Workin' for the Weekend

Hubby just returned from a seven day business trip to India.   Since I am the primary caretaker here at home (the CEO of the BoyMommy Household, if you will . . . ) things aren't THAT different when he's gone, but knowing he's on the other side of the world and that I will not have reinforcements is a bit disconcerting.  Again, I give a humble shout-out to single moms and military wives everywhere.  

I took the boys to visit their grandparents, who live 3 hours away (and whose visit requires a stint on Interstate 95, grrrrrr,) and rushed back home on Sunday only to find out that baseball practice was cancelled.  Then school was cancelled on Monday because WINTER WILL NOT END.  EVER.  Then I had Small home with me all day Tuesday because when the public schools have a two-hour-delay, Small doesn’t have preschool at all.  During that week I also fit in a museum visit, a pediatric "well" visit, and an allergist appointment which required a prescription pick-up at the grocery store.  Of course the medicine was unavailable so I had to return to the grocery store the next day with all three of the boys . .. my absolute favorite thing in the world to do, right after bathing suit shopping and toilet plunging.

Luckily I have a girls’ weekend to look forward to, and it’s happening in 2 days!  Hubby asked where we’re going. . .

“I don't know.  Wintergreen, I think?  Or Massanutten.  I don’t know.  Someplace,” I responded, providing about as much information as he had going IN to this conversation.  I had said all along that we could go to the Super 8 on Route 1 for all I care, so really, location is arbitrary.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.  A logical question, since he will be in charge of our offspring in my absence.

Hmmm.  I shrugged.  “I’m not really sure.  Friday sometime.  3?”

Frustrated, he asked, “do you know anything?  You don’t know where you’re going or when you’re getting there.”

“I know I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge,” I answered. 

I NEED this weekend.  I just need a little break . . . a refresher weekend in which I can take a deep breath and regroup. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, and I know the response he wanted was something along the lines of braid each other’s hair, make prank phone calls, and then have a pillow fight in our skivvies. 

Alas. . . “drink beer and sleep.”  The girls have already planned for adequate beer consumption, and I have notified them that if anyone wakes me at 6 AM, I will “scratch your eyeballs out with my own hands.”  I think I made my point.

I understand Hubby's concern, of course.  'Member in college, when you'd be hungover on Saturday morning, but ready to go again on Saturday night?  Not so much any more.  Now I can have two glasses of wine on a Friday night and have a headache all day Saturday, OR I can have one martini and be home and in bed by 10:30.  

Funny (well, funny NOW) story:  I went on a girls' weekend years ago, on which I had a tad too much to drink.  There was karaoke.  I can't help myself when I'm belting out Dolly Parton tunes.  When we got home from the bar, I promptly relieved my stomach of all of its contents.  I was a bit lacking in the coordination department, however.  I leaned my head forward over the bowl of the toilet just as the seat was coming down, which led to an unfortunate bruise in the middle of my forehead.  On Monday morning, I had to lie about how I got the bruise because I couldn't tell a class full of high school seniors the truth.  

Man, that was a fun weekend.

An XL in a M World

I must say, I’m lovin’ the flowy styles that are fashionable this season.  I am not a wife-beater tank top kinda girl, so having material that covers my, um, problem areas, is a bonus. 

I try to wear clothes that fit and are flattering.  You know how you can walk through a mall and see women dressed in jeans that are waaaay too tight, muffin tops and thong underwear hanging out the back and a bowlful-o’-jelly hanging over the top?  I’m not that gal. 

Picture if you will:  a dressing room, complete with questionable lighting and a trifold mirror, so the customer can confirm that it looks bad from the front . . . and the side . . . and indeed the back.  The other night, I carried in an armful of clothing items - because I am a rebel and I do not conform to the 6-items-or-fewer rule.  When was the last time you tried on jeans, or god-forbid a swimsuit, and found one within the first 6 items that you’d be willing to purchase, take home, and stuff your parts into?  It takes MANY attempts, and unless I’m going to lose 10 lbs. by making several grueling trips to and from the dressing room, I’d prefer just to take all my choices back at once, thanks.

