I'm stealing this one. I read saw this idea on Bryan's blog today, and I've seen it around several other places and I thought? Yeah, it's time. I'll take that on.

So here are ten things that I believe. Enjoy.

1. There is no such thing as too many shoes or too many matching handbags. And I don't care what those idiots on the TLC fashion program say, shoes and bags should in fact match. There are just some fashion rules not to quibble with, and this is one of them.

2. Even still, since Josh was born especially, my shoes and bags don't always match. There, I said it.

3. There is no human or civil right more important than the basic human right to life. This right applies to all people, be they young, old, born, unborn, sick or well. Without the basic right to life, what difference do the other ones make?

4. Ronald Reagan was the greatest president in the history of the United States.

5. Some things are just pure evil. Like cats and mayonnaise. Oh, and cheap shoes.

6. Friends and spouses are fantastic, and are such an important support system. But sometimes, no matter how old she is? A girl just wants (needs) her mama.

7. The children's show Calliou was created specifically to make me go insane. When ever it comes on, I pull on my hair, chew the inside of my lip, and mutter about burning down the building. Freaking Calliou. Hate you.

8. There's nothing better than coming in from an afternoon of playing in the snow to a cup of steaming hot chocolate with marshmallows.

9. My kitchen still needs remodeling.

10. Grasshoppers are vile, disgusting creatures that serve no discernible purpose and should be systematically destroyed. In a torturous manner.

Well, that was fun.

Oh yeah, and watch this from beginning to end. I hope it will open some eyes...

Dear Grocery Store Bag Boy,

Just a quick note to say "thanks" for taking my groceries out to my car today. Allow me to highlight, if I may, some of my particular appreciations of your behavior.

I enjoyed how you raced outside as if we were running the final stretch of the Boston Marathon, because if there's one thing a fat pregnant girl with a toddler in tow wants to do, it's run.

It was so cute how you rammed the cart into the back of my car, and then became visibly frustrated when trying to open the back before I'd unlocked it. Allow me to apologize for not being quick enough on the draw, but I was still recovering from our little sprint.

When I put "eggs" on my grocery list today, I didn't specify that they be broken, in fact, I kind of expected them to be in tact. But that is only because I didn't realize the benefit of already cracked eggs. So I give you this one! You knew better than I that putting eggs underneath two bottles of juice in a grocery bag and then heaving the whole thing as far back into the trunk as possible is really a good thing. I appreciate the favor, dude.

Which leads me to my next and final point. I've never been called "dude" before. I mean, I've other nicknames. Some of them are silly like "mama". Sometimes my husband calls me "honey" or my mom calls me her "baby girl". But until today I have never been called dude, and quite frankly? It was music to my ears.

So, keep up the good work, my little prepubescent friend. Soon you'll make enough money to buy that new Lego set you were raving about.

Best,
"Dude"

I'm sure everyone will recall the doctor crisis of two weeks ago. In fact, I'm confident most of you have been losing sleep over it because, if there's anything to keep at the forefront of your mind, it's the health and well being of your favorite Gucci Mama, right?

Well, my hand wringing friends, you may now rest easy. I have found a doctor and she flipping rocks. Her nurse is also fabulous, which is important, because I have a strict rule of only disrobing in front of people I have no intention of strangling. You'd be surprised how few people actually fit into this category.

So I have birth plan, which hasn't differed from what I thought it would be. I've always been pretty adamant about having another C-section, since my first labor experience was such a horrifying exercise in impossibility, but I was beginning to waffle a little bit because, well, I don't know actually. I was never in danger of actually wanting to give birth under the stars in a field of lilies or in a blow up pool or the bathtub, but contrary to earlier insistence, the word VBAC did enter my mind. For approximately fifteen seconds.

I did my research, and I actually found a great website that delves extensively into not just VBAC, but HBAC, which means "Home Birth After Cesarean". Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. But this site is a great resource for moms on the fence between VBAC and repeat cesarean. I was never on the fence, to be sure, but I did want to make sure I was making the right choice, and as i turns out? I am.

With my text book full of medical anomolies, I'm just not a candidate, and quite frankly, this is fine with me. I've never felt guilty or cheated because I didn't push a baby with a 20 centimeter head circumference through a ten centimeter passage. It's just not natural to force a bowling ball through a garden hose. So I'm not going to do it.

I take great offense to people saying a C-section isn't a real birth. Because I had one with Josh, and I'm pretty sure he's a real child. I think I fed him real breast milk (until I didn't, and then gave him formula...the accounting of which on this blog caused great controversy). I'm also quite positive that I missed out on a lot of real sleep because of his real cries in the night, and I think that the legs he runs around on now and the fingers he uses to get into everything he can see are very real. So don't tell me I didn't have a real birth. Birth is such a tiny part of the picture of motherhood, and I refuse to get hung up in the muck and mire of mommy guilt over the way I choose to bring my children into the world.

Lord knows I have enough guilt over real things, like the time I let Josh go out in the backyard without shoes on and he stepped on a dead bird, or the time I let him have a cookie for breakfast.

My eating habits this weekend have been less than stellar. Let me give you an example. Last night for dinner I had a cheddar cheese bagel with garlic cream cheese and a bowl of Lucky Charms. I had a Diet Coke for breakfast today and Spiderman macaroni and cheese for lunch. I'm not proud of myself.

I usually love to cook, and let's not kid ourselves, I rock the kitchen. When Iron Chef Bobby Flay needs some new recipe ideas? Yeah, he calls me at home. But since I've had to cut almost all the salt out of my diet, not to mention the fact that powerful odors (and by powerful I mean anything I can faintly smell) make me, um, cast up my accounts, I haven't been all that excited about making meals.

I pretty much need to toughen up, because I'm not doing myself any favors with the kids cereal and DC. I also know my doctor is a regular reader, so I'm afraid I'm a little in for it over this little confession. But I'm braving the storm because I need to be held accountable; I really need to get this right. And I'm moving in the right direction. Up until this weekend I've been dutifully following this no salt, no fat, no flavor diet. After the Spiderman mac-n-cheese incident I purged my kitchen of "no no's". If it's not there, obviously I can't eat it. If it is...well, I never claimed to be afflicted with an abundance of willpower.

In other news...

Dear James,

Thanks, Sweetie, for cleaning the carpeting today. When I said to you this week that I was making an appointment with Kleen King because I can't stand my filthy carpets one more day, I truly truly was not trying to manipulate you into doing it yourself. I promise. Because, dear, you're great at a lot of things. And you made the carpet upstairs look several shades closer to it's original white. I'm just a little concerned that you feel you have perhaps wasted your day, as you started at nine this morning, it is now pushing two in the afternoon and, disregarding a short break for lunch, you've been at it non stop and have not yet finished the living room and hallway much less the stairs.

I envisioned a day of shopping and lunch while the professionals extracted the ickiness from my second floor dining room, hallway, and stairs. I'm sure you had visions of football dancing in your head, if it is in fact football season yet. So, um next time? Even though you've rocked my socks off with your ability to clean carpeting? You wanna just call the pro's? Still and all I remain,

Your Loving Wife

PS - When does football season begin? I have to shine my Sunday Shopping Shoes...you know how you like a nice quiet house for the game, and you know how I like to spend your hard earned money. Kisses.

