Can someone please explain to me how it is that I woke up this morning, not yet seven weeks pregnant, with a belly that looks as though it is a.) carrying a ten year old b). sextuplets, or c.) a squadron of marines? What happened?

There I was, coasting along nicely with my still flat(ish) tummy, my regular jeans, and my plan to go shopping for maternity clothes out of town next weekend so I'll be ready when the time comes, when poof! Out my belly exploded approximately sixteen feet from my body. Like a thief in the night it sneaked up on me with no warning, and I won't ever be the same again. Well, not for the next several months anyway.

I'm not upset about it exactly, I just don't get it. I suppose I started showing early with Joshua, but not this early. I've hardly conceived and it looks as though I've been growing this baby since I was eight. Goodness I'm huge. And the thing is, there isn't a maternity store where I live. In a town of more than 40,000 people there is not one single maternity store, and if any of you thinks I am going to get the Liz Lange or whatever that crap is from Target, you're sorely mistaken. So I rifled through my old maternity clothes, on account of the fact that the only other thing that fits me is a bed sheet, and they don't fit.

They're too big, not to small. Thank God, because I would have hated to have had to put a bullet in my brain right now. Then I would have a pregnancy and a head injury to deal with, and that sounds like an unpleasant combination. The problem is, no matter how beautiful the clothing (and my clothes are quite lovely, even with the tented abdominal section) they looks ridiculous if they're too big. I look like that 13 year old rapper that was in the Micheal Jordan movie in the Nineties. I don't know what it was called, but I'm nearly positive it was about basketball and there may have been some animated characters. The point is, I look like a low-ri-der, and it's asinine.

I have developed a plan of action, but unfortunately I am bound by the constraints of logic, much to my dismay, and so I must wait until Thursday to travel to my shopping destination. Why Thursday? Well, I have to drive 150 miles, and on Thursday Josh has an appointment with the pediatric opthomologist in the same town where I'll be buying my maternity wardrobe, so I have to stick it out until then. Kill two birds with one stone or something.

A savior appeared, thankfully. A savior named Sassy Pants Freckle Face. She brought me a Bella Band, which is a miraculous little contraption. It is essentially a tube of fabric that fits over regular slacks and holds them up unbuttoned. So I can make it until Thursday. Sigh. But I think this Band will come in pretty handy; I'm sure I'll use it a lot. And after the baby is born, my husband will, in all likelihood, wear it to future Thanksgiving dinners.

Ladies and gentlemen, you may now rest easy. Buckie has made it home safely. It was touch and go there for awhile, what with the hostage situation and all, but the issue has resolved itself. And by resolved itself, I mean I went over there and laid down the law. Mess with the bull? The horns will freaking find you.

I suspected those alien children had taken Buckie; I'd seen them drooling over him in the past, and plus I know they are just predisposed to commit evil deeds. So I went on a recon mission. Sure enough! Those stinky kids had their grubby meat hooks all over Josh's duck. I. Don't. Think. So.

Armed with my mama bear pants and my righteous indignation, I marched over there to have a serious talk with these "parents", these people who are essentially allowing their children to raise themselves. I knew they wouldn't do what I wanted, I knew they wouldn't take me seriously, and I suppose I was fine with that. I just wanted the damn duck.

Knock knock.

The door opens to reveal a woman in sweat pants and no bra; behind her are her dirty, and may I say guilty looking, offspring.

ME: I noticed your kids playing with Josh's duck in your yard. I'm not sure how it got here, but we'd like it back, please.

BRALESS WONDER: How do you know it belongs to Josh? We've had this duck for awhile.

ME: Yeah, since like Wednesday when your kids thieved him from my yard?

BRALESS WONDER: I'm pretty sure he's not yours. And even if he is, your kid could learn to share a little.

ME: First of all, I think Josh's first and last name written on the tag would indicate that the duck does, in fact, belong to him. You don't have to be a super sleuth to figure that out. Secondly, there's a difference between "sharing" and TAKING CRAP OUT OF SOMEONE ELSE'S YARD. So, give me the duck, and I'll be on my way.

BRALESS WONDER: You don't have to get so worked up. It's just a duck. Just go get another one if it's such a big deal. My kids are attached to it now.

ME: Are you for real? Did you honestly just tell me to go and buy another stuffed duck because your kids are "attached" to the one they STOLE from my son? Are you kidding me? Now, I see the duck in your living room. You may go and get it for me, or I will walk in and get it, but I WILL be going home with it today.

BRALESS WONDER: So uptight. I don't think my children will be playing with Josh anymore. I don't want them around you stuffy, old-fashioned, intolerant people.

ME: I'll try to stem the flow of tears over that while you go get me the duck.

So, he's back. And while I certainly don't want to be completely alienated from my neighbors, I just can't handle their crap. We've put up with a lot from these "free to be me" idiots, and enough is enough. Stealing Buckie was the final straw. Or feather, as it were.

Can I possibly be the only one who wishes she could just fill up a large cavity in the ground with various food stuffs and other materials that would just be absolutely beyond awesome to swim through? Run with me on this for a minute. Wouldn't it be sweet to, say, swim through chocolate sauce? Portabello mushrooms? Vanilla pudding?

I could just dive in and chomp my way through. If it was at all logical, or if I could just get him to agree, I would totally make James build me a food pool. And a Diet Coke jacuzzi.

Is it wrong that all my fantasies, goals, and dreams revolve around food? Fat pregnant girl much?

Aw. So this is my second award in as many days, and may I just say...thank you Tammy.



I'm sure I can think of several people who deserve to have this passed on to them, but all that linking just does not trip my trigger right now. So, if you deem yourself worthy, by all means, consider yourself awarded with this bookshelf. That's as much work as I'm going to do right now. Back off me, I'm pregnant. I can do (or not do) what I want.

Kiss kiss.