So . . . I had a load of XL items and I began the arduous process of putting them on, criticizing my image in the mirror, and hanging them on the no-way-in-hell-I’m-buying-this hanger.  (Not to be confused with the Maybe-but-only-if-I-can’t-find-anything-else hanger, or the  f*ck-it-I’ll-just-buy-these-sweatpants hanger.)  I found a couple cute tops, and then it happened.

I tried on this little number:

This, my friends, is what happens when a size Medium ends up on the XL hanger.

I look like the Incredible Hulk’s conservative (and much cuter) little sister.  If I had worn it much longer, the buttons would have popped off and pinged all over the walls, no doubt knocking out the lights and setting off the sprinkler system. 

I did NOT purchase this top.

I Peed Myself

Another TMI post.  You’ve been forewarned.

And it’s really only for mommies, because you, dear sisters in motherhood, will know of what I speak.  Things change after you've had a baby or three sit on your bladder for 9 months each.

For the past few days, I’ve been feeling a sense of urgency.  Not urgency to get things done around the house.  Not urgency to return phone calls.  Not urgency to watch Real Housewives on the DVR. 

No, I mean THAT kind of urgency.

Like, I’m in the middle of a perfectly benign conversation when all of a sudden my eyes get wide and I get all perswearty because I need to pee.  Right NOW. 

I am prone to Urinary Tract Infections, and I have been since I was little.  I was a bed-wetter too.  I just never had that sensation that I needed to go, so I would never wake up in the middle of the night.  Mom would make me go to the potty at 11 pm when she went to bed, but I’d pee sometime in the night.  The next morning my mom would be all annoyed that she had to change the sheets AGAIN.  (Given the amount of laundry I do these days, I totally get it.) 

I spent many hours at the urologist's office and I have taken my share of medication.  I still, 30-some years later, remember that my medicine was yellow and I hated the taste of it.  When my mother painted my bedroom a lovely sunny yellow, I cried because I associated it with that horrible-tasting medicine. 

My UTIs kept recurring, however.  Because I’m now a doctor . . . (not really, but I play one on TV.  Okay, that’s not true either.  Everyone knows if I were playing a part on TV it would be the part of Ms. Dolly Parton in the award-winning and catchy-tune-filled movie 9 to 5) . . . and I realize that holding it because I didn’t want to give up my killer hiding place in hide-and-seek was not a good strategy in regards to my weak bladder.

My point?  I know better than to hold it. 

But last weekend we were tailgating at a college football game and I held it so I wouldn’t have to use the porta-potty.  I’m constantly holding it when I’m in the car so I won’t have to stop with a car-load of kids.  And yesterday I held it while I was at Target (surprise!) because I know if I have to take Small to the restroom with me I’m going to end up peeing all over the seat and/or floor as I try to prevent him from unlocking the door, flushing while I’m mid release, rolling around on the floor, unrolling the toilet paper, picking decade-old boogers off the wall, or waving at the nice lady in the next stall from underneath the partition.

Thanks for the directions, but
I'm not gonna make it that far.

On the drive home I started to get that ominous feeling that I wasn’t going to make it home.  As I pulled in the driveway, I realized I wasn’t going to have time to grab any bags; I’d need to get the baby out of the car immediately and make a mad dash for the bathroom.  I put the Swagger Wagon in Park, ran around to get the baby, clenched my nether-regions to prevent leakage, and turned around to run into the house.

And then it happened . . .

Totally peed myself in the 10 feet it took me to get from the Swagger Wagon to the garage. 

Sigh. 

I pushed myself too far, and now I’m in the midst of a full-blown UTI, complete with the following amenities:

• I always feel like I have to go
• When I go, it hurts and it never feels like I’m actually finished
• I feel like there’s a bowling ball sitting in my bladder

Remember when Joey was auditioning with guest star Jeff Goldblum on Friends?  A normal person feels relief when it's all over.  Not the person with a UTI.