Yup. I've been tagged again by none other than Dana at Boy oh Boy! I love reading her blog, because she writes about life with her fifteen thousand kids, all boys, and it's awesome. I totally see myself with that many children, hopefully some of them girls; and what's great about Dana is she shares my OCD compulsion to maintain an even number of children in the family. I can't diagnose her with OCD actually, chances are she's perfectly normal and just prefers evens to odds. I, on the other hand, am admittedly certifiable when it comes to things like even numbers and germs and doing my best to avoid left hand turns...

But I digress. On to the meme.

The rules are as follows:
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. List 6 unspectacular quirks you have.
4. Tag 6 bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each taggee's blog to let them know they've been tagged.


I am certain I can come up with more than a measly six unspectacular quirks about myself, but I think I'll follow the rules here and limit myself to a half dozen. A girl's gotta have some secrets, right? Sooo...

1. I once tried to dye my own hair after saying to myself when leaving the salon after a two hundred dollar treatment, "it can't be that hard". Turns out it can be, because the color on the box? So not always the color on your actual hair. What was described as "natural chocolate brown with subtle undertones of red" was in reality much more along the lines of "reflective traffic cone orange". So now I gladly fork over two hundred bucks just to know it's being done right.

2. There are certain, some may call them "common", English words I do not say. In fact, I can't even type them for you. But most of them have to do with bathroom activities and related parts of the body. There are others as well, but again, can't even type them, much less say them. Perhaps my husband, because he is a big meanie, will leave a comment to enlighten you.

3. I love Chinese food, and one of my favorite dishes is Chicken Fried Rice. The thing is, I'm not a big fan of the rubber peas and carrots. So I manually extract each and every one of them from the rice, chicken, and egg before I dig in. And when I say "I" do it, I actually mean I make James.

4. I will not drive alone in the dark without talking to someone on the phone. No, not ever. If I happen to be out and about when the sun has set, I will call my mom, my husband, my nail lady, my voicemail, or any voice attached to a living human (or robot/computer, I'm not picky) who is available to talk to me. Because, if I'm talking to someone, the mental hospital escapee who has sneaked into the third seat of my SUV will not be able to brutally slay me at a stop light in order to, later on, make a Stephanie Suit and wear my skin.

5. From the time Joshua left the hospital after being born, he has never gone anywhere without shoes on. I hate seeing babies without shoes. Don't even get me started on kids who can walk belonging to parents that don't worry about footwear. The germs! The germs! Plus, feet are ew-y. Well, everyone else's. Not mine or my baby's. But other than we two? Ew-y.

6. I have a Care Bears blankie. Which no one in my family is allowed to touch. I remind them of this often, and they know the consequences for breaking this rule are dire. So I'm the lone member of the Care Bears Blankie Club. Wish I could tell you about it, but the first rule of Care Bears Blankie Club? Is, predictably, don't talk about Care Bears Blankie Club.

So now, for the second set of rules I am forced to follow; the tagging and linking of the tagged.

I shall start with Sassy Pant Freckle Face. I'm interested to see what she'll reveal.

Then we'll move onto Justine's Froggy Bloggy, because I'm sure her answers will rock your socks off. Um, by the way, Justine? I noticed that you haven't used the new name I suggested for your blog? I'm sure everyone will agree that "Stephanie of Mama Still Wears Gucci is the Best Writer Ever" is essentially unbeatable when it comes to blog names. I know you're busy, but could you get on it? Please and thanks.

Of course next we have The Noodle Lounge. This is a blog I just discovered, and it's pretty sweet.

Following The Noodle Lounge we will travel to My Silly Blog to taunt, "tag you're it" because, well, really just because. Because this is a lovely blog written by a lovely lady, and well, I said so.

Oh crap. That's only four. But my brain and my hands, respectively, hurt from all this linking. It's work, which I think we all know is something I try very hard to stay away from. Right.

Anyway, this was fun. I hope you enjoyed this little peek into my oddities, and that it provides you with hours of mockery and laughter at my expense. Because after proof reading this? I realize I deserve it.

Earlier today I did commit to coming back to my keyboard over nap time to write a real post, and boy do I have something to say. This has been burning my fingertips begging to be typed since last evening.

First, let me say that I'm not a smoker, but I couldn't care less if you smoke. I am certainly not one of those people who would like to see smoking banned in all public places or even more ridiculously high taxes on tobacco. I think that businesses should have the ability to decide whether or not to allow smoking, and smoking or non-smoking patrons can make a choice based on their preference. I'm pretty confident that adults are capable of simple decisions such as these.

Everyone knows the dangers of tobacco use; people have been bombarded with the information for years. Some people still choose to smoke. Big fat ass deal. We also know the dangers of overeating, crash dieting, excessive alcohol use, and a whole host of other risky behaviors and choose to engage in them anyway. I say, whatever! It's a personal choice and it doesn't directly affect anyone else, knock yourself out.

What I don't get, what actually kind of aggravates me, is when people engage in these destructive behaviors at the expense of their small children. In the past week I have seen no less than four people smoking in their cars with infants in the back seat. Infants. These babies, um duh, are not capable of making the decision to stay out of harm's way; it is their parent's job to keep them safe. Why then, with everything we know about second hand smoke, early childhood development, and just plain old common sense, would anyone do this? Granted, I have never found myself in the throes of an addiction. I'm not belittling that struggle. But I cannot imagine feeling so great a need for something that is such a danger to my children.

Really, if you "just gotta have it", and I understand that a lot of people do, can you just wait until your baby is out of the line of fire? Let's forget about the second hand smoke for a minute, which is the most obvious danger. What about burns? What about toddlers and small children mimicking everything their parents do?

I'm not a big "government please get involved and save us from ourselves" type of girl. I'm a Reagan Republican after all. But I cannot help but think that there should be some sort of law prohibiting smoking in cars with small children. Perhaps we should at least let them grow out of car seats and diapers before they need tracheotomies and lung transplants.

Today, well this morning at least, I'm dutifully fulfilling requests and gracefully accepting awards. I won't be writing about the topic that has been burning in my brain until nap time today because there's only so much time before Play With Me Sesame. Josh and I watch it every day; he sits in my lap with his little PJs on, drinks his juice and snuggles during the whole show, until of course, it is time for "Ernie Says" at which point he jumps up and follows Ernie's commands as best he can. That's my favorite time of day, and I can't miss it. So, to tide you over until then, and to give my gal Justine something to sigh over, per her eloquently worded request, here are some pictures of my (smokin' hot) husband, whom you got to know a little bit better yesterday.




My stupid computer is being a butthole and I can't find any other pictures, nor can I make these the same size. To save myself the heart attack caused by sheer frustration, I'm giving up on these pictures. You're just going to have to trust me that's he's so hot he's practically on fire.

So now we move on to this fabulous award. Bridget from My Silly Blog gave it to me and totally made me blush by saying, "Mama Wears Gucci is a blog that I have recently become addicted to. Stephanie is a young mom with an adorable little "alien" boy and another bundle on the way. Stephanie's writing style always has me in stitches. Check out this great blog, you'll be glad you did!" Thank you, my friend; I'm thrilled.




The rules are to pass it on to five people who will then pass it on to five more people and so on until it...well, actually, I suppose it's never supposed to stop. So, people that I pick, keep passing it on and on until one day our children's children are still copying and pasting links to bestow upon worthy bloggers this awesome pink award. And now to choose.


First is Your Friendly Neighborhood Sex Goddess. She's pretty new to our little world, but she has fantastic stories about her two girls and other fun, snappy things. So check her out, she rocks.