There were some pretty good guesses. Everything from "You joined Shoppers Anonymous" to my personal favorite, "You, as the head of the non-existent neighborhood association, successfully 'convinced' your bad neighbors to move and give you veto rights on who they sell their house to." Unfortunately that isn't it, but what a great goal for me to set for myself! I am even now outlining a master plan to make this happen. First the neighborhood...then the WORLD!

But back to my secret...I suppose you kind of want to know now. How cute! All in good time Bloggy Bloggertons. First, a history lesson.

I have known my whole life I wanted children. I have always, for some reason, looked upon four as the perfect number. Right now I have one, so I'm not too far along in meeting my goal, but there's time. Unfortunately, the wrench in the plans is my flirty and fun combination of Poly-cystic Ovarian Syndrome and Endometriosis. Or, as I like to call it, Operation F Up My Chances to Have Children.

I have been pregnant a handful of times; I have one child. You math buffs out there are probably able to determine - even without a calculator - that a handful is significantly more than one. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how prepared you think you are, miscarriage does not get easier. It has, however, made me marvel at the incredible miracle that is my perfectly precious Joshua. By rights he shouldn't be here, yet pictures and my sagging boobs prove that he does, in fact, exist. He is, without doubt, a gift from God.

As you may have already surmised, I am on this roller coaster again. I? Am in a delicate condition, in the family way, in expectation of an interesting event, knocked up, pregnant.

And I have high hopes! I am doing all the right things (like always) I am allowing myself to get excited, I am encouraged that the consensus seems to be that this is going to work; I am going to have another miracle!

I am thrilled; I am trusting God to carry us through this, and I have every expectation of a fantastic outcome. James is dancing around, buttons bursting as if he is the first husband to impregnate his wife.

I can't put my finger exactly on what it is that makes me feel this way, but I - along with everyone else who already knows - seem to just feel that this is the time, that about thirty-ish weeks from now, we will have another little peanut in our family...one that will hopefully be able to wear dresses. But, naturally, little suits and sweater vests will suit us just fine too.

Oh, how shall I ever keep up with all these people who insist upon continually showering me with praise? This is an award created by Little Miss Sunshine herself, Sassy Pants Freckle Face.

Let me just give you a little background about her before I get into my "thank you" speech and start weeping all over the place in gratitude. SPFF (I cannot be expected to spell it out every time) is many things. She's a remarkably strong woman, a caring wife, and such a great mom. She's a giver, a servant of people. She takes care of everyone; some people she knows, most she doesn't. She's the kind of person who will bring you homemade chicken soup if you're sick. Plus, she scrapbooks, which I totally don't understand. I mean, who wants to sit there and cut crap out in little patterns and attach stickers and...ew, I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it. But she pretty much rocks, despite her penchant for playing with construction paper, glue, and photographs.

Some of you may have picked up on the fact by reading recent (or not so recent) posts that I don't exactly play nicely with others. While this suited me fine when I was a working woman and it gets me what I want even when people try to screw with me, it doesn't exactly bode well for personal relationships. I'm really quite nice if you can get past the bitch, and SPFF has totally seen through my bitch facade to the girl scout within. She's my best friend because she doesn't mind that I don't always return phone calls, I tend to be a little bit dramatic, and sometimes I stomp around a little bit if things don't go like I think they should. She gets me, and she loves the bitch and the nicer girl in me. She sees the whole package, the one that most people don't; mainly because I don't allow them to. That I let her in past my defenses a little bit speaks volumes. She's one of the few women I trust. So with that little love letter (we could totally be no sex lesbians together) I give you...the friendship award.



It means a lot to receive it from one such as yourself, SPFF.

...But I can't tell you yet. Mainly because I have decided to keep everyone in suspense for another day or so. But, I will give you some clues, and you are welcome, nay, encouraged to guess.

Clue #1 - It involves positive interaction.

Clue #2 - The meeting I attended to resolve this issue was successful.

Clue #3 - The success of the meeting mentioned in #2 will continue to be meaningful in the future.

So, put your thinking caps on. Perhaps tomorrow I will reveal all. Then again, maybe I won't...

So, today was kind of eventful. My mom and I trekked - and by trekked I mean drove ninety miles down the freeway - all the way to Montana Technical College to get my little baby brother all set up in his dorm. Aw. It was a good day, even though my neck still feels as though it was run over by a Mack truck, and we got him all moved in.

Here's the thing about me and moving, though. I will pack, and I will unpack. But I do not load or unload the car. In fact, I don't even unload groceries. After getting home from the store, I call my husband from the garage to tell him, "I'm home, and I don't unload". I'll admit I'm kind of spoiled. And a little bit of a bitch. Pretty much a spoiled bitch. But I like me. Anyway, I supervised the unloading of various cars and trailers containing all the crap he though he couldn't live without for his first semester of college, and I noticed some pretty interesting stuff.

He packed:

+A wet suit that he hasn't worn since the eighth grade. He's probably grown six or seven feet since then. I don't think a child's medium will fit a 6'2" 200 pound guy, but I could be wrong.

+A hockey stick signed by Wayne Gretzgy, because if you don't want priceless sports memorabilia in a college dorm full of rowdy man/boys, where do you want it?

+A three piece suit. You know, in case he wants to cement his status as the biggest nerd ever.

+Six pair of sunglasses. I can't fault him for this; Elton John himself is envious of my sunglass collection, so I don't have a lot of room to criticize.

+Seventeen thousand DVDs and a DVD player, but no TV. Seems as though an essential component in this equation is absent...

+Three pairs of flip flops. Because these are good for trudging across campus through the snow we'll have in Montana in three weeks.

Clearly, he's well prepared for anything he might face. So that's it! The baby of the family has left the nest, and is even now spreading his wings. Probably so he can fly to the convenience store and try to buy beer, but still. Good luck, little brother, though I know you won't need it. You'll get along famously, and emerge in two years the best welder this side of the Mississippi. Or on the other side. Or whatever.

I slept wrong last night and I think my neck may be broken as a result. I'm walking around carrying my head at a very unnatural angle; everything I see is sideways because of this. And if I move an infinitesimal amount? Lightening bolts of death pierce their way from my neck, down my spine, and all the way through my legs to my ankles.