So I’m cranky today.  Stay out of my way. 

(BTW, isn’t it funny how I can’t talk about S-E-X, but I can totally admit on the World Wide Internets that I peed my pants?)  

Will Sing for Beer, Part 2!

As you know, I am a VERY talented Sing-er.  So talented, in fact, that I won a karaoke contest a few weeks ago.  In case you want to read the first installment chronicling my rocket to fame, click here.  I was the only contestant and won by default, but still.  I won a $25 gift card and received strict instructions to return on Tuesday, September 27 to defend my title.

I gathered up a posse made up of a high school girlfriend, various neighbors, a PTA member, Cub Scout moms, the baseball coach’s wife, (who received a text from said coach stating that kids are "fed, bathed, and in bed."  Whatdya want, a cookie?  It's 10:45!) and the mother of Large’s former classmate.  My babysitter’s parents showed up because someone didn’t read the invitation carefully and missed the reference to "big girl panties" and "fun moms."  This proved useful later, however, as Babysitter’s Dad and I belted out a particularly stirring rendition of "Endless Love."

I carefully considered my song choices and happily took suggestions from my girls.  Some things we discovered during this process:

• I prefer male singers to female because my voice is not soprano.  I will make exceptions for Ms. Dolly Parton, of course.
• This precludes any songs by Bonnie Raitt.
• I don’t feel that the Black Eyed Peas are a logical karaoke choice.
• I am not above singing "F*** You," the dirty version, by CeeLo Green . . . although this led to an uncomfortable conversation about words I will NOT say, like any dirty word beginning with a C or any references to female nether-regions.
• "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" is ALWAYS a hit because it crosses all cultural barriers.  It's the I'd-Like-to-Buy-the-World-a-Coke of karaoke songs.  

There is a gentlemen at this establishment who also competed last time.  He fancies himself quite the crooner.  Unfortunately, for all of us, he is not. 

Let's get one thing straight.  I talk a lot about how talented I am, etc.  This is called sarcasm, folks.  It’s part of my charm.  I don’t think I could complete a sentence without using a little dash o’ sarcasm.  What I say and what I think are two different things.  For example, when I reference my womanly physique, I am WELL aware that I need to lose about 100 lbs.  (50 lbs. at the bare minimum.)  Likewise, when I describe myself as a pillar of strength in emotional situations, I am being facetious. 

So I asked my girlfriends to tell me honestly . . . “do I suck as bad as that guy?  You’d tell me, right?”

I mean, I know I am not the next American Idol.  I do not have the X Factor.  I’m more of a sing-in-the-shower kinda gal.  I can carry a tune, but I don’t want to embarrass myself too badly.  I’m not going to get up there and attempt anything by Whitney Houston, that’s fo' damn sho. 

no pride.

Meanwhile, I have decided that there’s not really a contest.  They just keep giving me $25 gift cards in hopes that I’ll bring back more paying customers as I move up the ladder to imminent stardom.

"Endless Love?"  I am willing to admit that it may have been that bad . . . 

Will Sing For Beer!

It has been well established that I don’t get out much, so when I do, I need to make it worth my while.  Last week while my girlfriend K and I were escaping dining at a new Irish bar in town, we discovered that they host karaoke every Tuesday night.

Aw, snap.

This kid never had a
chance.  What kinda parents
name their child Mista Fingaz?

A few gals from the neighborhood gathered at the bar after we completed our home-making duties: getting the kids off the bus, entertaining them for a few hours, feeding them dinner, bathing them, reading them stories, and putting them to bed.  Now it’s time for mama to get her groove on.