The next blog I choose is Bullet Point Theatre. Have I given this one an award before? I don't know...I"m having a little deja vu over here. Huh. Maybe I just had a dream about it. Anyway, I pretty much just think he needs a little more pink on his page. So there.

Now we have Steenky Bee. This is a blog I've only recently discovered, and I'm so glad I have. It's sweet. So go now, you'll be glad you did.

So there's three, which is not equal to five, but I've never been much of a rule girl. And it's now time for Play With Me Sesame. So maybe there will be some more nominees after "Ernie Says".

So, this is a great idea. I've noticed some other bloggers creating an "Embarrass Your Husband" post today, and the only thing I don't like about it was that it wasn't my idea. So we begin....with a picture.

I know it's a little blurry, but I do like the expression. James was a Bradley gunner in Iraq. So this is a picture of him doing, well, whatever the hell that means.

The next part of this little idea I loved and stole is to answer these questions about my one and only. So here we go.

1. He's sitting in front of the tv, what is on the screen?
Extreme Engineering, Myth Busters, and whatever I happen to be watching if I won the race downstairs and threw myself upon the remote before he could snatch it and turn on something stupid. Like the two shows I named above, for example. Or Webster.

2. You're out to eat what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Ranch. No imagination with his food, this guy. Well at least with his salad. He does like to eat imaginative things for the sole purpose of grossing me out the door. Like buffalo. And ostrich.

3. What's one food he doesn't like?
Pickles. Because he is an alien.

4. You go out to the bar, what does he order?
Gin and tonic. Sometimes, if he's feeling extra classy, he springs for a pitcher of PBR. Mmmm.

5. Where did he go to high school?
Bozeman Senior High. Where he met me. And for some reason did not take an immediate liking to me. Further proof he's an alien.

6. What size shoe does he wear?
12

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?
Coins. He also has every. single. paper and project he ever created in school from kindergarten on. I wish I was making that up. It's all in boxes in my storage room downstairs. I tried to get rid of it last time we moved, but he caught me. Damn.

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
Monte Cristo. Because who doesn't like meat on french toast with jam? Oh wait, EVERYONE WHO'S NOT DISGUSTING.

9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
Why, anything that I cook, of course.

10. What is his favorite cereal?
Honey Bunches of Oats if he's having a grown up day. If he's having one of those "I'm a two year old" days, then he prefers Trix. Silly Husband, Trix are for kids.

11. What would he never wear?
Shoes with tassels, no matter how much I beg, or turtle neck sweaters, no matter how many I've purchased for him. What does he wear? Well, my personal favorite is his weekend selection, the faded and ripped "Grumpy's Saloon" T-shirt he's had since high school. Yum.

12. What is his favorite sports team?
I'm not sure he has a favorite. I stopped talking about sports with him after the horrible "Wife said something mean about the Cornhuskers incident of 2003". I don't like to think about it. It was a dark time. And I've never made that particular mistake again.

13. Who will he vote for?
McCain. They say if you aren't a liberal when you're young you don't have a heart, and if you're not a conservative when you're old, you don't have a brain. I don't think we're all that old, but we sure do have BIG brains in this conservative family.

14. Who is his best friend?
Other than moi? The idiot who was his best man that gave a totally inappropriate speech at my wedding reception which resulted in my mom wrestling the microphone from his meathooks. Grr.

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn't do?
Um, I think my OCD cleaning tendencies get to him a little bit...but I don't know why. A clean home is a happy home.

16. How many states has he lived in?
Just two. California and then Montana. I think we'll move sometime in the next several months however, if he accepts a new job which I am not yet allowed to talk about (oops) so we may be adding another to the list.

17. What is his heritage?
Irish. He has flaming red hair. He's so cute.

18. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
Red Velvet or double chocolate fudge. One year I did both, but I'm pretty sure that was a one time deal.

19. Did he play sports in high school?
He played football and he was a wrestler. Rawr.

20. What could he spend hours doing?
Gazing at my perfect face. Duh.

Just a quick note to say...follow me! Come on, feed my ego a little here and let me know that I have fans. Give me reason to exclaim, "They like me, they really like me!" So far I have five of the best fans around, but I'd really like to add to that number. So come on, you know you want to. Allow your gaze to drift to the upper left hand corner of this page, then simply click the "follow this blog" link (or whatever it says...something like that). And then? Well, then I'll rest easy in the knowledge that my words are making a difference. Or at least making you laugh. Or glad you're not me. You know, or something.

While you're here, be sure to check out today's main post, dedicated to one of my favorite topics, my son's butt.

Josh's vocabulary has exploded in the last week or so, which is awesome, since I was a little worried he didn't have quite as many words as he should at his age. I know how smart he is - utterly brilliant actually - but he just wasn't all that into talking. We're moving beyond that now, it seems. And it's lovely. He's so proud of himself every time he masters a new word, and of course I am thrilled with it as well.

I am also learning that this talking thing is a bit of a mixed blessing. Kids are missing the filter of what is and is not acceptable speech, which for the most part is kinda cute, until your son calls himself a butt. And cracks up. OK, even that is a little cute.

He can say his name. He can! We've practiced and practiced, and when asked by me when we're all alone, he clearly says, "Josh". It's unmistakable. BUT, in company, he says something just a little bit different, but the difference is significant.

I brought him into the salon to see my nail lady today, because I needed a quick nail repair and she hadn't seen him in a long time. So he was telling her things in his little Joshua language mixed with the new English words he's learning and we fell into the rapture of his cuteness. After some prompting from his proud mama, my nail lady asked Josh his name.

"Tush," he replied.

She looked at me questioningly. "Did he just call himself a 'butt'?"

I turned to look at my child and he, with an impish little gleam in his eye pointed at himself, smacked his own butt and said again, "Tush. Me Tush." And then rolled on the floor laughing.

It was quite hilarious, I must say. Little monster. I'm sure his daddy is so proud.

I just finished, in one sitting, one of the best books I've ever read. Seriously. And I read a lot of books. Like one or two a week when time permits. So I know my fiction and nonfiction, and this? Is absolutely fantastic. It is...



And it blew me away. It literally moved me to laughter, to tears, and everything in between. I think it will be life changing for so many readers; it certainly was for me.

WHAT THE PEOPLE ARE SAYING

"The main story was so complelling the first time through I just couldn’t put it down. The second time through, what I would call the hiddeness of the book just grabbed me. The third time something new and different. When you get it into your hands, I encourage you to read it many times. This is not a one-time read and it will be forever a part of who I am."
-Kent Burgess

"Your work is a masterpiece! There are tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. All I can think of is the others that need to read your words and I’m just as convinced that each one that reads it has those who also need your words."
-Chyril Walker, Ph.D.

"I've read and wept and slept and read again. I am full of words, inexpressible thoughts, shades and hues of hope and light and joy."
-Larry Gillis, Counselor

The accolades go on and on for pages. This book is simply incredible, and I am a little surprised at myself that I'm so over the moon for it. I mean, I love to read, but I don't usually find a treasure that lingers in my heart and mind like The Shack has. In fact, it has had such an impact on me that I want you to experience the same thing.

Here's what I propose. I want you to read this book; I hope you are touched by its words as deeply as I was. It is important enough to me to share this that I want to buy you a copy. So, you send me an email at mamastillwearsgucci@montanamamas.com and give me your address, then I'll send you the book. Simple as that; no strings attached. I hope you take me up on this. Truly, truly I do.