I don't like it. I further don't like the distinct lack of sympathy from James, who thinks I should simply "toughen up". Ah. I never thought of that. Play through the pain. Good plan. Buttface.

Maybe he only said this because I found a bell to ring when I need him to fetch me something or give me a massage. I don't know. I don't ring it all that much; I mean only like every ten or fifteen minutes, so he should totally cut me some slack here. Mama has an owie, OK?

Ah, Target. Like some sort of siren in the storm, it beckons to me whenever my laundry soap gets low, I run out of Febreeze, or I feel like forty five thousand toys just aren't enough for my little man. Target? Is like my Mecca, except my pilgrimage takes place much more often, sometimes to the tune of once a week.

Like a mama to her long lost child, it's red automatic doors welcome me with a smile and a hug to a large, cushy bosom. And maybe there's some milk and cookies waiting for me on the coffee table. It could be slightly unhealthy, but if loving Target is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The thing is, it's a little bit of a toxic relationship. Even as I love Target from afar, and it does meet my needs more than adequately; I've found that, more often than not, I leave Target just a little pissed off. I don't really know how to fix it, but I need to because I? Do not go to Walmart. Or Kmart. And those three are about all we have. Maybe Target and I need to go to couples counseling. These are our key issues:

+I always end up spending at least $100 where $10 would likely get me everything I need. Why does Target have so many sweet things that, upon seeing them for the first time, I cannot imagine living without?
+Josh has been known to flip out over some major issue - like me not letting him push the cart into the people in front of us - and the other Target moms give me the stink eye. As if my child is the inventor of the temper tantrum.
+No matter how early I get there, the parking spaces at the front are always full, and even if there's one available, I cannot swing my nine hundred foot SUV into it because some asshat in a Prius is taking up three and a half spots.
+The morons at the check out always ask me if I found everything OK. As if I would go to the check out with half the crap I came for. "No, didn't find everything I needed yet, but I'll be swinging back through in twenty minutes or so."
+I have yet to find a Target Specialist who can actually answer a damn question without radioing sixty different coworkers and wandering aimlessly about until I just figure it out myself,, or they get lucky and smack into the thing I wanted them to find for me. Specialists indeed.

And yet I go. I do it to myself. Because the day I go to Walmart is the day I feed myself to rabid wolverines. And I need laundry soap. And $80 worth of other crap.

Dear Buckie,

Where the hell are you? Did you run away? Did you get eaten by the neighbor dog? Are you mad that Josh calls you "Buckie" instead of "Duckie" and you just couldn't take it anymore? Whatever the reason, will you please just come home? Because I have to tell you, for a two foot tall stuffed bright yellow duck, you sure carry a lot of weight around here.

Best,
Josh's Mom

Oh no. Buckie is gone. What are we going to do? The world has stopped spinning on its axis, and soon life as we know it will cease to exist if Buckie is not found. As it stands now, breakfast was a major ordeal, because we were very worried about Buckie not sitting at his normal place at table, Play With Me Seasame was not nearly as fun to watch, and I don't even want to think about nap time.

My question is, how in the world does something like this go missing? It is two feet tall and probably three feet long, its bright yellow and very fluffy. It's not hard to spot, and I'm fairly certain it didn't just walk away. Lucy hasn't done anything with it because it scares her to death, so I am fresh out of ideas. I hope those stupid stinky neighbor kids didn't thieve it.

Let's talk about those children for a minute. I love kids. I think kids are fabulous; there are a lot of kids I like better than their idiot parents, quite frankly. But these kids? These kids suck. There's just no way around it, quite frankly. Maybe the fault lies with their free love/discipline-free parents, but still. They are obnoxious. They scream and yell, they pull Lucy's hair through the fence, they throw sticks at her, and they have attempted to teach Joshua, my precious innocent baby, foul language. I have discussed these significant (at least in my mind) issues with their parents, and their reaction? Laughter! And that "kids will be kids" baloney. Are you kidding me? How about, oh I don't know, teaching your kids the difference between right and wrong, and then consequences for misbehavior? Am I the most old fashioned person alive if I live by what my mom taught me, good behavior, good results; bad behavior, bad results? Is it really that hard? Does anyone think I'm out of line for expecting the parents to prevent their children from tormenting my dog and teaching Josh to say "shit" and "balls"? (He hasn't repeated either by the way, thank goodness. I nipped that little lesson in the bud very quickly). And...oh come on! I see them playing with freaking Buckie! Ooh, heads are going to roll.

PS - These are the same idiots to whom I wrote the letter from a fictitious home owners association so they'd mow their stupid lawn more than once every fifty years or so.

My boys are out doing "boy stuff" - no idea what that means - so I am home alone, and I think it is a big step for me that I am not doing any sort of cooking, baking, or cleaning. I really could fold that last load of towels, and the play room could probably stand to be vacuumed and possibly even dusted, but I? Am taking some "me" time.

I could get used to this, quite frankly. I can do whatever it is I want. Heady sensation, that. This is what I've done so far this morning: I've taken a bubble bath, read a few chapters in my new book, enjoyed a cup of coffee in peaceful silence, and gotten some writing done without chubby little fingers banging away on my keyboard. Here's what I have not done today, which arguably, is even better: I have not rushed through a shower and gotten out with still sudsy hair and only one leg shaved because Josh is playing in the toilet, rushed about getting the house picked up before we leave to get all of our errands done, or fretted about needing to wash the car, clean the windows, or getting James to finish the outdoor painting.

This? Has been a fantastic morning. I can't remember the last time I had so much time to myself, and it has been simply marvelous.

The only problem is...I kind of miss my boys.

I have been inundated with laundry since we got home from Mexico, and for some reason I have not been able to catch up. Usually I'm Johnny on the Spot with dirty clothes, but this last week has been a laundering nightmare; the pile is growing instead of shrinking. I have not yet figured out how our dirty garments have defied the laws of physics, but there you have it.