We arrived at the bar and ordered our drinks, but I'm pretty sure our waiter was thinking we'd never been let out of the house before.  I ordered a beer on tap because, surprisingly enough, I’m pretty low-maintenance when it comes to my beverages.  There’s always one in the group though: she wants to know the specials and how much are the drinks and do you have cocktails.  I gently reminded her that for-the-love-o’-pete-we-are-in-a-bar, of course they have margaritas.  Later in the evening, the same waiter brought us big ole glasses of water.  This is the international signal for slow your sh*t down.

I grabbed the song book and began perusing for my signature song, “9 to 5” by Ms. Dolly Parton.  In my next life I want to come back as a country singer, and specifically, I want to be Ms. Dolly Parton.  She is smart and sassy, and she’s just the kind of woman I like. 

Because I’m known to be reserved, introverted, and shy, I also belted out:

• "Rocky Top" – My girlfriend, a Kentucky native, sang with me.  I assume that as a child she sang this song every day in elementary school, right after they recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  I realize "Rocky Top" is about Tennessee, but jokes about Appalachia are always a hit.

• "Paul Revere" by the Beastie Boys – because who doesn’t want to hear a suburban white woman sing about her posse and her license to ill?  I also perform at weddings.

• "Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw" by Jimmy Buffet – because I’m nothing if not classy.  This is the musical number I sang when I entered the karaoke contest.  And I WON, because I’m THAT talented!  And also because I was the only one who entered.

• "Tubthumping" by Chumbawamba – We ended the evening with this catchy ditty, and we may have been getting a little silly . . . “I get knocked down, but I get up again . . . I get knocked down, but I get up AGAIN!  . . . I get knocked down, BUT I GET UP AGAIN!”

Meanwhile, one of the gentlemen sitting next to us moved in for the kill.  He began with me; I think he started with the weakest of the herd.  Alas, his “charm” was no match for my sharp tongue, and I saw free drinks in my future.

“How old are you?” I asked, and I guessed 25.  Ding, ding, ding!  “Really, you’re 25?  Do you live in your parents’ basement?”

“No, I don’t live in my parents’ basement!  I live over by ***** Elementary School.”

“That’s kinda creepy.  Is that where you stalk your prey?”

“Why are you so mean?” he asked.  And yet he kept hangin’ around.  Some people are just gluttons for punishment.

“I can’t help it,” I replied.  “And yet you’re strangely attracted to me, aren’t you.  So, what do you do?  Personally, I'm unemployed.”

“I bought my father’s business, so I own my own business.”

“Is it Microsoft?” I wondered.

“No.  It’s a painting business.”

“If it ain’t Microsoft, then I don’t give a sh*t.”  Seriously dude.  In my younger days I dated a crab fisherman, a fry cook, and a lifeguard.  You’re trying a little too hard to impress us.

I really am mean.

His friend began meandering over to our table, now that his 25-year-old business ownin’ buddy broke the ice for him.  “So how old are you?” I asked.  So polite.

He said he was 38, which made me happy since I could not POSSIBLY have given birth to someone his age, like I could the child who was now making his way around to the other side of the table. 

“Are you his dad?”  I pointed to Mr. Business Owner.

“What? No!!  We’re neighbors!” 

“Okay, okay, pipe down.  He said you’re his assistant.”  I just had to stir the pot . . .

“I’m not his assistant!  I work at Cisco.”  Or something like that.  I wasn’t really listening.  Maybe it was Costco.  No, it had something to do with technology, blah, blah, blah.

“You just sold him out!  You’re the worst wing man ever!” 

Wing Man wanted to help choose my next song, and he chose Jimmy Buffet, which is fine, but when I asked him how he felt about James Taylor he said he was "okay."  Thanks for  playing Wing Man, but that answer was INCORRECT.

And so it continued.  I tried to convince Mr. Business Owner to sing a song of my choosing, but I wouldn’t tell him which song I chose.  I promised that the song I chose was familiar and that  he’d know all the words.  Alas, he didn’t take the bait.  Good thing for him, because my song choice was “Away in the Manger.”

