so much that I care if he does this, but that he does it on the patio just outside my dining room with the sliding glass door open. This is the second night in a row he has committed this horrible affront upon my hapless self, child, and house. Seriously, what the F?

Cigar smoke is not what I would call "pleasant", or "anything less than putrid", and all the Febreeze in the world? Not taking that crap out of my fabrics. I've tried three different formulas, the good old regular "original" Febreeze, the "antimicrobial" Febreeze, and the "pet odor eliminator" Febreeze. I wasn't really holding our a lot of hope for the pet one, but the other two, according to millions of dollars worth of snappy ad campaigning, should have freaking worked.

Unfortunately, there is still a blue cloud of smoke wafting throughout the house, and I'm a bit afraid that Joshua has a mild case of black lung. I'm not really sure how that's treated, and furthermore, I am none too happy with the fact that he could potentially be the only kid on the playground with a bottle of gin and a pack of Lucky Strikes. Monkey see, monkey do, you know.

I suppose if I were wont to look on the bright side (which I'm not really, but I'll humor you) the cloud of death that permeated my dwelling has chased away the majority of the mosquitoes. Only the mutant ones remain, but I'm shooting them with a BB gun.

+ I'm pretty much the most tired I've ever been in my life.

+ I'm sore from walking, pushing the stroller, carting my baby, carting fifty tons of Purel, and folding myself into kiddie rides around the fair yesterday.

+ I have two columns to write that are due, um today, and all I want to do is take a nap.

+ This post is not something I can turn into a publisher and expect them to pay me. I asked.

+ I have a hankering for something sweet, but I really can't eat anything sweet, or shouldn't anyway, on account of my fat ass.

+ I have a fat ass.

+ My husband smoked a cigar out on the patio last night, and left the sliding glass door open, so my house smells like a...a....a...smoke filled room!

+ I could not come up with anything better to describe the state of my dining room than "smoke filled room". And I have two things due today? Ooh, are my editors in for a treat.

+ This whining and complaining is getting me nowhere. Sigh...

We're back. And we're all in one piece; unfortunately so are the strains of drug resistant bacteria I'm sure attached themselves to our persons whilst we wiled away FOUR HOURS at the damn county fair. As promised, here is photographic evidence.


I've go my stamp, my bracelet, and my good attitude! Ready for a day in the land of filth...














A laugh a minute with these two.
















Joe Cool over here...














This was by far the best part of the fair.











Um, Son, I believe we've discussed the fact that the only girl you need is your MAMA, so WHO is SHE? And how old is she, 40? Come on!

There is no more avoiding it. There is no escape. While I was granted a stay of execution a few days ago, the red phone will not ring today. Today? I will be going to the fair. In a matter of minutes, as a matter of fact.

Bryan, I am taking your advice. Xanax and vodka tonic? Down the hatch!

Tracey, I wish you lived closer so you could accompany my family to the icky dirty germy disgusting county fair. I envy you that you are not afflicted with a deathly fear of dirt and germs.

Insane Mama, I suppose there are worse things than the fair. Sending your family lots of love and support.

Tentcamper, I'm not sure you are allowed to come to the fair with me, because according to your post today, you have a difficult time keeping hands, feet, and objects to yourself, much less inside the ride.

Sassy Pants Freckle Face, you were there yesterday, please reassure me that it is not the seventh circle of hell that I think it must be.

My friends, I am off. Wish me luck. I'll report back later this evening with pictures; that is if I've recovered from my filthy carnival induced panic attack.

-Sadly, we did not get to go to the fair tonight. I am crying rivers of tears. Unfortunately, it was but a temporary stay of execution, because while we were rained out tonight, I cannot hope that the heavens will continue to open up and pour rain down upon this town as some sort of personal favor to me. Sigh. So, we've changed our plans to go on Saturday. Crap.

-I am awesome.

-Want to know why I'm awesome?

-Because I'm me.

-And...

-I am sure to receive the "Best Daughter of All Time" award any day now. Why? Well, my mom turns 50 on July 21st. Mom, if you're reading this, my apologies for including exact figures. But really, it is necessary to name names - or actually ages in this case - because this is not just any old birthday. This is a big one that deserves a big gift. So what did I give her?