Joshua has been very helpful lately.



You know, by helping with laundry. And the preparation of breakfast.



Cheerios and laundry anyone?



Oh, and apparently he's not too interested in the clothes I picked out for him today. So he changed into his hockey shirt/toga.

I have the cutest boy alive; this is the proof.

1.) That this morning when Josh woke up and came into my bedroom I was so tired I lay in bed while he was playing, only to re-fall asleep without realizing it on account of the fact that I was dreaming about playing with him?

2.) And then when I got up for real, I heard a crackling sound in the living room and tore down the hallway in a panic thinking the house was on fire?

3.) And then was only slightly relieved when I discovered the house wasn't burning, but Joshua had been sitting at the top of the stairs throwing every. single. rock. out of the decorative rock garden in my entry way and playing with the plastic underneath?

What about the fact that...

4.) I fed him toast on a paper plate for breakfast because I couldn't muster my usual energy for eggs or malto-meal or, you know, anything better than toast?

5.) I'm thinking about allowing both of us to stay in pajamas today because I don't have it in me to get either of us dressed?

Or let us perhaps consider...

6.) The reason I'm so tired is because I couldn't sleep last night for thinking about ridiculous things like,

7.) How am I going to get two kids in and out of car seats at the grocery store all by myself?

8. How am I going to convince James we need to buy a new crib because I'm irrationally afraid of Josh being jealous about the new baby using "his bed"?

9.) Holy crap I'm having another baby! And I've never been more excited, nervous, thrilled, scared stiff, or happy in my entire life. You know, other than the first time this baby thing happened

Is it wrong?

Who knew it would be this hard? I have been searching high and low for an OB with whom I feel comfortable, and one that will do things according to my plan, not hers. I've seen several, yet none so far are really fitting my bill.

Yesterday I saw my internist for some referrals, and practically got down on my knees and begged her to do my prenatal stuff, because she is essentially perfect. Love her. But she won't do it. She's mean. Either that or I'm too high risk. I know this, I know all my stupid stinking complications make taking care of me a little more, shall we say, interesting. And I know I need specialized care. But I've kind of found with the doctors I've interviewed that the "ability to provide specialized care" is kind of another way of saying. "asshole".

I don't want someone to patronize me. I don't want someone who takes my care completely out of my hands. I don't want someone to pat me on the head and tell me to just leave everything to them. And I especially don't want someone who tells me more than once at our first meeting that some bodies just aren't meant to carry babies, and having an abortion would be the best thing for everyone. You can bet the partners in his practice are getting a strongly worded letter. Ass.

So what's a girl to do? I think I have simple wants and needs, really. It shouldn't be this hard to find someone to meet them. I want someone who respects my pre-natal choices; by that I mean someone who simply supports me continuing my pregnancy. I want someone who will do a repeat C-section without yipping about VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) because I know my body can't handle the trauma of labor a second time. I want someone who has the expertise to care for someone who is high risk, but the compassion to treat me like I have half a brain. Seriously, is that too much?

I've exhausted almost all of my options. My internist did give me a referral for a doctor in the one office I haven't yet visited, and she assures me that this is the one I want. I trust her; I'm confident that this will be the one. Unfortunately I can't get in for two weeks, so I have to wait, but that shouldn't be a problem. I know what I have to do to keep things going smoothly until then.

And in two weeks, we hope and pray that this new doctor is the one, because the alternative then is doing my c-section in my kitchen with a chef's knife, and that just doesn't sound sanitary.

Dear Eating,

I heart you.

Affectionately Yrs.
Stephanie

Some of my cravings include hamburgers topped with fried eggs, fried chicken doused in maple syrup, and of course, Cheerios. I also enjoy anything smothered in a garlic-y sauce or anything that involves the consumption of pasta and bread. Unfortunately, none of these things are on the "Dash Diet" given to me by my doctor to manage my blood pressure during this pregnancy. CRAP.

When I was pregnant with Josh, I suffered from pre-ecclampsia (essentially complications from high blood pressure) which can cause everything from seizures to stroke. So not exactly something you want. The only cure is to give birth, so thankfully I was at 38 weeks which is considered full term. I was induced, spent the most hellish and horrible thirty eight hours of my life in labor, ended up with an emergency C-section, and my monster appeared and my blood pressure dropped back into the normal range. The thing is, they don't want that to happen again, and so I must - horror of horrors - watch what I eat.

Don't get me wrong, I don't really need to gain fifty plus pounds with my pregnancy (again) or suddenly wake up with blood pressure through the roof (again) and I certainly want to do what's best for my baby - which certainly includes keeping myself alive - so I'm going to do it.

But don't expect me to do it with a smile on my face. Leafy greens and lean meats indeed.

I think we all know by now that there are certain words I don't say, and that others know not to use in my presence. There are also, I have discovered, a whole host of phrases and words I never imagined would cross my lips. It has become clear to me that women learn a new language by virtue of becoming moms; they can speak and understand it when spoken even if no one else can.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say

"Joshua, we never put our toothbrush in the toilet. Ever."

"Joshua James Delger, Grammy does not appreciate or need to be spanked on the bottom. Please go say you're sorry."

"Why why WHY did you take everything out of the garbage can and stuff it in the toilet? I was gone for a minute and a half!"

"How did you get your diaper off with your pants still on? Are you Houdini? And where did you hide the diaper?"

I thought I was going to decode for you some Joshua language, but if you're not already an expert, I think it's probably just too hard to learn. Instead I have decided enumerate some "mom phrases" that are awesome, and some that just need to die.

First, The Awesome

"You're showing your ice cream!" This is not a common one, but it's my personal favorite. Sassy Pants uses it with her daughters, and it means, "Psst! Sit like a lady! Everyone can see your panties!" We talk in code, us moms.

"Nice butt." Said, of course, when child is toddling to the bathroom to take a bath. Wait. Am I the only one that tells her two year old 'nice butt'?

Well, I've sat here awhile, and those are the only "mom phrases" I can come up with that don't make me want to eat nails and then spit them at blind people. (Who, of course, can't see them coming. So I'm a little evil?) I can, however, think of several that...

Need To Die

"Sit on your pockets." Let's say what we mean and mean what we say, shall we? I realize "Plunk your ass down" might not be a suitable replacement, but the pockets thing? Refer to my predilection for spitting nails.

"Let's use our indoor voices." That makes me want to screech obscenities in a decidedly un-indoor voice.

Anything with the phrase "kinder-music".

"Play date". No. Just no.

Any kind of counting. I HATE the counting crap. Utterly useless. Totally ridiculous. Drives. Me. Nuts.

"Mommy loves you!" "Mommy needs to get dinner on the table" "Mommy can't stop referring to herself in the third person because she's an irritating idiot!" 'Nuff said.

It's kind of a learning experience, this motherhood thing. Please just don't let the day come when I let myself go enough to say, "Sit on your pockets and use your indoor voice at kinder music today or mommy will count to three!" Because then, I'll just have to stick my head in the oven.

Dear Hewlett Packard,

I have a bone to pick with you. I was under the impression that you were a manufacturer of computers, not pieces of crap with screens and buttons. Where did I go wrong? Was it when I did my research? When I ordered all the extras your little sales weasel convinced me I simply could not live without? Was it when I sent you fifteen hundred bucks?