This is the part that will make Hubby proud:  I lifted my drink, snapped at Mr. Business Owner, and pointed to my near empty glass.  Then I waved to our waiter and announced, “this guys buyin’ me a drink.”  I said to Mr. Business Owner, “do you know what my favorite beer is?  FREE beer!”  And . . . that’s how ya gets the free drinks ladies.

We decided to call it a night, and several of us hit the restroom first.  We walked in only to discover a fellow patron, who was significantly younger than we are, barefoot and vomiting.  Our mommy instincts kicked into overdrive as K asked her repeatedly if she was okay and I brought her boyfriend into the restroom to help retrieve her.  I had noticed earlier that she and her boyfriend were doing shots, so I asked if it was her birthday, to which she replied, “no, it’s a Tuesday!”  Oh honey.  Pace yourself.  THIS is why we don’t do no-it’s-not-my-birthday-it’s-a-Tuesday shots.

And in case you’re questioning how much sophistication I bring to the table, I give you this parting shot:

Unadulterated *ss-Kissing

I have recently begun a campaign to get a shout-out on the Rants From Mommlyand blog.  (http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/)  These ladies, Kate and Lydia, are hilarious - they have this blog and now they've gotten a writing gig and everything.  Remember how Ellen campaigned to get on the cover of Oprah's O Magazine?

Ellen just kept talking about how she wanted to be on the cover of O Magazine, which was funny because Oprah is Queen of the Universe and she's the only one who is ever on the cover.  But it worked!  


So this is my campaign to get a shout-out on RantsfromMommyland.com.  They have a section called "Blogs We Love," and my current goal in life is to be ON THAT LIST.  

I sent them an email this morning, detailing all the reasons why they should love me:

1.  I loves Target.  When I lived in Manhattan, I used to take the subway 2 stops into Harlem to get my car out of the garage so I could drive it 45 minutes into Queens or Connecticut just so I could go to Target.  

2.  I have three boys, because even God knows that this house is only big enough for one princess.  And that would be me.

3.  I truly believe that if I am reincarnated, I will come back as Ms. Dolly Parton.  In fact, my signature karaoke song is "9 to 5."

4.  Though I birthed my last child a little over a year ago, in reality I've been trying to take off the baby weight (which consists mostly of chocolate and Doritos.  Original, not the Cool Ranch,) for about 8 years.  I am a Lifetime member of Weight Watchers, and I've decided that this means I will be struggling with my weight for the duration of my lifetime.

5.  I have the mouth of a sailor - but there are certain words I do NOT say, and I do my best not to HEAR them either.  I refer to nether-regions. 

6.  I was recently told by a perfectly respectable Tarot Card Reader that I am a deep person, and I have therefore dubbed myself the Dalai Mama.

7.  I need to find a way to make money doing this blog thing.  I'm a SAHM, and I would love to not have to justify to anyone my 7-days-a-week coffee habit.  My husband works hard to support our family . . . and apparently my caffeine addiction based on the amount of money and time I spend at Starbucks.

8.  My misadventures at the gym are Pulitzer Prize worthy.  You can't make this sh*t up. ( http://boymommynyc.blogspot.com/2011/01/zen-of-nugget.html)  You know the fabulous woman in the cute workout clothes whose hair stays perfectly coiffed throughout Body Pump?  (kate.)  That's not me.  I'm the fat girl in the back.

9.  I, too, have a shelf.  It's where I keep my crumbs.  I inherited it from my grandmother, who also called it her shelf.  Like me, she took pride in all of her chins and swore that her kidneys were next to her eyeballs, which is why she was so emotional.

10.  I buried my mother in a pair of Tweety Bird socks because I knew she wouldn't want to be wearing pantyhose for All Eternity.  Mama raised me right.

Check out their blog at rantsfrommommyland.com.  When I'm a rich and famous writer, world-renowned for my biting wit and sarcasm, I'll buy you a car.  I promise.