-Wouldn't you like to know. I'll tell you, but keep in mind how awesome I am.

-We - my husband, son, brother, and mom - are going...drum roll please...to Puerto Vallarta for seven days.

-Oh yeah, you bet I'm awesome!

-Happy Birthday Mom! You are, without doubt, the greatest mom in this universe or any other. I love you.

-And Puerto Vallarta. I love Puerto Vallarta.

The fair is in town. Yikes. I? Um, hate the fair. It's so dirty and horrible. There's dust and grime and germs and icky dirty dusty grimy germy people, and it is not a place I want to be. Yet, I find myself with plans to go tonight because my family wants to. See what a big girl I am?

Still, I hate the thought of letting my child walk around in that place and I dread, with hurricane force I dread letting him get on a ride. It's not the danger of bodily injury I fear so much, it's pretty much the fear of contracting some as yet unheard of disease. I have never seen a filthier place than the county fair.

I need a plan of action. First, I think I'll read up on any fair related disease inoculations in the latest medical journal. Then we'll get them. I think going to the fair is similar to traveling to some distant third world country. You have to undergo immuno-therapy and vaccinations and medical testing. We should probably determine if we're medically sound for such an adventure before we attempt it. After that, I'm going to call Costco to see if they sell Purel by the five gallon drum. If so, great. If not, well, then I have a lot of normal size Purel bottles to buy, don't I?

Oh, boy. I am not looking forward to this. I'm sure I have more to say, but the thought of my evening is enough to make me want to curl up in a dark room for a few hours. After I stop shivering and uncurl myself from the fetal position, perhaps I'll be back to expound upon my feelings regarding the fat ladies in tube tops I'm sure are going to be swarming the fairgrounds this eve.

I totally theived this idea from Tracy Treasure on her Dark Side of the Moon blog, but I did it because I think (hope) that it will be cathartic for me. Perhaps if I write these things out, or say them out loud, they will (eventually) become true. Because this forgiveness crap? Definitely a work in progress.

Here goes...

I forgive you for forbidding me to call you "Daddy" when I was little, even though all little girls need a daddy.

I forgive you for not caring when I was sick, scared, or hurt and instead just told me to "toughen up" or "walk it off" even though a little girl sometimes just needs her daddy to fix it.

I forgive you for never fixing it. Thank God I have the best mom on the planet; she always picked up your pieces...and the pieces of me left in your wake.

I forgive you for letting go when you were teaching me how to ride a bike even though you promised not to. I still have the scars from that fall; some physical and some emotional.

I forgive you for making the bike accident a metaphor for our entire relationship.

I forgive you for always letting go because you don't care enough to hold on.

I forgive you for your constant ridicule of me when I was a teenager, even though I developed an eating disorder. I forgive you for making me think that I was fat as a size six. I forgive you that I still have body image issues to this day.

I forgive you for never thinking I was good enough.

I forgive you for never considering me "enough", period.

I forgive you for favoring my sister out of the three of us, and for favoring my brother not at all. I forgive you for thinking it's OK to choose a favorite child.

I forgive you for saying to me when I was 16, "No wonder you're so fat! You're having sex all the time!" These words have stuck with me all these years (though I'm not quite sure why having sex and being "fat" correlate). I forgive you for lashing out with this statement to hurt me, even though you knew I was a virgin. And thin.

I forgive you for your unique ability to wound me with your words.

I forgive you for not bothering to show up at the hospital when your first grandchild was born via emergency C-section, even though you knew both he and I were in serious danger and could have died.

I forgive you for not caring to know your grandson. I forgive you for only seeing him twice in his life, each time for less than thirty minutes.

I forgive you for cutting me out of your life these last two years, even though it means that I still don't have a daddy and that you and my son would not recognize one another if you happened to pass in the street.

I forgive you for pretending to be happy to see me if we bump into each other and you happen to be with someone you feel the need to put on a show for, even though when we bump into each other and you are alone you avoid me like the plague, walking past me quickly with eyes straight ahead as if we had never met.

I forgive you for the way you have manipulated others in my life to believe I am "crazy" and "unfit" with a "poisoned mind".

