I'm slightly afraid I may have developed a mild case of shelf ass. My theory is based on two pretty rock solid principals.

1. My shirts keep getting caught on the little ledge that is my ass, rather than draping nicely over the top part in a flattering manner.

2. No less than four people have tried to put their knick knacks on it.

I swear, if I have to hear one more time, Oh, I'm so sorry about putting my bric-a-brac there...I mistook your ass for a shelf! I am just going to snap. It's getting a little ridiculous.

I signed up for swollen ankles and a protruding belly when I decided to have children; I did not request a shelf ass. At all. And I'm not pleased that one has been delivered to me.

I noticed the severity of my shelf ass last night. I kind of suspected that it was pretty bad, but I'm really good at burying my head in the sand when it comes to just how much weight I've gained during pregnancy. So I ignored it. Until we were playing Monopoly on the dining room table, and when I got up to replenish my Diet Coke I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Yikes. So while I was trying not to weep uncontrollably, Josh began to demand, "Moke!"

"OK, honey. But can you say, 'miLk'? MiLLLLLLLLLLk?"

"Moke! Moke! Peeeese moke!"

"Alright, just put your cup on Mommy's shelf ass. I'll get you some moke."

Sniffle.

I was expecting to feel some sort of let down after Christmas, because I always build it up in my mind like I'm Clark W. Griswold or something, and I think it's going to be this fabulous Hallmark commercial - which it never is.

Instead, I took my tree and decorations down today, the earliest I've ever done so, and I am pretty much just glad to have all that crap out of here. It was nice while it lasted. But I'm very glad it's gone. And Christmas is over.

Wahoo.

I'm ready to move on. I'm ready for this year to be over; I'm ready for the baby to be born, and I'm ready for some big changes that are coming in our life. Changes about which James has sworn me to secrecy for just awhile longer. I hate keeping secrets. But I figure I should pick two or three times in our marriage where I fulfill the promise to honor and obey. You know, just for fun.

The fact that there's nary a trace of holiday cheer left in this house has made me very cheerful indeed.

Now, if only I could leave this bed rest nonsense behind me and enjoy some after Christmas sales shopping.

Sigh.

Well, I guess it's not too early to start working on Santa for that Escalade next year. So I'm not out of stuff to do.

Santa brought my brother a Wii for Christmas. I despair of ever seeing him, or James for that matter, again in my natural life.

On the bright side, Santa also vacuumed my upper floor as I requested, though he left the Escalade in the North Pole. But there's always next year. At least my floor is clean.

Dear Santa,

Just a few notes.

I'm thinking while you're busy dropping off Josh's new Elmo stuff and my new Cadillac, that it wouldn't be all that difficult for you to run a vacuum through the living room? Maybe sweep the kitchen floor?

I mean because, I made you cookies. And your reindeer can eat out of the bird feeder if they want to. If they'd like, they can trample a few of the birds while they're at it. I hate those stupid birds, Santa.

Also, I would prefer it if you could get my prime rib marinating in the roasting pan and ready to throw in the oven because I'm really not supposed to be doing it. I think it's only fair that you put in some light housekeeping hours, especially in lieu of leaving me presents. Except the Cadillac. Remember the cookies, Santa.

I think that's it. You and I both know I've been very good this year. And I have my heart set on that Cadillac. I'm counting on you to earn those cookies.

Best,
You Know Who

I think it was when he half climbed-half fell out of his crib and cried, "Ow Mama, my butt my butt!" for a half hour that it came to me it was time to set up the big boy bed. I thought I was going to do it a long time ago; the bed has long since been purchased. But then when I thought I'd redo his room I found out I was pregnant. So I didn't want to paint yet. And we can't have a big boy bed in a room with baby walls. And plus, I wasn't really ready for my big boy to be quite that big.

Then, as my pregnancy progressed and my nagging of James to take on the bulk of the painting met with more success, I thought the time had come. Still the crib remained because, well? Josh may have been ready, but Mama wasn't quite.

But then he hurt his butt.

So last night, James and I set up the new bed, made it with his snappy new Elmo bedding, and vowed to paint right after Christmas.

Josh was so excited at the big reveal. He immediately squealed, "big boy bed! Big boy bed!" and jumped on it for awhile. When that excitement was over, we went downstairs to play as we usually do after dinner, but he kept remembering the bed. I could almost see the light bulb appear over his head when he'd stop what he was doing, look up thoughtfully, yell, "big boy bed!", and then run upstairs to jump on it again.