Tarot Card Findings (so they MUST be true!)

As a fun moms’ night out, a few girlfriends (or as I like to call it, Three Hot Blondes and a Brunette,) and I had our tarot cards read last Friday.  When the Reader asked if I had any specific questions, I said no, and that I just wanted basic information. I don’t want to know when I’m going to die, etc., although I probably wouldn’t have to wear clean underwear quite as often, just in case.  There would be no more just in case.  But I digress . . .  This, apparently, is what the Universe wants me to know:

1. My career is going to take off!  This would be AWESOME news if I had a career.  So I’m thinking one of two things is going to happen:  A) someone is going to notice my blog and offer me a sh*tload of money, a workspace, international fame, and a book deal, or B) my life-long dream of actually becoming Ms. Dolly Parton is about to come true.  I don’t know which one to root for.
2. I’m a very deep person.  I knew all those self-help books served a purpose.  Turns out, I’m the Dalai Lama of suburbia.  I’m the Dalai Mama. 
3. People like me.  (This, of course, led to my girlfriend having a dream about me accepting an award a la Sally Field – “You like me!  You really like me!”)  I was not a popular high-schooler and I floundered around a bit in college, but I’ve always had this need to be liked.  Which is ironic, since I’m kind of a b*tch.
4. I am blessed.  This creeped me out a little bit since I had just recently posted the blog about how frustrated I am with motherhood sometimes.  I need to look at the glass as half full. . . . which I am willing to do, so long as it is a wine glass.

Okay, I'm better now.

After re-reading my last post, it occurs to me that perhaps I should not write when I am in the throes of PMS. 

I sounded so whiny.  I remember telling a friend once that “we all have our sh*t.”  It’s true.  Everyone faces challenges, and what may seem insignificant to one may be monumental to another. 

You know I likes the country music and I worship at the altar of Ms. Dolly Parton.  Currently, Trace Adkins sings a song called “You’re Gonna Miss This,” and the lyrics are:

You’re gonna miss this. 

You’re gonna want this back.

You’re gonna wish these days

Hadn’t gone by so fast.

These are some good times,

So take a good look around.

You may not know it now,

But you’re gonna miss this.

Cheesy, yes.  Gouda.  Brie.  Kraft American cheese product.  Whatever you want to call it, the lyrics still ring true. 

  

Small has been here an entire year.  ALREADY a year has passed!  He’ll be walking (our kids are late walkers) and talking coherently soon.  Medium will be in all-day school next year and we won’t have our afternoon snuggle-time any more.  Large is getting increasingly independent and doesn’t need his mama as much.  

Motherhood is an exhausting adventure, and I still think, as women, we are very quick to judge each other.  I am guilty of it too.  After my last post, I heard from many working-mom friends who reminded me, without saying as much, how lucky I am that I am able to stay home.  Some moms are better moms for being able to work outside the home, and some don’t have the choice.  Some moms do it on their own.  I know that I need to stay home, and even though I miss my friends and colleagues and I sometimes ache for adult interaction, I do the best I can with the choices we’ve made as a family.  Some days I need to b*tch a little, just to get it all out of my system. 

A Thursday Treat for all SEVEN of You

That's right, seven whole people are interested in my self-absorbtion and are following my blog.  So this is for you and you and you and you and you and you and you.  And me, of course.

I am NOT a morning person.  In fact, morning people really tend to annoy me.  My dad is a morning person.  My husband is a morning person.  How are these people allowed in my life?  When I started working (back when I used to get paid to mold young minds and shape the future of America) I was amazed that the world was all abuzz so early in the morning.  Darkness means sleepy-time, which is why I MAY have lied to my children last night and why I am not looking forward to the end of Daylight Saving Time.  It's getting dark earlier, which is how I was able to get all three of my children in bed last night at 7:15.  I'll pause here until your applause dies down.  