Today, though, today I finally lost my mind with all this washing and drying and folding. Today? I ironed an entire load of laundry before I washed it. I might be going away for awhile...

Dear Rachel Ray,

I just don't get it. Seriously, the shoulder shrug "aw shucks" routine? Not cute. And the painted on body suits that function as your shirts? Not working for your pudgy boyish figure. May I suggest something with a little more breathing room? I'd also like you to begin using actual words, because nobody wants to translate geebee into "garbage bowl" or eevee-o-o into "extra virgin olive oil". Just talk; it will save time and frustration in the long run. Let's back up for a second. Garbage bowl? Perhaps you are the exception to the rule, but I wasn't aware the average Joe or Jill in the kitchen wants to wash extra dishes for no apparent reason. Also, I think your "GB" idea was already invented, in the form of a damn waste basket. Skip a step, sweetheart, and just put your crap right in the garbage. Dump your food waste right over those body suits in such a way as to stain them beyond repair so you're not tempted to ressurect them.

Dear Paris Hilton,

I used to question whether you're really as dumb as you act, but I don't anymore. I get it now, and I don't enjoy what I see. So do me a couple favors, if you will. First, just stop talking. Everything is not "hot" and neither are you. Two, eat a damn hamburger. The string bean look? Not working for anybody, no matter how expensive the clothing it's draped in.

Dear Cast of Army Wives,

Don't even talk to me. Your little show? Not even close.

Dear BlogHer,

Oh give me a break with the man hating "I am woman hear me roar" crap. Gloria Steinum called. She wants her militant feminist patent rights back.

Dear Franke Wilmer, my professor of International Relations in college,

Thanks for never giving me the grades I deserved on papers because I dared to be the only republican on campus. Everybody appreciated me even if they didn't "get" me, but not you. But you know? I've learned from the experience. I learned that for all your talk of tolerance and equality and dancing on rainbows, you only meant that it appliedother radical liberals. Sorry I didn't get that memo in time. If I ever go back for my Master's, I'll be sure to dumb my stuff down for you...in your dreams. I've never gotten a C in my life, FRANKE. Enjoy your BlogHer convention.

Dear Lucy,

Stop digging holes in my damn yard! Daddy is starting to get frustrated, and I will go insane if I have to keep you in the house all day and constantly vaccuum up your hair. I love you, little puppy, but if you don't knock it off I'm going to stop giving you milk and dumping bar-b-que sauce on your food.

Best,
Gucci Mama

It seems I have been tagged by my gal TraceyTreasure Green Eyed Momster, and so I must now comply with her wishes to answer these twenty queries. Because I am, you know, a rule follower. And just so you know how I really feel about doing this, allow me to cut and paste for you the comment I left her on the post in which she tagged me. It reads:

Thanks for giving me a topic today...as my brain function is near zero (I blame all the laundry) I think anything I tried to come up with on my own would rob my readers of precious minutes of life they could never get back. So thank you, my friend. Doing it right now...

1---Soda v. Pop. Well, I hail from Minnesota where it is called "soda", but I now reside in Montana, where people have never heard that word. So, in the name of conformity and in the interest of not getting bitch slapped by a toothless cowboy, let's go with "pop".
2---Regular v. Diet Soda. Diet. Duh. Please refer to this post, where I expound more eloquently on the majesty that is Diet Coke.
3---Diet Coke v. Diet Pepsi. See above.
4---Beer v. Wine. Wine. Beer is freaking foul. Except Guinness. So, I suppose my answer is wine and Guinness.
5---White Wine v. Red Wine. Depends on the culinary delicacy with which it will be enjoyed. I drink both red and white wine, but I rarely drink either. Not much of an alkie.
6---Panty v. Underwear. Panties. 'Nuff said.
7---Thong v. Other. OTHER. The word "thong" has been stricken from my vocabulary...and my panty drawer ever since the Great Thong Caper of 2001.
8---Silk v. Cotton. In panties? Silk. In sheets? 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton. Because I learned that when silk sheets and husbands mix, the result is not always pleasing. Especially when said husband takes a running leap from the hallway and onto the bed in order to propel himself along the silk sheets so he "feels like Superman".
9---Boxers v. Briefs. Boxer briefs.
10---McDonald's v. Burger King. Ew. Neither. I haven't eaten fast food in over five years. Mainly because I don't quite know how to answer the question, "Do you want fries with your lips and assholes?"
11---Chocolate v. Vanilla. Chocolate in all things. Unless we're talking ice cream; in that case I'm more of a "twist" girl.
12---Sweet v. Savory. Both together? My favorite thing in the world to eat is sea salt caramels. Yum. My mouth is watering even as I type this.
13---Plaid v. Solids. I'm going to have to go with solids here, for the most part. I have some pretty cute plaid accessories. No "Farmer Joe" shirts though.
14--- Flats v. Heels. I'm 5'3", so mostly heels, but I have added a few (very few) flats to my shoe collection. Only very very cute ones though.
15---Automatic v. Stick Shift. Automatic. I don't "shift" when I can just glide along and not worry about how my vehicle is actually operating. Seriously, what am I paying the car dealer for if not to provide me with a vehicle that needs no more work from me than the turn of a key? Or the press of an automatic start button, as the case may be.
16---Black v. White. Black clothing, white teeth.
17---Cursive v. Printing. Cursive.
18---Length v. Girth. Is this asking what I think it's asking?
19---Butter v. Margarine. Butter. Have to go real here because there's just no comparison. Perhaps my midsection reflects that, but you know, give and take.
20---Paula Dean v. Rachel Ray Paula Deen, but only by default. I HATE Rachel Ray. With a passion. She and her little second skin body suits make my head explode. I'm a Bobby Flay kind of girl. Yummy. And I'm not talking about his cooking, although I'm sure that's good too.

So now the rules are to tag five people from whom I wish to hear answers to these questions. Well, let me think here.