I was optimistic then, that bed time would go smoothly, that the transition from crib to bed would be no big deal. Cute, wasn't I?

It started out OK. We followed our regular routine; bath, milk, teeth, book, bed. The first four were pretty much routine. He even laid in his bed nicely for approximately six minutes. Then he yelled, "all done, big boy bed". And got up. Eleven. Thousand. Times.

I'd hear some grunting while he disentangled himself from the covers, then an effort to be quiet and sneaky (which he's not too good at, quite frankly. No way he could sneak up on me.) And then I'd open my eyes to a great big head a quarter inch from my face.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hello, Son. How's your big boy bed treating you?"

"Cookie."

I had to talk myself out of stumbling to the kitchen, handing him the box of cookies, and hiding from him under my covers for the rest of the night. Instead, I took him back to his room and lay with him in his bed until he fell asleep again.

So I discovered that a toddler bed doesn't afford a great deal of room for a very pregnant mama and a very light sleeping two year old.

But at least his butt is no longer in danger.

I've been watching a lot of HGTV lately. Not sure why. I've learned a lot of useful things though, like how to convince people I'm a real interior designer. I think all you have to do is keep repeating words and phrases like, "clean lines" "fabrics" and "color pop". Then it's a matter of picking out a ridiculously ugly paint color and arranging furniture that doesn't match in any pattern as long as it doesn't touch the wall.

I might have a future in this business. Take my family room. The carpeting is bright red, the walls were supposed to be a soft beige, but they kind of came out pink, there's a black leather ottoman in front of the brown leather couches, and fifteen thousand toddler toys. Also, since the original purpose of the room was a bar (which still stands but now houses toys instead of liquor) one of the walls is made entirely out of cork. Eek.

I think the mish mash of crap down there would really appeal to someone who, you know, has little sense of color or design. And most of the people who go on these HGTV shows seem to fit into that category. Right now I'm watching a homeowner react to a turquoise tile fireplace and magenta walls. And her reaction is not one of horror and revulsion.

I've always wanted to redo this room. We've done much of the house, we just haven't quite made it downstairs yet. It's on the agenda, but now I'm thinking the house might sell better when the time comes if we leave it ugly. If not, I hold HGTV solely responsible.

Today is the day. My baby brother comes home from college for Christmas break. And he's staying with us. For four weeks. I'm trying. To write. Really. Short. Sentences. Not sure why. His last final exam ends at five this afternoon and then he's on the road home. So he should be here by dinner, since the road home takes him like forty five minutes.

I'm a list person, so I've made a list of things I'll enjoy about having him here for the next four weeks, and then a sister list enumerating things of which I don't anticipate being particularly fond.

First...

THE THINGS I'LL ENJOY!

-Built in baby sitter. If Josh thinks his daddy gets up a half hour before he does to put the moon away and hang up the sun, then he thinks Uncle Nate is Daddy's understudy.

-Slave labor. I can't do a lot thanks to Mistress Bed Rest (bitch), and I'm one of those people who feels like she has to clean before the maid comes, so I can put him to work. Note to self: Must devise some sort of demeaning uniform.

-Another pair of hands and feet to fetch, deliver, fluff pillows, and generally perform whatever service I require when I ring my little bell.

-Someone to go buy another bell, because James destroyed the first one in a fit of rage. Actually he just hid it from me, but that leads me into my next point...

-Someone to take everything I say at face value instead of the gross exaggeration it can tend to be.

-As an amateur chef, he can get his hind end into the kitchen! Whoo hoo! I usually love to cook, but I have to go about it in an asinine way now to follow the rules of my restricted activity, so we've been having a lot of take out and frozen lasagna. Yikes. Now, Mr. I Like to Cook Brother can put his money where his mouth is.

-Entertainment value. Sometimes the things that come out of his mouth are just stunning. Like the time he went car shopping with my mom and asked the salesman, "How do you feel about the tranny?" Referring, presumably, to the transmission in the brand new car she was looking at. He's so stinking cute. Clueless, but very cute.

At this point we move onto...

THINGS OF WHICH I DON'T ANTICIPATE BEING PARTICULARLY FOND

-When the two of them get together, James and Nate always find some sort of "home improvement" project that requires hammers and saws and all sorts of other loud and messy crap. The thing is, there's not usually a usable end result. It's like Tim the Tool Man Taylor only slightly more inept.