Hubby was working late and our offspring were driving me UP THE FRIGGIN' WALL with their bathtub splashing, naked rough-housing, and bathroom humor.  I set the timer for 30 minutes and sent them to their rooms to look at books.  And it worked.  They relaxed and got sleepy, and it was only 7:15 when we turned the lights out.  I didn't really LIE to them; I just failed to tell them that they still had 45 minutes until their usual bed time.  It's gonna be our little secret, so all seven of you better keep your pie-holes shut.

Alas, morning arrived and Medium almost missed the bus.  My husband will tell you it’s because I fail to plan ahead.  I will tell you that I have every intention of getting out of the house on time, but sh*t  happens, and in my defense, on the days when Hubby takes them to the bus, he doesn’t have to worry about the baby.  This morning’s issue was shoes, and the lack thereof.  The boys were dressed, ate breakfast, had their hair combed, inhaler puffed, vitamins ingested, lunch packed, jackets and backpacks on, and we were on our way out the door when I realized they didn’t have shoes on.  I got Large’s shoes tied and sent him out the door.  I got Medium’s shoes on and sent him out the door.  All Baby Bjorned in my comfies, unbrushed teeth, and unkempt hair, I followed Medium up the street as he booked it to the bus, which was making its familiar screech of impending arrival.  Medium was limping because one of his shoes was coming off, and his backpack was bouncing from side to side as he tried to run/limp towards his Great Yellow Chariot.  Seriously, watching kids run with backpacks on always strikes me as funny.  They look like little jet-packed nerds.

Random Thursday Thoughts:

1. I saw Alpha Mom at Target yesterday.  You know the type.  Alpha Mom is a former class mom (natch) who NEVER acknowledges me, even though we have met on several occasions.  Am I THAT unmemorable?  She has perfect hair and she always looks showered, and I assume her perfect children probably DON'T wipe boogers on the couch.  Whatevs.  I have seen her at the craft store, Starbucks, Target, and the gym even though she apparently hasn't seen me.  Yesterday I purposely avoided eye contact, lest her continued rejection further damage my self-esteem.  Instead I texted my girlfriend three simple words: "Alpha Mom Sighting," and she knew EXACTLY to whom I was referring.  Take that, you bangs-wearing, pretentiously-named-child-having Mother Superior.  I bet she drinks decaf.

"What, what, what are you doing?"

2. I need a Sassy Gay Friend.  I once had a gay acquaintance tell me my jeans were fabulous and that I needed to “own” my plus size self.  And I believed him.  I would never believe my girlfriends or my husband, (Mr. Eats-Deli-Sliced-Ham-Off-A-Paper-Plate-In-Bed.) I have some gay friends, but I wouldn’t consider them particularly sassy. 

Tangential list of people I want to be friends with:

• Cam from Modern Family
• Sassy Gay Friend
• Caitlynn and Tyler from Teen Mom – really I just want to give them both a big, fat hug, tell them how much I admire their decision to put their baby up for adoption, and reassure them that they’re going to be okay even though all their adult “role models” are IDIOTS.
• Spencer from iCarly
• Ms. Dolly Parton 

           

3. My husband sometimes has no filter, which means that what comes into his brain comes out of his mouth before Rational Thought can warn him that he is about to hurt my feelings.  Luckily he has me.  I pout for a few days, then I give him the opportunity to apologize by leaving him this: 

It can happen to Woody.  It can happen to you too.

 (That, my friends, is a blurry photo of Woody's severed head and a note that reads 

"You're next, unless you apologize for criticizing my work here at home.  Love, your 1st wife.")

4. I lost FOUR POUNDS at Weight Watchers this week, despite consuming no fewer than 1,760 calories of Starbucks Caffeinated Yumminess and eating candy corn for breakfast. 

5. I think Heywood Banks is a genius:  "Yeah Toast!" is my new morning anthem.

6. And finally, how cute is my baby?

Moo.

Coming soon – people I am going to vote off my island . . .