First, I think I'll go with Leezee52 at Why Isn't There Mouse Flavored Cat Food? Because I'm sure her answers will be pretty sweet.

Then I shall prevail upon Tracy at Just Another Mommy Blog. Because I always enjoy seeing her outlook on things.

My next victim is Molly at I Need a Martini...Now! Because she pulled her jaw and is probably looking for something restful to do while she heals.

I believe K8E at Between Heaven and Hell just raised her hand, and I will call on her because she hasn't been around in awhile, and I'd like to see how she's doing.

Last, but by no means least, I give you Tentcamper at I Pee in the Wind. Why? Because he devoted an entire post to his disfavor with all things I like to call "blogtastic", including the whole "tagging" phenomena. There are, you understand, parts of my nature that are just a little bit evil.

And just to make it easier for you, here's a list of the twenty questions for you to copy and paste. You're welcome.

1---Soda v. Pop.
2---Regular v. Diet Soda.
3---Diet Coke v. Diet Pepsi.
4---Beer v. Wine.
5---White Wine v. Red Wine.
6---Panty v. Underwear.
7---Thong v. Other.
8---Silk v. Cotton.
9---Boxers v. Briefs.
10---McDonald's v. Burger King.
11---Chocolate v. Vanilla.
12---Sweet v. Savory.
13---Plaid v. Solids.
14--- Flats v. Heels.
15---Automatic v. Stick Shift.
16---Black v. White.
17---Cursive v. Printing.
18---Length v. Girth.
19---Butter v. Margarine.
20---Paula Dean v. Rachel Ray.

So knock yourselves out, tagged ones. And may I say, "Ha ha! Tag, you're it!"

Today is a busy day, my blogtastic friends, and so I will not be posting any acerbic observations this day, but I have started a new blog with Francis H. Woods (Frank) and I'll be perfectly honest with you, it freaking rocks. So, go there right now, and let that be your Gucci Mama read of the day. And in the days to come. Read both. Tell your friends. I don't ask much...

James is at Cabin of Doom this weekend, so Josh and I are on our own, which pretty much means marathon nap time cleaning, watching Turner Classic Movies, and catching up on my reading after Josh goes to bed. There was a time in our relationship when neither wanted to leave the other for any amount of time, but those times are, um, gone like the buffalo. I suppose the tide turned after those twenty something months he played around with sand and tanks in Iraq.

This is a good thing, I think, to be secure in our alone time. Sometimes I miss the "newness" of our fledgling relationship - this was like seven and a half years ago, so I don't exactly dwell - but all in all this foray into mature adult interaction is a cut above the kissy face "I love you more, you hang up first" baloney.

If you're anything like me, you probably skimmed over the schmaz in the last two paragraphs seeking the part where I explain Cabin of Doom. The thing is, I don't know. Maybe some of my male readers can explain it to me; what is this fascination with camping, and why does this male bonding crap have to be done with the utmost secrecy? Because the first rule of Cabin of Doom is...don't talk about Cabin of Doom.

So, I can't help you with the Cabin of Doom question which almost makes me feel bad about asking you this favor. Key word being almost. Please help me understand, because for the life of me I just do not get this whole camping craze. I cannot seem to wrap my brain around trekking through the woods, fighting off bugs and wild animals, laying a fire before which you sleep - on the ground no less - and then wake up to whatever you can eat over the dying embers and no shower. What about this is appealing? Is it the rocks for pillow and bed? Is it the mosquito bites? The bear spray? Is there heavy drinking involved? Because I will be perfectly honest here, camping to me is staying in the Hilton instead of the Ritz. Or at least the Holiday Inn instead of the Hilton. Depends on the city...But seriously, what is it? I can't imagine inserting the words "fun", "enjoyable", or "relaxing" into a description of a place where there are no beds, ladies rooms, or walls and roofs.

Call me a prima donna.

James and I must have been really busy being good parents this morning, because while each of us thought the other fed Josh breakfast, neither of us did. Around 9:30 we couldn't figure out why he was so whiny and cranky, and generally stepping on my last nerve. I consider myself a pretty patient mama, but whining, especially whining for no reason, makes me want to rip my own face off.

Turns out, there was a pretty good reason for this morning's whine, in the form of the hunger monster trying to claw his way out of my baby's tummy.
*************************************************************
STOP. I'll get back to this riveting little tale in a minute, but what I have to say now cannot wait. Let me preface this by saying that we don't watch a lot of TV in this house, but this morning while James is working outside and I am nursing the back I threw out painting the lattice work (another story entirely) I have turned on the Sprout channel so Josh can have some background noise while he plays with his toys and I feel sorry for myself. He doesn't really watch it much, just goes about his business and checks in every once in awhile. Sesame Street just ended, which I can deal with. I was hoping for Bearenstein Bears next, but instead I got the Teletubbies. Has anybody seen this crap? Aside from being so annoying it makes me want to swallow shards of broken glass to dull the pain they cause, they can't be good for kids. They just can't. First of all, they're fat, ugly, space alien looking creatures that scare me a little, so I can't imagine the horror they could potentially cause a two year old. Secondly, and more importantly, they don't speak correctly! Seriously? They talk in freaking baby talk. Cute in actual babies, but not so hot in adults dressed in freaky costumes. How, pray, is this meant to be educational? How are they teaching children words if they don't pronounce them right? Plus, they repeat the same little show segments fifty seven thousand times. Could this be why Josh is banging his head on the floor?
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Anyway, back to this morning. We realized our error when we asked one another, in unison, "What did he have for breakfast?" Crap. So he had a breakfast fit for a king, even if it was two hours late. Now we are hurrying to get dressed so I can go pick up my Mother of the Year award. Then I'm picking up some bright purple camouflage so I can go teletubbie hunting.

But my family is so stinking hot, how can I not share?

Who's the happiest boy ever?

Also the tiredest boy ever, apparently. Is "tiredest" a word?

Throwing rocks into the ocean. Must be a boy thing.

Wait, where did they find rocks on the beach? Good Lord, I'm short.