I forgive you for using those terms to describe your firstborn, your daughter.

I forgive you for the neglect with which you treated the mutual funds I entrusted to you as my broker when James was in Iraq. I forgive you for mismanaging those funds and for not caring about them because I was not one of your mulit-millionaire clients. I forgive you for all the money I lost because of it.

I forgive you for loving money more than your family.

Alright, I have to stop. My forgiveness well is good and dry. God help me, because this is by no means an all-inclusive list. It is just a snapshot...

Which we spend in the "war room"...




















Assisting Daddy as he packs for drill.















Oh yes, and working on our "Baby Napoleon" costume.

It doesn't take much to excite my husband, to ignite his zest for life. For example, I just asked him to take some chicken out of the freezer.

"What are we having?" Wouldn't he like to know? Turns out he would, so I give in and tell him, enjoying his frustration at being kept in the dark, but not enjoying being chased about the living room.

"Chicken fajitas," I say. And let the dancing commence. After shooting his arms up above his head in a "V" for "Victory" he proceeded to hop about the living room chanting and doing the fajita dance. I only hope I can live up to his expectations.

Right now he is packing some sort of box filled with some sort of "survival" items to go in our car. I'm not sure what I need to survive in my SUV that can be kept in a box because, a.) I don't go many places where my cell phone won't work and if I b.) do, I have Onstar. I'm c.) quite positive that my new car is not going to have a major malfunction anytime soon and that I won't d.) ever go anywhere I can get stuck, lost, or accidentally drive off a cliff. This leads me to believe that packing this little box is more about testing himself to see how tiny he can make the rolls of blankets and extra clothes and less about actually surviving.

Maybe it's an Army thing. Perhaps he can't help himself. You know, one of those "you can take the man out of the Army, but you can't take the Army out of the man" type of deals. Except no one has taken the man out of the Army yet, so if this is the case, I'm really in trouble.

If my fajitas are substandard, he could make me do push-ups.

...So here it is. Feel free to use it as a template if the need should so arise.

Dear [Insert Neglectful Neighbor's Name Here]:

While this association is aware that as a homeowner, you have certain, shall we say "leeway" with regard to the care of your home and property, you should note that you are responsible per the homeowners association bylaws (and dictates of neighborly courtesy) to take appropriate action with respect to the overall appearance of the outside of your home in general, and your lawn in particular.

This association has noted that your grass is well in excess of the two and a half inch standard set forth by the homeowners association. This association has further noticed that your "flower beds" and "landscaping" seem to be entirely overrun with weeds and debris. This is, quite frankly, not the appearance we, the neighborhood as a whole, would like to convey. You will notice that those around you have well manicured lawns, and if there are flower beds or gardens, they are well tended and watered regularly. This association feels that proper watering must occur more than once every three years, unlike the watering plan you seem to have adopted, in order to be successful.

Thankfully (or perhaps unfortunately, depending upon one's perspective) this season's abundance of rain has kept your grass and assorted foliage from certain death; however, it is now quite simply overgrown and well, unsightly.

Please take action to rectify this growing problem immediately. You will, of course, pardon the pun in the previous sentence. Should you continue to allow your lawn to sprout out of control, the appropriate measures according to Section 44d. of the neighborhood association bylaws will be enacted without delay.

Best,
Jane Cognito
President, South Meadows Neighborhood Association

Oh crap. There goes my own personal Jimminy Cricket again, reminding me that I really didn't confess all last time. Damn conscience. Sigh.

1. I have never seen an episode of The Simpsons. I hope that isn't cause to have my citizenship revoked.

2. I spend upwards of one hundred dollars a month having my nails done. For heaven's sake, people are born with fingernails! Yet, I spend the equivalent of one year's salary in Ethopia to have artificial ones glued to my person by a professional.

3. I have passed off a frozen Costco lasagna as homemade. Not to guests, just to my family. But still.

4. I have also never seen Seinfeld. Refer to Number One for fear of consequence.

5. Right now I am eating "lunch". By "lunch" I actually mean "bag of 'hint of lime' tortilla chips".

6. Remember the letter from the fictitious homeowners association about cutting the grass? I may have also written one to the same neighbors about the color they've decided to paint their house. Perhaps I did. I don't really remember right now. But if I did, I was justified, because really, who wants to live next to a lavender house?