Because I must say, I don't feel like I've gotten a value deal over here. I'm not a big computer girl. I don't know "how it works" or "what to do with it". I can't operate any of its functions beyond "turning it on" and "typing". I blame you for making it so decidedly unfriendly to the casual user such as myself.

Allow me to give you some examples. When I turn my computer on, I'd like to do so using the power button. Instead, the model you sent me is powered up by pushing the little silver button in the row of little silver buttons that reads, "DVD". Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't that button cause The Sound of Music - only the best movie of all time - to begin rolling its opening credits?

I wonder if I should have mentioned to your little sales man that I prefer my keys to remain attached to my keyboard. Because I neglected to specify, I am missing four or five keys from this thing, and I don't know where they are, how they went missing, or what they did when they were here. Maybe they were important. Now we'll never know, will we?

I guess what I'm saying is, I'm a little unhappy. This machine is not performing at what I feel should be its optimum level. When I click on things, they do not appear instantaneously, I'm not a big fan of the forty second battery life, and the cord that my husband had to repair with electrical tape because it malfunctioned in some fashion mere months after we bought it? Not my favorite.

Sorry HP, but the next time I'm in the market to be swindled on a "laptop" I'm going with Dell.

Best,
Pissy, Hormonal, Pregnant Gucci Mama

My boys love Saturday mornings. I get up extra early (joy) and make them a big Saturday morning feast. We have pancakes, eggs, sausage or bacon, cinnamon rolls and orange juice. It's delightful. Sometimes, if they're lucky, I let them partake downstairs in the play room so they can enjoy some cartoons. My grown boy appreciates this even more than my little one, I think.

But today I kind of dropped the ball. I want to keep the tradition alive even though I feel like so. much. crap. But I just wasn't up to cooking. All the work, the smells, the mess; my weak little stomach couldn't take any more abuse this morning. So I totally phoned it in with some store bought donuts, which admittedly, are almost as big a hit as my homemade feast.

The thing is, I'm kind of feeling bad about it. Not just the breakfast this morning, but the whole state of affairs in my house since this "morning" (read: every second of the day) sickness trapped me in its iron grip. I feel kind of, well, useless. I can't do much of anything at all. Yesterday, for example, there were dirty dishes in the sink all day until my dear friend Sassy Pants came over and took care of them. I haven't vacuumed anything this week (much less the drapes) and the laundry is piling up. I think we all know how absolutely manic mess makes me, so if this doesn't push me over the edge, the fact that I can't be as interactive with Josh right now just might.

He just wants to play! And be out and about and enjoy doing the things we usually do. But I just don't have it in me, physically, to make those things happen right now. And bless his perfect little heart, I think he's worried about me. Wednesday was the worst day I've had so far, and my little man was right by my side. Between rushes to the washroom, he was petting my hair, scratching my arm, and doing in his two year old way all the things I do for him when he feels icky. Minus the three am calls to the doctor and the general panic. But then, in complete heart melting gesture, he chubbed his way up the stairs, muscled open the refrigerator, plucked out a Diet Coke and then gathered some crackers off his snack plate to bring downstairs to me. Aw. I think what makes it more precious is that since he can't walk down the stairs without holding onto the rail he had to sacrifice either the DC or the crackers. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. He held the crackers up to his face, inspecting them. Then the DC. He weighed them in his hands as if deciding which could withstand the tumble down the stairs the best. He decided on the DC, and then the impish grin of being able to break the rules without fear of repercussion crossed his little features. He drew his arm back and hurled that can of pop down the stairs with as much force as his little body could muster. When he saw that his plan was successful, he just smirked to himself and made his way down the steps.

He delivered his goodies to me very gravely, as if he knew he was doing an important job taking care of mama. And he was. It just kind of breaks my heart a little that I'm so out of commission my almost two year old has to throw pop down the stairs to make me feel better.

I tell you, this vicious nausea better loosen its grip on me soon, because I'm afraid my family is suffering with me. I can't have that. Plus, my drapes are getting dusty.

I keep getting these emails. It never ends. For every one I erase, three more are sent in its stead, and so I feel I must now set the record straight. My penis needs no enhancement.

The email reads something like this:

Dear mamastillwearsgucci,

Are you feeling the strain of poor performance? Does your partner long for more romance? How would you like to rise above the rest? You don't need to feel embarrassed about needing some enhancement in that "special area". Do we have the answer for you! Penis Products has everything you need to increase your stamina, strength, and pleasure. Satisfaction guaranteed. You'll thank us, and your partner will thank us. Here's what some satisfied customers have to say about Penis Products.

"It's really changed my life. We're so much more open now in our relationship, Penis Products has helped us take things to a whole new level."

"This is the best thing you can buy for your penis."

"Penis Products saved my marriage! Thanks, Penis Products!"

So, mamastillwearsgucci, place your order today, and receive a special free gift with a purchase greater than $50.00. Your product will be shipped to you quickly and discreetly. Trust us, you'll thank us! Order from Penis Products today!

So, um, here's the thing. In case there's some confusion, I don't have a penis. If I did, which I don't, I'm quite sure I would not order some product off of the internet which I would then be required to ingest so that "special part" of the male body would, ah, grow. Because, ew. I guess what I don't understand is, this company is sending this letter to an email address wherein "Mama" is the first word. How many mamas do you know that would have any sort of use for Penis Products? And is Penis Products seriously the name of the company? Really?

Sometimes I wonder if people are just messing with me. But seriously? Joke's over. I'll be fine without any Penis Products unless or until I grow a penis. At which point you will find me drowning myself in the bathtub.

I don't like to get all weepy here, nor do I like to get political or write anything that can be construed as political (Sarah Palin post notwithstanding). So as I thought about writing a wah wah 9/11 post today I thought you know? I don't think I'm going to do that after all. I could have written about how it changed my life because it meant my husband would be sent to war for nearly two years a mere three weeks after our wedding. But who am I? It affected all our lives, and my husband got to come home. Many didn't. So many people didn't survive the day, so I should be counting my blessings.

I could write about remembering where I was when I heard the news (just getting out of the shower and happened to have the radio on). I could discuss how I felt about it, how it didn't seem real at first, and then the horror of it finally sinking in, but who can't? So I'm not going to do it.

I will continue to remember to pray for peace and healing for the families most deeply affected in my several snippets of conversation with God today, and I will continue to offer support to women whose husbands are deployed or facing deployment right now, because if I could have asked for anything when I was going through that, it would have been for someone who'd already been in that movie to "show me the ropes". And now? I'm going to write something funny, because I don't think any of us need to dwell too long on the tragedy of 9/11, rather we need to pick up our pieces and move on. Rebuild and vote republican! (Oops, forgot about my "no politics" rule for a second).

These are some funny little details about different members of my family that I, for some silly reason, allowed to pop into my head today when I haven't thought of them in years.

My little brother, who could never exactly be called an honor student, once "found x" on a math test by circling the "x" in the problem and writing, "here it is". Made his mama proud!

When my great grandma died my mom was dieting. She didn't have all that much to lose, but still hadn't reached her goal. So, when the day of the funeral came, she bought support panties to make her dress lay a little smoother across her midsection. What she didn't realize was that she had in fact purchased support thongs. She solved this problem by wearing a regular pair of panties underneath the support thong. Maybe it's wrong, but we laughed through the entire funeral. My mother just may kill me for sharing this story...