Ok, so I won't do anymore just plain old picture posts anymore. Well, not more than once. Or twice. Definitely not more than three times.

James: I'm listening to Tastes Like Kevin Bacon by a band called "I Wrestled a Bear Once."

Me: Those are the sweetest words you've ever said to me.

Well, this is a first for me. I've never done a contest before, mainly because I've never really come across one I wanted to take the time to participate in. This, however, has changed my tune. The gals at Five Minutes for Mom have created a "summer fun" picture contest, and due to the fact that I have the. cutest. boy. ever. I am sure to win. So here is my entry...I shall let you know if (when?) my cutest pumpkin in the pumpkin patch is chosen as a finalist, at which point you can flood the site with your votes for him. {Grin}

1. One should not allow photographic evidence of the way one, ah, "fills out" a bathing suit. Yikes.

2. When one is warned not to drink the water, one should be aware that this axiom also extends to not allowing a stray droplet to enter one's mouth or nasal cavity during a shower, and also to brushing one's teeth with bottled water. If one attempts to brush one's teeth with water from the tap, one should be prepared for one's husband to race into the bathroom from the living area of the suite, wrench the toothbrush out of one's hand, and throw himself upon it as if it were a grenade he was saving his comrades from in some sort of wartime ambush.

3. If one reads the signs in Spanish, and one has but the barest sprinkling of understanding of the language, one would do well to remember that "usa" means use, not United States of America. For example, if the sign reads, por favor no usa la piscina por el bano, it does not mean Please don't United States of America the pool as a bathroom. Rather, it means, don't freaking urinate in the pool.

4. Not everyone in Mexico follows the rule outlined in number three. One will notice that people can drink tequila in the pool for six hours and never get out to "take care of business". One will further note that said pool smells like a latrine.

5. If one is allergic to the dander, bite, sting, scent, and/or sight of every living thing on the planet, one should stay out of the ocean, because jellyfish will seek one out and sting one repeatedly and utterly without mercy. If one does not avoid the ocean, one would do very well to bring Singular, an inhaler, and an epi pen.

6. If one is, if not totally repulsed, but even mildly irritated by the scent of cigar smoke, one will be no more enamored of it even if it wafts from a tobacco stick rolled in Cuba. One will conclude that it is, in fact, no different from the crap we can buy here, and that its appeal stems from its illegality and not much else.

7. One should never allow oneself to be sucked in by a nice man in a polo shirt who "just" wants to give one directions. This polo shirt man will always try to finnagle one into agreeing to a time share presentation.

8. One should recieve an ocean side massage from a tall and muscular Latin Lover at least once a day. At least. Ooh la la.

9. One should learn to divide by ten when everything charged on one's credit card is in pesos. This way, one will not freak out everytime a four or five digit number shows up. Apparently, dividing by ten still escapes some people. Not going to mention any names...

10. When one goes parasailing with one's husband, one should endeavor not to weep too uncontrollably when one is given a Large size life jacket and one's husband is given a Medium. One should at least endeavor to get oneself under control when one is informed that a mistake was made by the parasail operator man, and the Medium size was indeed meant for one.

See? I - I mean "one" - is ever so much more worldly now.

And I'm OK with that. I cannot pick up a paint brush and hold it for more than five consecutive minutes without finding myself positively covered in paint. Observe.


Plus, like a damn fool, I forgot to take my rings off. So now I must go have them cleaned. While that's happening, I'm going to check in on liposuction for my fingers. Man hands anyone?

But first an explanation. As most of you know, our dog's name is Lucy. This has led Josh to believe that every creature in the animal kingdom is called a "Lucy". For example, when in Mexico, we were fortunate* enough to witness a vile disgusting bat feasting on another vile disgusting bat. Joshua pointed and jumped up and down and said, "Mama! Lucy! Lucies hug!" Yes dear, the Lucies are hugging.

*By fortunate I mean in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Bats are freaking foul.

Dear Madam Jellyfish (aka "Sea Lucy"),

While I suppose I cannot hold you responsible for swimming your disgusting little self about the ocean, which is as I understand it, your natural habitat, I find that you are completely to blame for a.) swimming in my general vicinity, b.) stinging me on the thigh as I innocently swam by doing mermaid dives into the waves, and c.) calling your friends over to lie in wait for me that I may get stung again, this time on the foot so I had to limp like a cripple for three damn hours.

I further lay at your door the culpability for the allergic reaction your poison caused, and for the fact that allergic reactions like mine worsen with each exposure. Well, I suppose you can't take credit for that medical fact, but you did sting my twice, so six degrees of separation and all that.

Here's what I want you to know. You may think I have retreated, that I now hang my head in defeat and wave the white flag of surrender. Think again, Madam. I live to fight another day. I have simply maneuvered back to home base to regroup and reorganize. I'll be back, Sea Lucy. I'll be back with a vengeance.

Stung but not defeated,
Gucci Mama

...Do I find myself holding a paint brush?

When I said to James, "We should paint the lattice work that goes along the garden wall," I really should have specified that by "we" I meant he.

Ugh.

It's finally happened. Someone, Kai in fact, in all her blogging brilliance at Thoughts From a Mind, has bestowed upon yours truly this fantabulous award.









See, it's so great I had to make up a word. So, because I am a total stickler for rules, here are the regulations one must follow when receiving and passing on this fantabulous award.

1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you.
3. Nominate at least 7 other blogs.
4. Add links to these blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.

So, who shall I nominate? So many options are running through my head right now. I suppose I'll just dive right in, shall I?

First, I nominate Bryan at Bullet Point Theatre because even though he leans decidedly to the (gasp and shudder) left side of the political spectrum, he's freaking hilarious. Plus, I have hope that I can pull him back from the dark side. {Mischievous grin}

Next, I nominate Tracey Treasure at Dark Side of the Moon because we have walked in one another's shoes, though we have never met. While you're there, check out her other blog, Green Eyed Monster Mama because it will make you smile.