7. OK, I do remember whether or not I did Number Six. I did.

8. My husband's favorite T-shirt had pictures of all different kinds of sharks on the back and across the top it said, "Man Eaters of the World". Um, he didn't really lose it. I may have shredded it and then threw it in the fire pit after dousing the remnants in gasoline. Oops.

9. I've bought new furniture while my husband was out of town. Twice.

10. Did I save a ton of the money he earned while in Iraq? Sure. But I also bought two Louis Vuitton handbags. And maybe a Coach or two.

I never claimed to be a perfect woman...

It's time to come clean. There are some things of which I am not particularly proud that I need to get off my chest. Here goes. Deep breath.

1. I have been drinking DC on the sly. Certainly not to the extent that I once consumed, but I have been known to purchase one or two while out and about to enjoy either before I get home or when I know my husband won't be there to see. Before you know it I'll be sitting on the sidewalk downtown drinking DC from a bottle covered in a paper bag. Eek.

2. I read the occasional trashy romance novel. I love to read; I read about two books a week (four before Josh was born) and most of my literature is just that: literature. I read classics, memoirs, history, you know, big girl stuff. But sometimes, I just have to pick up the latest copy of Seduced By Sin or something equally ridiculous. Sue me.

3. So I skip pages sometimes when I read Josh a bedtime story?

4. I wrote my neighbors a mean letter from a fictitious home owners association about mowing their lawn. What? It worked...

5. I vacuum my drapes. I know, psycho.

6. I have forgotten, on more than one occasion, to brush Josh's teeth at night. Worst mother of the year award anyone?

7. I have a myspace page. As if I am 12 or something.

8. Even as I am an honest Abe about everything else, I am a pathological liar when it comes to my weight. I lied about it on my driver's license, I lied about it to my trainer, I lied about it to my husband, and I lied about it to my doctor. My doctor, the butt, trapped me on a scale and learned the truth, much to my dismay; I also liked to lie to myself about this little issue.

Huh! Only eight? That's much better than I thought. My burden is much lighter now, thank you.

Dear Manager of Kids Zone (or Fun Zone or Kid's Zone or Zone for Fun Kids, whatever the hell you're called),

I am NOT pleased. My husband and I decided to go golfing on Monday night, and as there was no one to watch Joshua - apparently we just had to golf anyway - we took him to your little establishment. Bad. Mistake.

If I have learned anything from this experience, it is to trust my "mother's intuition", because I had a feeling, an inkling that perhaps leaving my son at your facility was not the best plan on earth. But, I allowed my husband to convince me I was being silly - after all, you're a reputable business. You have franchises all over the country. You wouldn't be operating still if you didn't have your shit together, right?

Turns out, your shit? So not together.

Ten minutes after we teed off, my phone rings. I knew it was the little twerp you had working there. Sure enough!

Twerp: Um, Mrs. Delger?

Mrs. Delger: Yes, Twerpy Lou?

Twerp: Well, um, Joshua? Yeah, Joshua is upset. He's crying. I can't get him to calm down.

Mrs. Delger: What happened? Did he notice I'm gone? Did he get hurt?

Twerp: I don't know.

Mrs. Delger: You don't KNOW?

Twerp: Um, no. He just started screaming. I just like to let the parents know when their kids get upset here.

Mrs. Delger: Is he calm yet? Do I need to come and get him?

Twerp: No, you don't need to come. He's fine; I just wanted to let you know.

Mrs. Delger: I see. Well, get him interested in a toy and call me in ten minutes if he's still freaking out.

Twerp: OK

Click.

I was already packing up my clubs with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Your employee? A twit, and I? Don't let twits watch my son. When she did not call me back in ten minutes as per my request, I called her. I could hear my son wailing, screaming in the background. He never screams like that. Ever.

Mrs. Delger: WHAT is going on over there?

Twit: Well, he's upset again. I'm trying to get him to play with a toy, but he won't.