-I'll be wading through a sea of boys and the mess they leave in their wake. I'm outnumbered enough as it is! Ella, hurry up and be born would you?


Still and all, everything should go swimmingly. We're quite close, and he and James are two peas in an idiot pod, so that should be good. They're certainly not idiots, but when the get together? Well, that might be a different story. One I'll save for another day.

Dear Mom,

This whole, "I'm Mom, and I can move two states away if I want to na na na na boo boo" shit is not really working for me. I much preferred it when you were five miles away instead of fifteen hundred. Yeah, I want my mommy and I'm not afraid to say it. So there.

Best,
Still Attached at the Cord Apparently

Dear Josh,

Um, where did you pick up the word dumb ass? Please tell me it was not from your father. I just don't have the energy to kill him right now. I have a feeling though, it was from your father. Crap. Just do mommy a favor and stop saying it please? Off to wash your father's mouth out with soap.

Best,
Mommy

Dear James,

Really, teaching our son to say dumb ass? In fairness, I know you didn't teach him. I'm sure whomever you called a dumb ass in Josh's hearing totally deserved it. You do know a lot of dumb asses. But now every time Lucy comes near him, Josh points his finger and says, "Go, Dumb Ass!" I'm not pleased. Plus, I'm ever so slightly ashamed of myself for wanting to laugh, and ashamed is not an emotion I am familiar with or fond of.

Best,
Yours in Exasperation

Dear James' Mustache,

Go away. You're totally freaking me out.

Best,
The Facial Hair Police

Dear Maternity Pants,

How is it you manage to be so uncomfortable and so unflattering at the same time? I'm really not even mad; it's kind of amazing. I hate you, but it's still amazing. Just know that your clock is ticking. Soon the day will come when the both of us will go into the woods on a little "walk". Only one of us will return.

Best,
Gucci Mama

I try so hard to keep him safe. I watch him closely, I know where he is at all times, and I don't let him anywhere near danger.

Except, apparently, when I'm getting ready to go to the stupid shit ass National Guard Christmas party.

We have a sink hidden in the counter in our bedroom, which is where I get ready because James is a bathroom hog. There is a trap door that flips up when one wants to use the sink, and it stays down at all other times. I had just finished taking the last hot roller out of my hair and turned around to grab my brush. Even as I was thinking I needed to make sure Josh didn't try to slam the little trap door down (because he's forever trying to do so) I heard it.

SMASH.

I whirled around expecting to find a scared boy because the noise was so loud. I was going to remind him why we don't play with that particular "toy". Instead, I found myself facing one very stunned boy with copious amounts of blood spurting from the middle finger of his left hand. He was watching it in fascinated horror, and only started to cry when I scooped him up to take him into the bathroom to clean him up.

At this point I'm thinking it's OK. He'll be fine after a little band aid and some mama kisses. But I couldn't stem the flow of blood. It was everywhere. It had soaked through the wash cloth and onto my gown. Good thing I was dressed for the occasion.

So, from what I could see, he was losing pint after pint of blood and the tip of his finger was gone.

Off we whip to the ER, where I had to whip the idiots in triage into gear. No one seemed to be feeling the same urgency I was. But I made them feel it. They won't patronize this mama bear again.

It hadn't stopped bleeding by the time the doctor saw us, but the flow had slowed considerably. We were able to see that the wound was pretty superficial, and wasn't even deep enough to require stitches. After an X-ray to make sure nothing was broken we were sent home with an Elmo band aid and a sucker.

Joshua has long since recovered. I? Am not yet on that path. I thank God it was so not a big deal; at the same time I realize it could have been much worse and I berate myself. How could I let that happen? I was right there. What the hell am I here for if not to love him and nourish him and protect him?

I totally failed. Every time I see his little purple finger wrapped up in Elmo I am filled with thankfulness that he's perfectly alright, but also guilt that I let this happen.

This was not what I meant when I said I'd do anything to get out of going to the stupid Christmas party.

Ok.

Well.

Huh.

I've been sitting here for awhile trying to come up with a topic that doesn't involve my current dissatisfaction with the way this pregnancy taking forever or the depth and breadth of my hatred for this monster killer cold that has invaded my house.






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This is like a mutant virus with claws, stubby ha, and green hair. And it just. won't. die.
Yeah. I got nuthin'.

Oh, I guess I can tell you what "stubby ha" means. Why, "dirty old teeth" of course. Where did my son come up with "stubby ha" or the phrase "dirty old teeth" for that matter? Nobody knows. But I think he should write his own dictionary.