My sister once got in trouble at school for talking about putting her bow staff in her locker. She was pretending to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Zero tolerance is so asinine.

My husband, my protector. He's so sweet, really. He sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, and has been known to bolt upright in bed and do some sort of drunken Jackie Chan karate chop move when he hears a noise and wants to scare off the "intruder".

My son? Huh. Well, I don't have any embarrassing stories about Josh because he's too cute and perfect. I do have a cute and perfect one though. He has a "girlfriend" whom he chases about and tickles. She runs away and hides, but he's not fooled. She's just playing hard to get.

What? You thought I was going to write something embarrassing about myself? How cute! Alright, if you really want to walk down that road, you can do it at this post.

You enjoy that, I'm off to eat more fried chicken and maple syrup.

Larry and Bob were a bust, unfortunately. They were too big and scary. Much too big and scary. And very loud. I'm slightly concerned that Josh is overly sensitive to noises, because his reaction was entirely out of proportion to the level of noise in the theatre. He became hysterical if people were clapping, and the music sent him over the edge. We had to gather our dignity and shattered ear drums and leave early. Poor little man.

Now I'm on the stupid Web MD trying to learn why my toddler's ears are so sensitive and it's telling me everything from "he'll grow out of it" to he has a "magnesium deficiency" to he has "an inoperable brain tumor and has three weeks to live". Thanks, Web MD. Way to set my mind at ease. I'm about 95% sure there's no problem, but just to be safe, and to stick it to Web MD, we'll be seeing the ear nose and throat guy this week.

In other news, it is quite possible, nay, it is simply fact that I have discovered the single greatest food combination known to man. Are you ready for the secret? Let me warn you, don't mock this; James did but then he tried it and never looked back. Oh yeah, he ate his words and washed them down with a nice slice of crow filled humble pie. Because there is no dispute. Fried chicken smothered in maple syrup is by and large the tastiest treat in the universe. It is indescribable. I won't even try, for there are no words. Words like magnificent, stupendous, spectacular, terrific, out of this world, perfect, and amazing can't even do justice to the wonder that is fried chicken smothered in maple syrup. So don't wait. Get some now. Let me know how you like it. Wait. I already know you'll like it. So let me know just how much you enjoyed it, and then bring some over to my house.

So, anyone heard of Veggie Tales? It's a kid's cartoon and all the characters are vegetables? They sing songs like "Oh Where is My Hairbrush?" and "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything". You know, really catchy crap that gets stuck in your head for weeks at a time, and eventually causes you to contemplate suicide, something that would never otherwise cross your mind? Well, we're going to a live performance tonight.

It's not that I don't like Larry the Cucumber and Bob the Tomato. And Archibald the Asparagus is a pretty nice guy. I like them. I like the positive message the Veggie Tales send, and I like the educational factor. I just don't want the songs stuck in my head for the next fourteen weeks. That's all. I don't think it's too much to ask, quite frankly.

James is really excited that he "gets" to go. I've been doing a countdown with him since yesterday. [In obnoxious sing song voice] "Ja-aames! Thirty three hours to Veeeeegieeee Taaaaales!" He likes that. Today I've been sending him text messages with to the minute Veggie Tales updates, but I think he's turned his phone off. It must be that he just can't stand the anticipation, and is trying to get through the day as quickly as possible so six o'clock will get here and we can go already.

Josh and I have been doing a countdown as well. But he reacts quite differently than his big meanie of a daddy (turn off his phone indeed). When I remind Josh that it's almost time for Larry and Bob, he claps and spins around in a circle once or twice. I interpret this as excitement, and have taken to calling it "The Larry and Bob Fever Dance".

So, it should be a pretty sweet night. It will be worth it to see the joy on my child's face when he sees his favorite characters in real life. If the seven foot tall vegetables don't scare the crap out of him that is. Huh. Hadn't thought of that...

I continue to be surprised at the things that will come out of people's mouths when speaking with a pregnant woman. I am further amazed and appalled at what their brains convince their bodies it is OK to do. To that end, I have created a list of strict guidelines that one should follow at all times when one finds oneself in conversation or close quarters with a pregnant woman. Otherwise? That hormonal creature could just lash out at one and one would never be quite the same.

1. No touchie. Why is this not obvious? I don't get why people - perfect strangers - think it's OK to touch me. It isn't. I further don't understand why these same people find themselves thinking it perfectly reasonable to put their grubby paws all over my son. I realize that he's so cute he doesn't seem real; I understand the compulsion to touch him in order to make sure a child so perfect isn't simply a figment of the imagination, but it just is not acceptable if I don't know you. And like you. And give you the go ahead. As for what looks like a basket ball under my shirt? HANDS OFF. I cannot stress enough how crucial it is. I have been known to bite. Because James knows how much I hate it when people touch me, he went so far as to buy me a shirt that says across the belly, "Touch and Be Destroyed". Gosh, I love that man.

2. "You must be due any day!" I respond to this usually in one of two ways, both designed to cause the maximum humiliation of the speaker. I will say either, "Yes! Any day about seven months from now! Crap, what a huge-o I am!" Or, and this is my personal favorite, "Oh, you think I'm pregnant? Ha ha. No, just fat. Thanks for the reminder!"

3. "You look awful! Are you getting enough protein? Enough milk?" People might yip about pregnancy being beautiful, but it does not feel beautiful. It never helps to begin a sentence with, "you look awful". Ever.

4. "So, are you going to have a VBAC?" A.) I think it is a private decision how one's second child is going to be born after mom had an emergency c-section with the first one. 2.) The acronym VBAC? (Meaning vaginal birth after cesarean) does not exist in my vocabulary. To be fair, this only refers to people who don't know my situation. For those of you I have let in on my thoughts and reasonings, ask away. I'll be happy to explain it. Check out lady at Target who reads my blog and therefore knows I had a C-section, you are not included in this group.

5. "You're huge! You get bigger every time I see you!" There was this idiot that said this to me all the time when I was pregnant with Josh. No.

6. Blaming real emotions on hormones is unacceptable, the exception being the pregnant woman herself doing so. Then anything goes. But if, for example, I am on an airplane trying to sit my gigantic ass down and some jerk bumps into me, spilling my hot coffee all over my lap, it's OK to cry. That's not hormones. That is the horror of pain and frustration.

7. If you are the jerk that made the poor pregnant woman cry after you bumped into her and made her spill her hot coffee all over her lap when she's trying to settle into her minuscule airplane seat? Don't laugh about hormones with your idiot friend, talk about how your wife was the same way when she was pregnant, or make some snide remark about first class seating not being big enough. Because if you do, I will not be responsible for my actions. Like accidentally kicking you in the nuts when I get up to use the ladies room. Twice.


This is not hard, folks. Truly it isn't. I have gone my entire life without touching a stranger's stomach or manhandling their baby without permission. I would never dream of even asking. Frankly, it irks me to even have to write this. But? I write from life. And life, lately, is starting to drive me nuts with this crap.

James had drill this weekend, and he always has some "fun" stories about his weekends spent with two hundred other guys wearing camouflage and shooting their little guns. Usually I nod and smile and think to myself, "now I have a whole month free of army talk, until drill time comes around again." And so I make it through.

This time, though, he brought something home that I thought was so stinking funny I hung it up on my fridge. I'm going to share it with you, and hope you like it.