Mrs. Delger: I'm on my way.

Twit: It's OK, you don't need to come. I can handle it. I think.

Mrs. Delger: You THINK? I'll see you in ten minutes.

Now, the course we were golfing is at least twenty five minutes away from your location. I made it there in ten minutes because there really was no telling what on earth this ninnyhammer was doing with my child. Was she watching him? Did she know where he was or what he was doing? I certainly do not think so. And you know what, when I got there, I found out why. Her boyfriend was visiting. Her BOYFRIEND. And you know what else? She had my son restrained in her lap trying to force him to play a video game. A.) He's ONE AND A HALF. B.) We don't even watch TV in our house, much less play video games because he's C.) ONE AND A HALF. Furthermore, why in the hell was she forcing him to sit on her lap? That dog won't hunt, sweetness.

I have never been so appalled, I am just beside myself. How you can allow this kind of thing to go on is absolutely beyond me. So you know what, Miss Manager Pants? Not only will I not be back, I will be telling everyone I know to never go to your little den of iniquity. I know a lot of people. And I have a big mouth.

Best,

Your Worst Mommy Nightmare

When he was a wee little monster...

The baby name poll is over, and as promised, I shall now reveal our favorites, and compare them to yours.

Your votes concluded that our next son be named Wesley and our daughter Sophia. I have to agree with you on the boy's name. LOVE Wesley. James? Needs some convincing, but really? He doesn't get much of a say after suggesting Adolf, Herman, and Stinky. We part company, gentle reader, at choice of girl's name. You picked Sophia; I am in love with Eloise...Ella for short. So, that's definitely the plan for a girl, but we don't have a firm idea for a boy. That's OK, we have time. There is no baby yet, there may not be for some time, so this is all speculation.

So, I planned on telling my story here, but I find that I still cannot. The words are there, but my brain cannot make my fingers type them. The wounds have begun to knit, but can be torn raw at the slightest provocation, so I'm sorry, but today is not the day.

I'll check back in later with some witty observation on motherhood, you know, when my heart is a little lighter.

Dear Diet Coke,

Ah, my dearest love. I miss you. I had to give you up when I began dieting, and this has been my biggest obstacle in staying motivated. You have been a constant in my life for so many years; to live day to day without your sweet caress upon my lips and tongue is sheer torture. I shall always miss you, always love you, but I hope you understand that ours is a love that must now be denied. Please, make it easier on both of us and stop calling out to me every time I see you in the store. I will continue to pass by as if I do not know you; you must see that I have no choice.

Dear Water,

You are not a suitable replacement for Diet Coke, or "DC", as I had taken to calling it. First of all, "W" just does not have the same ring to it, so I must take the extra time and effort to enunciate your entire name, which you must know I don't particularly enjoy. Secondly, you have none of the wonderful fizziness, rich dark color, or caramel-ly delight of DC. And plus, you're full of crap when you tell me I'll be less hungry after drinking a lot of you. Nope, pretty much just less thirsty, much as I expected to be the case. I hate you.

Dear Bacardi 151,

You and I are still not on speaking terms.

Dear Wine With Dinner,

I like you. You make me feel all grown up and sophisticated when I serve you at dinner parties and my guests exclaim about my wonderful taste. Just don't tell them that I choose you based much more on the fact that your price tag does not have three or more digits and much less that you may or may not possess slight notes of dark cherry and rich undertones of oak.

Dear Husband's Beer,

Ew. Seriously, get out of my house. You smell awful, you taste like feet, and you make me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

Dear Breast Milk,

Still. Mad. At. You. Thanks for taunting me my whole pregnancy with how easy you'd make feeding my baby, and then being hard as hell. Thanks also for the engorgement, the four cup size increase, and the cracked and bleeding nipples. You're a peach. Until we meet again.

Dear Formula,

The contents of my bra and I thank you for picking up Breast Milk's slack.

Best,
Gucci Mama

Is it Monday again? I think my life consists only of Mondays, with the other six days passing in a whirl that is impossible to keep up with. How is it that I am so much busier now than when I was working? Well, working outside the home anyway. But I don't count my writing as work; I plunk away at the keyboard while Josh naps, whip off the finished products to various publishers, and voila! Work done! I can't really consider getting paid to follow my dream as "work".