My sister was here for a brief visit last night and today. It's always interesting when night and day meet. I can be either night or day, which ever one is prettier. She would then be the opposite of the prettier option. Let's not misunderstand here, she's plenty cute; I'm just cuter.

But that's not the only difference. She lives to disagree with me, contradict me, and generally act like she has it all figured out and she, my younger sibling, has something important to teach me. She's a college student, after all, and therefore knows everything.

So one of the things she's wise and all knowing about is parenting. Because what is real life experience compared with reading books and taking some psychology classes? Sure, I may actually be a mother, but I haven't sat in a 300 level psychology lecture for years.

Sister: Are you still breast feeding?

Me: Breastfeeding whom?

Sister: Um, Joshua?

Me: Tell me you don't refer to my two year old, who PS, has a mouth full of teeth.

Sister: But breastfeeding is the best way to nourish a baby.

Me: True. But he's not a baby. He mainly gets his nutrients from, you know, whatever I decide to cook. I don't typically whip my chest into a face that's just finished eating rib eye and sauteed mushrooms.

Sister: A lot of cultures nurse their children for the first five or so years of life.

Me: Here's what I call that: FREAKY.

Josh is really shy around new people. He warms up to them relatively quickly, but for some reason he just didn't take to my sister. She hasn't seen him in probably six months, so he obviously has no memory of her. The thing is, she thought his reluctance to be alone with her was some sort of reflection on my over protective parenting.

Sister: So, obviously you don't practice attachment parenting.

Me: Meaning?

Sister: Well, if you did, he'd be a lot more secure with other people. I mean, I've never seen such a shy two year old. Two year olds usually don't have any problem with strangers at all.

Me: Obviously you haven't met many two year olds.

Sister: Actually, my friend has a baby, and she's like two, or something, and she loves me.

Me: How nice for her. I didn't realize that your friend's toddler set the example for two year olds worldwide.

Sister: Her name is Cove.

Me: Ah.

She's my sister. I love her. But she drives me insane.

I'm not exactly what anyone would call "crafty" or "skilled with a needle" or "able to do anything with my hands". But I like to think about myself in such a way that assumes these things aren't true. Want to recover that chair? Sure! I can whip some fabric on there with a staple gun.

No.

Need some new drapes? Why don't I just whip out and buy a sewing machine? It can't be that hard.

It is.

James, need your newly elevated rank and service stripes sewn on your dress uniform in time for the stupid Army Christmas party I have to attend with you even though I don't have a dress yet and the event is next week? No prob, Bob!

Wait.

The trouble started when I went to trim the excess thread off the crap I was supposed to sew on. Turns out that wasn't so much "excess" as it was "necessary to the attachment of the patch". So off I went to hunt down another rank patch and more service stripes to try again. It was then that I realized I didn't have the right (or actually any) thread at all. Off I go to pick it up, gathering some extra needles too, you know, just in case. All the while I'm thinking, what the hell am I doing? Last year I took everything to my tailor. Sixty bucks well spent if you ask me. But no! This year I have to be Sally Sews A Lot.

The problem? I made such a big deal about being able to do it that I couldn't very well slink to my tailor with my tail between my legs with James giggling like a cheerleader all the way. I hate when he does that.

The other problem? Not only can I not sew, I find myself completely unable to thread the damn needle. Those things are not made for delicate hands with dainty finger nails! I'm bleeding and I haven't even started yet.

Right now his dress uniform is sitting on the chair in my bedroom mocking me. It's very smug, the jerk. Plus, James hasn't gotten his head around me needing to drive to the next town to buy a dress. It might have something to do with the fact that we don't have a maternity store here and my belly is currently sticking four and a half yards out from my person. I don't know.

So I'm forgetting my adventures as Susie Stitchery and going shopping. I think I'll sneak his jacket into the car before I go, that way when I take my dress to my tailor she can just quick whip those patches on.

Because there's nothing about this Gucci Mama that can wield a needle and thread.

Dear Joshua,

You're two! I can hardly believe that two years ago today you were born, tiny and squalling. A mere eighteen inches head to heel and weighing just over six pounds, I had to send Daddy out to the store to buy some preemie clothes, so you had something to wear home from the hospital that didn't swallow you whole. You were so tiny. I also cannot believe that two years and one day ago I was in labor. And two years and two days ago I was in labor. That was not my favorite experience ever. So, you're kind of grounded actually, because I went into labor on the fifth and you were born on the seventh. Stinky baby.