Now then, for number three we have Russ and Jasper at Dads Who Mock the World. Because their mockery knows no bounds, and it's highly entertaining.

Crap, am I only on number four? Well, let's see, there's always Sassy Pants Freckle Face, who is my best friend and therefore merits an award through sheer awesomeness at loving me despite my quirks and foibles and um, slight tendency to be a bitch.

I couldn't have an awards nomination list without including Insane Mama at Help! I Have a Teenager! Her stories are amazing, her writing is peppered with great talent and skill, and she talks about sex a lot.

OK, so I'm not Little Miss Rule Pants after all. Because I'm not nominating seven people right now; I'm sticking with five. So, I guess, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Thanks for the award, Kai. It's flippin' sweet.

Mexico was hard for me. I loved it, it was beautiful and we had a great vacation, but it was hard for me. It was difficult to see people begging, it was difficult to see them having to sell crap for a pittance just to make ends meet. It was especially difficult because a lot of these people were children. Just babies, really, but their eyes were so old. I came home with more half wrapped dirty candy and "silver" jewelry and wild patterned fabric than I know what to do with because I couldn't bring myself to tell them no. Most of the time. I fancy that I can tell the difference between the swindlers and those in true need. I hope I can. For instance, I never turned away a child, though looking back on it that was quite likely a "swindle" in itself; the parents sending out their kids to garner sympathy. I don't care though; I fell for that one gladly. These kids broke my heart, I just wanted to scoop up their tiny frames, bring them home with me, feed them and buy them clothes. I wish I could have; I wish that they had a chance to just be kids.

What I didn't buy, however, were the wares of the braid lady on the beach. I timed it, she walked by me every half an hour and said, "Braids Lady? You want braids, amiga?" No, honey, I don't want braids on my head plastered there for eternity and tighter than a fat girl's tube sock. She was relentless, and she asked everybody. A surprising number of people took her up on her offer, which I suppose is good if they were doing it on behalf of their six year old daughter, but seriously if you're older than about six? Braids are not an acceptable choice. There were several women, however, that did not realize this until it was too late. So I saw a lot of Mrs. Fatty McButter Pants with braids and beads. I'm no skinny minny myself, so I don't have a lot of wiggle room here, but seriously, if your head is the size of a damn basketball? Don't accentuate this fact by zig zag rows of tiny braids and gigantic pink beads. It won't be cute. Trust me.

I also learned that some of the kids aren't so innocent. We went to the flea market one day, and I, like a stupid idiot, carried my Louis Vuitton and wore my wedding ring on one hand and anniversary band on the other. I sported my prada shoes and tailored shorts - yes I actually wore shorts, save your applause until the end of the piece - and somehow convinced myself that this would be a good idea. Somebody tranqulize me before I hurt myself. I was in rare form of stupid that day. So, as we were walking through this flea market, of course all the vendors are grabbing at our attention with things that were, "the best deal in Mexico!" and "so cheap, almost free!". One of the kids, who was selling knock off hand bags, asked me how much I paid for my Louis, and then told me I could get a very realistic fake for next to nothing. I considered buying it because I felt bad for him and while I wouldn't carry it, what's the difference? This kid obviously needed whatever money I could spend at his booth. While I was contemplating my benevelonce, he effing tried to make off with my purse. The real one. The one I should never have carried to the flea market. He didn't get far, because this fat girl can run when the need arises, but I checked my anger when I caught up to him because he's just a kid. And totally in survival mode. I'm sure he thought it wouldn't make any difference to me, that I could just buy another one and he could live richly off the spoils of his theft for who knows how long. All this is probably true, but my feelings of charity don't extend that far.

I learned my lesson that day, and removed the trappings of the appearance of money the next time we left the resort. Everyone still tried to sell us everthing in sight, and we bought a bunch of crap to take home and tuck away in the storage closet, but there were no more close calls with pick pockets. And I? Well, probably against my better judgement, I found that boy again and bought that fake purse. He's just trying to feed his family; I can't find fault with that.

Never to fear, the wonderfully witty and exceptionally educational banter you are doubtless missing and expecting from me now that I am home again is forthcoming, it just won't be right now. Right now I am babying my last (and most painful) jellyfish sting (freaking jellyfish!) and nursing the allergic reaction that came with it. (Do I have to be allergic to everything?) Plus, there is about, oh I would say, nine hundred? Loads of laundry that are begging me to wash the sand and salt water from them. So for now, here is our trip in pictures. Well, some of them. Don't be surprised to see more in the coming days. After all, we are one smokin' hot family.

Josh and Mama on the beach...pay no attention to the pasty white Montana skin. It deepens in color as the week goes on.















In the pool after Jellyfish incident Number One. Slightly scared of swimming in ocean at this point, and pool deemed safe alternative. Plus, there were slides.












Um, what kid shouldn't have a sand throne?













Family picture at sunset. Aw.













More to come friends; I have stories. Believe me, I have stories. Here's a sampling, a taste if you will, of what is to come.

Dear Madam Jellyfish...

Braids, lady? You want braids amiga?

So cheap! Almost free!

No, Mr. Customs Agent, those aren't Cuban cigars! Why did we take the little paper off? Because we didn't like it! Not to hide the fact that they're Cubans...

And there have been more lessons learned; you bet.

To contact Stephanie Delger, the author/owner of
Mama Still Wears Gucci, please email stephanie.delger@yahoo.com

If you would like to advertise, request a review, or sponsor a giveaway on Mama Still Wears Gucci, please indicate as much in the subject line of the email.

Thank you, and keep reading!

The first half of my trip has been most educational. World traveler that I am, I can tell you that there are lessons to be learned from cultures that are not our own. This is, in part, what I have learned so far. I´m not going to tell you all of it right now because, well, I want to keep you in suspense and I need to get my fat ass back on the beach.

1. If one is swimming in the ocean, and one feels some sort of slimy sea creature swim betwixt one´s bare legs, it is perhaps not an acceptable plan of action to shout, ¨Shark!¨ and book it the hell out of the water.