But this motherhood crap, whew! I mean, becoming a mom has been a lifelong dream of mine alongside becoming a famous and beloved author. (K, the beloved part? Perhaps. Author? In a manner of speaking. Famous? Yeah, no. Not so much.) But wow, my days are full. Somebody remind me that I want to add three more kids into this mix, and then shake some sense into me. Days like to day I feel like the Tasmanian Devil, but with no arms. I whirl and flit about, trying to do seven hundred things at once trying to make it look easy. It's not, especially without, you know, arms.

Before Josh was born, I was the Circulation Manager for the local newspaper. It was a great job, especially when James was in Iraq, because in order to manage the circulation of a newspaper with a readership of 30,000 people (small potatoes, but still) one has to live and breathe paper and ink. I worked upwards of seventy hours a week at this job, and I may have whined about it once in awhile. Still, overall it was great; especially the part about keeping my mind and person occupied while James was gone. I had less time to worry about my new husband in a war zone when I was putting out fires at the newspaper day and night. Admittedly, I did my fair share of worrying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, but not as much as I could have done. And you know, there was petty office politics and snippy subordinates to flay with the lash of my tongue. There were people to fire and people to micromanage. I wondered how some of them managed to get themselves dressed in the morning. If there's one thing I miss, it's being the boss. I'm good at, um, directing. Yes, directing is a nice word to use.

I really don't miss working at all however, especially compared to my new job of Mommy. And I get to be the boss at this job too, which is a bonus for me. Still, I wonder sometimes how it is that the time flies so quickly, and I hope that little things, important little things are not passing me by while I scramble to keep all the balls in the air. Sometimes I wonder if my best is good enough.

I love being a mom; I would rather do this than anything else. My son is truly the light of my life, my pride and joy. He is my favorite boy in the whole world, as I tell him and I? Am the luckiest woman on the planet. So I don't mean to complain. But sometimes? I really don't like Mondays.

We go to the park a lot. To mention the word "park" in this house is to see a toddler drop whatever he's doing, race into his room to get his shoes, scramble up the stairs, and pound on the front door until one or both of his parents finally make their way up into the entry to load him up into the stroller for the ten minute walk to the wonderfulness that is Bogert Park.

Once there, we embark upon a well traveled path of slide to swing to sandbox to slide to big kid twirly slide to sandbox. Then we repeat. Seventeen times. It is during this trek back and forth across the playground equipment that I think to myself how nice it will be when I can relax on a bench on the outskirts of the play area and watch my child frolic about without need of his mama hot on his heels to make sure he doesn't fall, trip, hurt, hit, annoy, disturb, et cetera himself or others. I know myself well enough, however, to know that when that time comes, I will long for these days when he depended on me so much more, when he wanted me to be right behind him. Apparently it is my lot in life to sigh over greener grass in neighboring pastures.

Today though, I really really wanted to be on that bench. Far away. Far far away. In fact, Josh wanted it too; apparently he has his mommy's low tolerance for irritating mothers who feed their children tofu, bathe themselves and their offspring much less often than is courteous to others, and give a play by play to all and sundry of every single little thing their child is doing.

We met one of these on trip number twelve through the sandbox. We were building castles and burying our feet (well Josh was burying his, you don't expect me to get my Gucci flats full of sand do you?) and then they appeared. A mother of indeterminate age with a child of indeterminate sex. It was one of those androgynous children with the gender neutral clothes, hairstyle, accessories and such. This was obviously a deliberate move on behalf of this "progressive" parent, not wanting to enforce "gender roles" and "stereotypes". Ugh. I? Don't get it. If this child was a girl and her mother didn't want her to feel like she had to wear pink and play with dollies, did she have to go to this extreme? Why is it that in order to be a good feminist a woman has to reject femininity? Is this what we're teaching two year olds? And if this child was a boy, did his mother want him to stay away from trucks and shovels and dirty things? Because why would we want our boys to grow up to be if not effeminate, then even just "gender neutral"? Why is it all of a sudden wrong to recognize and even encourage the difference between male and female?