At times I find it hard to believe how much you've grown. I have loved watching your personality emerge, even if that personality is proving to be as strong and independent as your mother's. And plus, you are like mommy in other ways; like how you have to make sure all your toys are back in your toy box just so before you go to bed, you always make sure everyone pushes in their chairs after dinner, and your stuffed animals have to line up in a special order on your bed. I am hoping your appreciation for neatness and order will follow you into your teenage years and beyond.

Your vocabulary has positively exploded in the last six months, which has been both a blessing and well, less than a blessing. You are so smart! You know all sorts of animals and the sounds they make, you can say your ABCs, and even count to ten (with a little help from Mama). I love the times when you have something so important to tell me, your eyes light up with excitement and then pride when you find the right words. The talking thing is not quite as magical when you, say, point to an especially large woman in the grocery store and say, "Mama! So FAT!" And you don't say it quietly. But we're learning about appropriate times to point out fat women. That's right, only when they mess with your Mama.

I am amazed at how clever you are, my little man. For example, yesterday when I told you not to touch the Christmas tree, you went and got Elmo and put his furry little hand on a branch. Then, when I told you Elmo was not allowed to touch either, you put him down and said, "No Melmo! No touch or out!" Thanks for taking care of Elmo's discipline by threatening time-outs, because my hands are just too full to worry about raising Elmo for you.

You don't know just how special you are to me, precious child. You made me a mother! You have blessed my life, given me new purpose and direction, and made me realize a strength of a love I never before knew existed. You have also made me a better cook, laundress, chauffeur, and sleep coach.

I don't even remember what my life was like before you entered it, and you know what? I don't even want to. You are the best thing that has ever happened to Daddy and me. You are my favorite boy in the whole world. I am so excited for this next year of new discoveries and memories to be made.

I love you Munchkin Man. Happy Birthday!

Mama

My daughter and I are going shopping for her coming home from the hospital outfit tomorrow.

Ooh! And don't forget to answer the deep, thought provoking question you'll find in the form of a poll to your immediate left. And please know, that whatever the results, they will in no way affect my final decision. But I appreciate the input nonetheless.

I understand that they say "an elephant never forgets". So it would seem to me that with my current, ah, "shape" I should be able to retain all sorts of useful information. "They" are full of crap. Because I can't remember a thing. I'm tempted to say "I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on", but I'm not 90. The point is, the list of things I haven't remembered until they no longer matter is much longer than the things I've managed to keep tucked away inside my brain for later use.

Observe.

*Today I took a shower and only remembered to shave one leg. And I can still reach both, in a manner of speaking, so there's no reason for the "half fur" I'm now sporting.

*When I woke up this morning, I had this gnawing feeling in my stomach. Little grasping pains that weren't horrible, just irritating and demanding attention. It now occurs to me that eating may have solved this little problem, but this morning I merely attempted to shower in order to distract myself, where as I may have mentioned, I only managed to shave one leg.

*I am the creative one in this family; James is the technical one. So when he has to put together a report of some sort that describes a device of some sort that he has designed in some manner, I assess all the pertinent facts and put together a little piece for him. I keep it flirty and fun by using exclamation points at semi-inappropriate times! And slipping in the occasional Fancy Nancy word. So it really isn't my fault that after I finished it last night, I neglected to save the document (that's shop talk for not losing your crap, apparently). Then, in an unrelated incident, I may have forgotten to plug the lap top back in after enjoying some time on Yahoo! Backgammon, so this morning the computer was black and the "document" had "vanished".

Sidebar - At least he knows me well enough to sneak up to the computer on a Diet Coke break and insert his little stick thingy that you can save things on. I learned about that handy little device when I tearfully tried to recreate my brilliance at six o'clock this morning thinking all was lost. Where have I been that I don't know about the stick saver thingy?

*I've had a cell phone since cell phones were three feet long and weighed forty pounds. So it would stand to reason that I wouldn't leave mine upstairs on the charger for nearly the entire week, only to discover upon remembering its existence that I had twenty four messages. TWENTY FOUR. I haven't listened to them yet, but am strongly considering just deleting them all and not bothering with listening to twenty four, "Hey! It's just me. Give me a call when you get a chance".

Because along with everything else, I seem to have lost my patience.

Heh.

But I'm trying.