*Warning - Not for PC types or those easily offended. Army weekends are not about fuzzy feelings and dancing on rainbows. If you're easily offended, don't read it. If you own a sense of humor and can undertake not to take this seriously, and realize that I don't take it seriously either, then by all means...read on.

Hurt Feelings Report

Date:_________________________
Time of Hurtfulness:__________am/pm

A. Which ear were words of hurtfulness spoken into: Left or Right or Both
B. Is there permanent feeling damage: Yes No
C. Did you need a tissue for tears: Yes No

Reasons for filing this report: Please circle Yes or No.

1. I am thin skinned. Yes No
2. I am a pussy. Yes No
3. I have woman-like hormones. Yes No
4. I am a cry baby. Yes No
5. I am a little bitch. Yes No
6. I want my mommy. Yes No
7. I am a Queer. Yes No
8. All of the above. Yes No

Name of "Real Man" who hurt your sensitive little feelings____________________.

If you feel that need someone to hug go home to mommy and let her hug ou and change your diaper. I fyou feel as though you need to speak to someone to soothe you please call one of these two numbers: 1-800-CRY-BABY or 1-888-SIS-GIRL

Girly man who filed report_____________________________
Signature of girly man_________________________________

Real Man (Person who is being brought up on charges_____________________________
Signature of Real Man___________________________________________

Supervising Officer's Signature

So, we're going to start using this, I think. Sometimes I get emails or nasty comments about some horrible offensive thing I've written, and I always want to treat those concerns with the gravity they deserve. So, from now on, we'll use this form. You can fill it out and email it to me. I promise I'll file it in a special place and your concerns will be addressed.

Oh. My. Gosh. I think my child may be an alien. I can't provide concrete proof; his skin only turns green and his antennae only come out when he's sleeping, and when I try to take a picture he lifts up his glowing ET finger and scrambles the digital picture on the camera. But he and I both know the truth. Here's how I can tell.

1.) His "language". Total gibberish! Because I've been around him so long, I've picked up a little bit of his native tongue, but no one else can understand him. This is likely because mere earthlings don't typically speak Martian.

2.) He can fly. He ties one of James' coats around his neck and flies off the side of the couch. This is practice for when he's old enough to start flying other places in the universe. Right now he's restricted to the play room, but that will soon change. I also think he only uses the jacket and couch to throw us off his alien scent. He doesn't really need them.

3.) His diet. He eats things humans simply would not be able to force down. Play dough, socks, lint from the dryer, bars of soap, that kind of thing. I think the reason he gets mad when I take these things away is not because he's enjoying playing with them and likes to explore them further by putting them in his mouth, but because they are staples of his diet, and without them he gets hungry.

4.) His lack of fear. Have you ever heard of a human child who's not afraid of the dark? Neither have I! But Josh is not afraid of the dark, rather, the night light drives him nuts. Whether this is because the light prevents him from sleeping or because the lack of light causes me to fall and hilarity to ensue has yet to be determined.

5.) His required hours of slumber. Ever seen Mork and Mindy? Remember how Mork only needed like fifteen minutes of sleep? Yup, Josh too.

6.) His magical healing powers. No matter how sick I am with this pregnancy, how bad/stressful/difficult of a day I'm having, he can melt all of it away by laying his head on my shoulder and saying, "Mama wuuuv".

He may be an alien, but he's my alien. And maybe I'll put him through college by sending a picture of him in his natural state to the National Inquirer. If I can get him to stop fiddling with my camera.

Dear Morning Sickness,

You've had your fun. Now back off me. And seriously? Change your name, because "morning" sickness is so misleading. I'd suggest something like "all the damn time" sickness, or "at the worst possible moment" sickness, or perhaps even, "wake you up in the middle of the night and barely give you enough time to get to the bathroom" sickness.

I don't think it's cute that you visit me in the middle of the night. I don't remember giving you my house key. I thought you got the memo when I was pregnant with Josh. I don't do morning sickness. You only visited me twice, and very briefly, and then you left me alone. It's been over two years now since we broke up. What makes you think I want you back now?

I'm going to have to ask you to pack up your desk, and I'll have security escort you to the door. This vomit factory is officially closed.

Best,
Pissy Pregnant Gucci Mama

Crap! I used to love politics. That's what I studied in college; and I planned on a career of some sort in that field. Other than a very little tiny bit of writing on the subject, I have not done this. Boy am I glad. As it turns out, while I have a few issues I'm passionate about, politics just isn't my thing anymore. I have so much to worry about in a given day, I don't have anything left to quibble and get worked up over things I won't be able to fix immediately. Maybe that's a stinky attitude, but there you have it.

However, I'm coming out of my "no-politics" zone for a few minutes here to discuss something I am so over hearing about. Why, then, am I giving it more attention? Because I have something to say, dammit! And I hope I'm not the only one who's seeing this disturbing pattern.

What I'm about to say may shock you, so please, make sure you're sitting down and you've taken any required heart medications or sedatives or what have you. Sarah Palin? Is a woman. And? She's a mother. Holy crap! What is this woman doing outside the home? And she has a child with Down's Syndrome! And her 17 year old is pregnant! Is there a reason we have not yet burned this woman at the stake? Do I sound like a democrat yet? Because seriously, with the exception of two posts out of about fifty that I've read, they all say the same thing. I get disagreeing with political persuasions. I would not vote for Hillary Clinton if she was the last woman in a pantsuit on the planet. I don't want people to vote McCain/Palin because there's a - gasp - female in line for the Vice Presidency. That's stupid. Here's what I want. 1.) For everyone to wise up and become a republican. Ha. 2.) For the same people who bitch and whine that Hillary Clinton lost the nomination because she's a woman and will say that if Obama loses the election it's because he's black to stop attacking Sarah Palin because she has a family and she's daring to do something so unprecedented as make a go for Vice President. So far I haven't heard anyone disagree with her politics; I've just heard people make fun of her and take cheap shots at her family. I think I know why. I think the Left is threatened by a young, gorgeous, intelligent woman who supports gun rights and the right to life. I don't think they can get their heads around somebody like that, because they are so enamored of painting the Right as a bunch of stodgy white haired good old boys. Sarah Palin (and several others by the way) blow this little fantasy right out of the water.

So, please, love her or hate her, knock it off with the mockery and the defamation. She doesn't deserve it. Disagree with her politics if you want; but please, don't come crying to me with whines of racism and sexism about Obama and Clinton if we see a McCain/Palin victory. Because I really can't abide the hypocritical.

In other news, the political dynamo I've decided to cast my vote for may surprise you. I say...vote for Hallie and Sock Monkey! I think they have a pretty good shot. Visit Wonderful World of Wieners to learn all about it.

And if that falls through? McCain/Palin it is.

Seriously? I really haven't lost it on a total stranger in a long time. Like years. Well, not unless they really really deserved it. Other than that, I've really mellowed. Honest Abe, I have. I'm getting to be, gasp, kind of a nice person. I grin and bear it when people don't behave as they should in public. I've learned to walk away; I let a lot of things roll off my back.

But tonight? What happened tonight was quite simply the outside of enough. It was ladies night out, which Sassy Pants and I do once a week. Tonight, before arriving at our final destination, we whipped over to Subway to get her husband a sandwich. Aren't we sweet?