2. Too much tequlia and too much sun does not a nice summer afternoon make. Ask James.

3. If one is a rich American princess who wears Prada shoes and has diamond bedecked hands, one should not venture too far out of the resort. Ever.

4. ¨Pepsi Light¨ is not the equivilent of American DC.

5. If one is overly concerned about the safety of one´s child (or children in general) one should not look from side to side when driving along the Mexican freeway. If one does, one will see babies crawling all over cars and toddlers in the back of pickups. Eek.

This is by no means a comprehensive list, but sand and surf beckon, and I must now answer their siren call. And if I get stung by one more jellyfish, I will not be responsible for my actions.

If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. Hardly seems worth it.

If you "fluffed" consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. Refer to "Words I Don't Say" for an explanation of "fluffed".


The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet. Sweet. But how to harness that energy for evil?


A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. If I believed in reincarnation, in my next life I'd totally get to be the pig.


A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death. Foul. I'm still not over the pig.


Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories a hour. I'm always looking for new ways to work out.

The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. Wow. Sort of takes the fun out of the whole thing. For the male anyway.


The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. Seriously, thirty minutes! Can you even imagine?


The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. What do I hate more than fish? Cats. What is the most evil creature on the planet? The fish and cat combined. The freaking catfish. Foul.


Some lions mate over 50 times a day. I still want to be that pig. Quality over quantity.


Butterflies taste with their feet. Gross disgusting bugs. Kill them all.


The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. What about the pig? It all comes back to the pig in the end. Right?


Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. Um, duh. Left handed people are, as a rule, freaks of nature. It has been speculated that they have no soul.


Polar bears are left-handed. If they switched, they'd live longer. And grow a soul.

Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. Poor elephants. I bet the pig can jump, but does he have the energy?


A cat's urine glows under a black light. Further proof that cats are the spawn of Satan himself.


An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. I hate birds.



Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure. Are you telling me the pig feels nothing for the entire thirty minutes? What's the point then?

Dear Ma and Pa,

I am well. Hope you are. Tell brother Walt and brother Elmer the Marine Corps beats working for old man Minch by a mile. Tell them to join up quick before all of the places are filled.



I was restless at first because you got to stay in bed till nearly 6 a.m. but I am getting so I like to sleep late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you do before breakfast is smooth your cot and shine some things. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, fire to lay. Practically nothing.



Men got to shave but it is not so bad, there's warm water. Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on chops, potatoes, ham, steak, fried eggplant, pie and other regular food, but tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by the two city boys that live on coffee. Their food, plus yours, holds you until noon when you get fed again. It's no wonder these city boys can't walk much.



We go on 'route marches', which the platoon sergeant says are long walks to harden us. If he thinks so, it's not my place to tell him different. A 'route march' is about as far as to our mailbox at home. Then the city guys get sore feet and we all ride back in trucks.



The country is nice but awful flat. The sergeant is like a school teacher. He nags a lot. The captain is like the school board. Majors and colonels just ride around and frown. They don't bother you none.



This next will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing. I keep getting medals for shooting. I don't know why. The bulls-eye is near as big as a chipmunk head and don't move, and it ain't shooting at you like the Higgett boys at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable and hit it. You don't even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes.



Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain't like fighting with that ole bull at home. I'm about the best they got in this except for that Tug Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I'm only 5'6" and 130 pounds and he's 6'8" and near 300 pounds dry.



Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.



Your loving daughter,
Alice

This is my first attempt at the scheduled posting phenomena, so I hope I don't F it up. I was having trouble deciding what to write about, because I usually draw from the circus that is my daily life, but since Saturday and Sunday and so on have not yet happened, that's slightly difficult. Thus, I have decided for this maiden voyage to list for you some more fabulously useless trivia about yours truly.

1. If I could choose one of the Deadliest Catch captains to marry, it would definitely be Phil Harris. No contest.

2. Sometimes, when James is asleep, I tickle his ear with my hair. Then he thrashes about in his sleep and I laugh maniacally.

3. I am in Mexico and you are not.

4. I have not worn a pair of shorts in nearly ten years. Will I wear them in Mexico? I bought some and packed them, but whether or not they shall clothe my person remains to be seen.

5. I hate - hate - Tom Cruise. I would totally do a little dance if he, say, fell off a couch he was jumping on and broke his skimpy little neck. Just saying.

6. I just asked James' permission to write a certain something about a certain someone for number six, but he said no. He's mean. He never lets me do anything fun.

7. Sometimes I wonder if James is part vampire, because he bites, and his teeth are like tiny razors. That, and I can't see his reflection in the mirror.

8. I cannot parallel park. There's just no way. And it's not because my car is 400 feet long. Even before I drove the biggest SUV on the road I couldn't parallel park. I could be driving a Moped and not be able to park it along the curb in a backwardly motion.

9. I make probably the best home made salsa known to man. You can buy the recipe for one million dollars.

10. I hate cats. Mainly because they feed on human souls.

And that would be the extent of my Spanish skills.

Hell and high water have come, but I am still going to Mexico, despite my swollen eyes and constricted throat. I am certainly better than I was, and hopefully I will feel even better by tomorrow, but I think my hopes of being completely recovered before I leave were somewhat pie in the sky. Oh well, nothing a little sand, sun, and salt water can't cure, right?

We just finished the majority of our packing; James typed up a packing list - a three page packing list - and everything on there is either in our bags or still at Target waiting to be purchased. It's slightly nightmarish to pack three people for seven days, but they don't call me Supermom for nothing.

James is quite proud of me for only bringing three pair of shoes. My suitcase and my heart are certainly feeling the lack of gorgeous footwear, but my family assures me I will survive. We shall see...

So, since I know you will just miss me like crazy, I've decided to try out the whole "write now, post later" thingy. We'll see how that works. If what I write in the next five minutes shows up for you on Saturday, you will know I met with success. If not, I guess you'll see first hand how retarded I can be when it comes to technology.

Adios, amigos. Mexico is calling.