I don't know yet if I have to go on full bed rest. My magic 8 ball says "Yes, but why are you asking me, I'm a toy your husband has had since eighth grade and won't throw away and has even dug out of the trash can when you've tried to pitch me, so who am I to say?" It's a really talkative magic 8 ball. It also uses run-on sentences all the time which drives me nuts. My doctor says we're still at the wait and see time, but the swollen feet and hands, severe headaches, stiff neck and high blood pressure all add up to a huge flashing neon sign buzzing "PRE-ECCLAMPSIA". So in preparation I have compiled a list of things to accomplish during four. long. months. of forced inactivity.

1. Continue working on my "get rich not so quick scheme", working title - Gucci Mama Rocks the Novel.

2. Finally have a valid reason to hire a housekeeper, and four months in which to fall in love with the concept and devise way to talk James into keeping her for, well, life if she'll stay that long. I'll have to find an OCD maid though. I hope they aren't too hard to come by.

3. Learn what the big deal about soap operas is.

4. Continue to hate Oprah and Rachel Ray with a passion. Consider beginning a letter writing campaign to have them taken out into the wilderness and left for dead.

5. Reject the idea, not because it isn't awesome, but because it's probably just too much work to do from bed.

6. Watch all of the National Lampoon's Vacation movies.

7. Online shopping!

8. Enjoy four months in which the tables are turned, and I am the one being waited upon.

9. Hone backgammon skills on Yahoo! games.

10. Find creative ways to entertain a lively toddler from a resting position, and cherish the last months of having him all to myself.

It's the last one I'm most excited about. Well, that and fantasizing about the death of Rachel Ray.

Who, moi? Why yes, yes I am. Thank you, Bridget.



I happen to agree.

So in addition to the normal rules that go along with the acceptance of these fabulous awards like linking to the person who awarded you and passing it on to five people, I am also required to list five of my addictions. Only five? Ok. I'll do my best.

1. Diet Coke. I've made no secret of the fact that I find it's sweet caramel-y carbonated wonderfulness utterly irresistible. My love affair with DC can definitely be called an addiction. I mean, I really think it's a problem when you have to stop yourself from getting out of bed in the middle of the night to slam a DC in the kitchen before your husband wakes up to see what you're doing. You know, hypothetically. (It might be a problem of twelve step proportions when you find yourself unable to resist this middle of the night treat. Again, hypothetically.)

2. Reading. I read all the time. I read anything I can get my hands on, just about. Obviously I don't have the time to read three or four books a week like I did before Josh entered my life, but I still manage to squeeze at least one in per week. And plus, I definitely get my Green Eggs and Ham fix three or four times a day. I have, in fact, an amusing little G E & H anecdote to share with you. It, along with Baby on the Way, is my baby's - excuse me - my big boy's favorite book. So when I ask him what he wants to read before nap and bed time, he always says, "Ham." [pause] "Baby". I try to get him to choose one. It usually doesn't work. But the other day I was really insistent that he pick Ham or Baby, but not both. He sighed, grabbed my face between his hands and said, "Mama! I boss! Ham! Baby!" So it seems that my child is coming into his two year old-ness.

3. Shoes. My husband calls my shoes the Imelda Marcos Collection. I have shoes in every closet in the house, and in two of the closets James had to build me some shelves so I could have more space to stack them. I haven't counted in awhile, but I know there are several hundred pair. I won't tell you how many of them I've never worn. The tragedy now is my blood pressure is so high and my feet and tankles are so swollen that I can only stuff myself into a pair of tennis shoes that I swore I'd never wear unless actually playing tennis. At least they're pink, so it's not too horrible to wear them, but still. It's a blow.

4. Cheerios. But only when I'm pregnant. If I'm not currently growing a baby, I hate milk and I can't even look at a yellow box for fear there may be Cheerios inside. But for now? Love it.

5. The 1 2 3 Count With Me! Ernie video. Oh wait. That's Josh. Talk about a twelve step program, that kid may need ninety days of in-patient treatment to get off the Ernie video. I? Will not have that problem. I can stop watching Ernie any time I want.

So now the lucky recipients. I feel like I give these things to the same people every time, which is kind of why I stopped passing them on. I don't have many friends, OK? Leave me alone, gosh! So here's what we'll do. If you think you're fabulous, I'll take your word for it. Grab the little badge and put it on your sidebar if you want to go tell your fabulousness on a mountain.

If you're fabulous and you know it clap your hands...