Anyway, the people working there were so doped up their eyes were rolling back in their heads, so they weren't getting anything right, which was mildly annoying, but as I said, I've mellowed. I didn't take them to task. Neither did SP, until they tried to (way) overcharge her for her food. Sixteen bucks for a sandwich and three cookies for her kids? I don't think so. So she says, "Um, wait. Why sixteen bucks? I don't think so." And explained why the total was wrong. The doper behind the counter was arguing, and telling her she ordered something she didn't order when I said, "No, I was standing right there; I heard what she ordered." Stop me if you think anything so far is out of line, because I'm not seeing the big deal here, or why Miss Snippy Snipperton Pants in line behind us felt like it was OK to pipe up with, "You know, you really should be nicer." And under her breath, "you don't have to be such a bitch."

It was then that I lost it.

I'm pregnant, I'm hungry, and no one calls another woman a bitch in my presence. I think it is so inappropriate, so offensive, it just singes my ears. This woman was completely out of line; this little butt-in to my business was utterly unprovoked. I don't remember what I said, actually, because I was pissed. I do remember telling her that I "found myself completely uninterested in her opinion" and the words "Miss Buttinsky" may have passed my lips, but other than that it's kind of a blur.

Now, to be quite honest with you, I'm a little ashamed of myself. I'm normally not such a hothead. Normally I get things accomplished in a hissing whisper, getting my point across while lookers-on assume I'm having a friendly chat. Tonight though, I let this woman have it. Oops. I'm not exactly proud of myself, but you know? She'll think twice before calling a total stranger a bitch again. I think she called me fat too, now that I've had a minute to recall. Hmm. I suppose I would suggest to her that she should, perhaps, tell me something I don't know. The fact that I have a mirror and a scale kind of took the sting out of that blow.

The moral of the story? Don't mess with a pregnant woman with an axe to grind. Or, don't get between a fatso and her food.

Today I had to face facts. Lucy? Stinks. I mean bad. She smells like she's been swimming in the bog of eternal stench. I've largely been able to ignore it since she spends most (all) of her time frolicking outside in the summer time, but now it's getting cold in Montana and she has migrated in. To my living room. Where it once smelled fresh and clean. Now it smells like a kennel. That has housed fourteen dead dogs. For three weeks. So, I'm not really a big fan of that.

The problem is, she hates going to the beauty parlor. I don't mean that she doesn't exactly enjoy it, but she'll do reluctantly. I mean it takes six men in white coats to truss her up and carry her bodily into the groomers where they then hold her down so the workers can slap some shampoo on her coat real quick-like. Unfortunately, the six men in white coats had another engagement today, and as I could not stand another minute of her stinking up my house, and she wasn't exactly keen on being sprayed with Febreeze, I made an appointment at Petsmart. The only time they could get her in (lucky me!) was during nap time. Swell. This means I had to keep Joshua up an extra half an hour, drive across town with Smelly in the car, and wrangle her all the way to the back of the store at which point I would leave for three hours and come back to a fresh smelling fluffy puppy. With a bow and possibly painted fingernails (paw nails?), if the sedative lasted long enough.

You know what they say about best laid plans. Josh fell asleep in the car. Lucy flung her curly little self into a full fledged puppy panic attack the minute we pulled into our parking space, and I? Forgot the damn leash. So, I had to go into the store, buy a leash because I could borrow one, they said, but not take it outside. Which was THE OPPOSITE OF HELP. So, I trooped back out to the car, sleeping child in tow, and coaxed Lucy from the farthest reaches of the back of the car, slipped the leash on and tugged. Nothing. This dog would not budge. Since I (brilliantly) did not have my stroller with me, I had but one hand with which to yank the dog where I wanted her to go, as the other was at that point trying to keep hold of a squirmy, cranky, crying child who just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

Twenty minutes later...

We get to the front door of Petsmart. Which was about ten feet from my car. The automatic doors are out of service (naturally), so as I was contemplating how I was going to open the door with my teeth (oh the germs!) a nice gentleman held it open for me. Or so I thought. I got halfway through it, paused to haul Lucy another three steps, and the jerk let the door close on me.

Ten minutes later...

I made it through the door after giving Ass Face a piece of my mind, and dragged a sixty pound mass of stinky fur through the store while carrying a 28 pound ball of crying monster.

Fifteen minutes later...

We made it. Relatively unscathed, actually. Now there are three peaceful hours before this cowgirl rides again. Why three? Does it really take that long? If your dog spit out the sedative in her food dish when you weren't looking and subsequently will not be able to sit under the dryer without having a heart attack, then yes it does.

Yeehaw.

I? Am freaking starving. I'm going to level with you; I gained 54 pounds when I was pregnant with Joshua, partially due to eleven weeks of bed rest, but mainly attributable to my love affair with food. Since I have lost that wait, I've come to enjoy not being such a fat ass and have grown determined not to throw myself off that particular cliff ever again. The problem? I finished my lunch, but now I want to start gnawing on the table.

Joshua? Is the cutest boy ever. I believe I've mentioned that once or twice. But today he has increased his cuteness ten fold. I just put him down for a nap, and when I checked on him a few minutes ago, he was sitting up in his crib with Bowie B. (his stuffed dog that he sleeps with that was my stuffed dog that I slept with when I was his age) sitting up in his lap and he was "reading" Bowie a book. He was turning the pages, following the words along with his finger saying, "blah blah blah dadadadadadadadadda dodododdodo blah blah blah". And if Bowie B. wasn't paying close enough attention, Josh smooshed his face down into the book. Take that, Bowie. Thanks Mom, by the way, for saving Bowie B. all these years.

James? Is in a little hot water. I've been begging him for awhile now to go to the courthouse and renew the registration on my Yukon and he was too "busy" and couldn't "make it". Well, now I have a "ticket". So the fact that he went down there and did it today seems to be just a mite too little, too late. But at least it's done now. Sixty five dollars worth of expired plates ticket later...

My pregnancy? Is going swimmingly, if you don't count the wild bouts of vicious nausea, extreme fatigue, and as mentioned previously, the voracious hunger. Maybe the fact that I'm so sick this time will act as a counter balance to the whole weight gain thing. Kind of like a binge and purge session without the finger down the throat. It's not a disorder if it happens naturally, right?

Perhaps there will be more snippets to come this afternoon. Right now I have to go find something to eat before I chew off my own arm.

Most moms have it. It is the thing that enables us to lift cars our children are trapped under, run at warp speed to catch them before they fall down the stairs or push them out of the way of an oncoming vehicle. It allows us to run from danger while carrying our children at speeds and for periods of time that would otherwise be impossible.

But it also has a simpler job. Most of the heroics of Super Human Mom Strength are unsung. It, for example, allows a very queasy pregnant mom of one very cranky toddler with a tummy ache to keep it together when said cranky toddler throws up into her open mouth. This is a woman who has been known to cast up her accounts after something so seemingly harmless as watching Fear Factor.

This Super Human Mom Strength makes it possible for a self confessed neurotic germaphobe to wait to remove the contents of a (horrifyingly) dirty diaper from her hands until after her son is deposited in the bath tub. It further allows this woman who can't even utter the word that names what fills a diaper when a child is sick to calmly wash it off her child's little body as if it is just mud. Putrid nasty mud.

It is a pretty powerful force, to do all this. Even if it can't make me say the word "p**p".

Dear Joshua,

I am so sorry your tummy hurts. I wish I could take it upon myself so you don't have to feel yucky. I will do anything I can to make you feel better; I'll even let you sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed tonight. But son? Next time you need to throw up in the open mouth of one of your parents? Call Daddy.

I love you,
Mama