Other than the It's Pat child, the thing that really set my teeth on edge was the narration. The Pat child would pick up a shovel and its mother would exclaim, "You picked up a SHOVEL!" Pat would hand the shovel to Joshua and its mother would dance about and yell, "You SHARED the SHOVEL! How NICE of you to SHARE the SHOVEL!" Pat would want the shovel back and its mother would shake her head in a very exaggerated fashion and say,"Is THAT how we play nice? Don't you want to SHARE the SHOVEL? We SHARE our TOYS in this family. SHARE the SHOVEL again, please. YAY! You SHARED the SHOVEL again!"

At this point Josh was rolling his eyes and silently communicating to me, thanks Mommy, for not going on to me for forty five minutes about SHARING the SHOVEL. Let's get out of here, they and their SHOVEL are driving me NUTS. He practically dragged me away from the sandbox. I wasn't in that much of a hurry to leave; this woman was driving me a touch insane, but I was really fascinated with the SHOVEL talk, not to mention the naming of every object in sight. "BLUE ball!" "BROWN shoe!" "Orange SHOVEL!" Plus, I was looking for a name for this kid, so I could rest easy tonight knowing whether it was a boy or a girl.

I really don't think people who strip their kids of gender identification are doing them any favors. We should be teaching our children to be proud of who they are, not trying to change it or make it unidentifiable. I also don't think we need to give them a trophy or golden plaque every time they turn around. If we congratulate our kids every time they PICK UP a SHOVEL! They'll expect to be rewarded for every little thing. This makes for a pretty unrealistic world view. Should we encourage our kids? Yes! Should we reward them for jobs well done? Uh huh. Should we make things special and teach them things and make a big deal out of milestones? You bet. Let's just try to find a balance so as to raise well adjusted (gender identifiable) children and not annoy Gucci Mamas and their Monsters in the park.

Then again, what do I know? I just WRITE a BLOG...

Ah, the Fourth of July. One of my favorite holidays. This is only the second one James and I have spent together, though we have been married more than four years. He spent the first two - years and Fourths of July - in Iraq. So, that was a long 24 months. There are certain things, this holiday obviously being one of them, that trigger in me such thankfulness that he is home safely. I felt this profound sense of gratitude and pride as we watched the fireworks last night with Joshua, our "reunion baby".

At the fireworks show here, the whole thing is done to music. As I was watching the celebration explode in the sky, the chorus to this song reverberated through me, hit me in the chest with physical force.

All gave some, some gave all.
Some stood true to the red, white, and blue
And some had to fall.
And if you ever think of me,
Think of all your liberty
And recall, yes recall
Some gave all.

Perhaps it is selfish of me, but thank you Jesus, that my husband was not one who made the ultimate sacrifice. Heavenly Father, so many men and women have done so, some we knew and most we didn't, but oh, that their families will have peace in their hearts this holiday and all throughout the year. That their families will remember with proud, if devastated dignity, the bravery, the selflessness, and the sacrifice of their fallen heroes. Lord, keep our servicemen safe, and let Americans remember to be supportive of soldiers and their families. Until everyone comes home.

...Or, at least very few words. Certainly I cannot be expected to silence myself completely.


In which Daddy comes home from annual training with the Guard...













...Discovers the majesty of the juice box...














...And Joshua eats a taco.

I haven't written about this at all, because it is too much of a roller coaster of emotion for me. I have decided, however, that this might just be the place to "let it all hang out". You know me, Miss Feelings.

We desperately want to expand our family (have I mentioned I want four kids?) and are currently remembering how difficult it is for me to get and then stay pregnant. I don't like to talk about this; it's painful, private, and rife with words I don't say, but I also need an outlet. Hence, this post. I'm not ready to give details; I may never be. I also don't think anyone is really ready to hear them, so I'm doing you a favor.

But, I have decided that this situation needs a little levity, a little fun, and a little stress reduction. To that end, you will notice the polls on the side of the page with boys names and girls names. These are our favorites; we want to know which you like best. Once the results are in, I'll tell you my favorites and James' and then we'll see if you agreed! Yay, sounds like fun, no? So vote now...please and thank you.