Room for Love

So in my former life, as I have mentioned, I traveled A LOT. Once I stopped being the newbie I got some primo clients in even better locales: Paris, Italy, Stockholm and the like. One night I am on a flight to Bologna and I am checking in ridiculously late to a boutique hotel where I have never stayed before.

For those of you who don't know me (and I am SO, SO thrilled that people who don't know me are actually reading this. Seriously, huge compliment. Yeah you! Thank you!), my name is Joy Love. Seriously. It is not a pseudonym, it is my birth name. I know, 9 months and my parents came up with Joy Love. No, they were not hippies (my mom's ode to the Summer of Love, I kid you not, was hoop earrings). And, for the record, my middle name is not Peace. I have heard that weekly since I was about 4 years old. It is no longer even worth a polite smile.

But back to the subject, I check into this very upscale, small hotel (it is important to the story, I am not simply bragging) saying "I have a room for Love." The elegant manager says discretely "Yes, ma'am, Room 217." "Uh, do I need a key or anything?" "No, ma'am, the door is unlocked."

Off I toodle in my heels, dragging my suitcase and laptop to Room 217. I find it odd but I assume that because it is a boutique hotel, perhaps they simply leave the keys in the door for late check-ins. I get to the door, which is ajar. I shove it open and there is a man in his underwear awaiting me (he is bikini underwear and a wife beater for the record. Ewwww!) He does not seem shocked but I am horrified. A million apologies, ohgawd, ohgawd, ohgawd.

Now I am no longer toodling down the hall, I am zooming. Back to the front desk with elegant manager man. "Uhhh, you did say Room 217, right?" {Why do women always assume it is their mistake, by the way?} "Yes, ma'am, 217." "There is already someone in that room. Can you check your book again?"

Now I have flustered Mr Elegance but I don't know why. He is as gracious as possible saying "Well, yes, of course, he is in the room waiting for you. That is how this kind of thing works." At this point my little dim light bulb goes off.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You think I am a hooker?"

Mr. Elegance has no idea how to respond (which, when I think about it, I did not leave him a graceful entrance. Sorry about that). I decide to be merciful and explain "My last name is Love. I have reservations."

I am now feeling so sorry for the manager that I am debating having a quickie with 217 to make everyone feel less awkward. Manager is completely flustered and beside himself. Dozens of apologies, his face is so red that I fear he might stroke out and he, clearly, can not regain his composure. I get from his random stammerings that a half hour before he had called the local call girl service (at least he did not think I was a run-of-the-mill street whore, I was upscale! BoNANza!), and requested a blond America for Mr 217.

Half an hour later, I waltz in as a blond American saying "I have a room for Love." I totally see the misunderstanding and am pretty amused by it. He can't get beyond the faux pas.

At this point, enter the hooker. I look at her and say "Room 217, he is waiting." She thanks me and moves on her merry way.

I get my room key, more apologies and all is well. The next day I got a beautiful bouquet of flowers with the best note ever. It read "Sorry I thought you were a whore, Madam Love."

Are You Looking for Truffles?

I am not one of those paranoid people who thinks that everyone is out to get them. In fact, I am the total opposite -- I bank on good karma. For the record, I also have the most amazing parking juju ever. My friend Melanie (who has never met a door prize she has not won) swears it is because I give God the giggles but, regardless, I have great luck most of the time and am, therefore, ridiculously trusting.


Which leads me to Milan... In my old job as a software goddess I traveled all the time (seriously, over 500,000 miles a year). One of my roles was to keep our clients happy by wining and dining them. I know, it sucks but someone has to do it. So, I am with new clients in Milan and this man comes up to me, asks me to dinner, I accept and he agrees to pick me up at my hotel at 8. No worries, I do this all the time. I am practically a professional.


He shows up at my hotel in banger car. I mean a total jalopy. Which would be fine but shouldn't the Program Manager for a major Italian plastic company have a car with all its door handles? But this does not deter me; into the car I hop. {This is where my Hubby starts his safety briefing about situational awareness. This is when I start tuning him out and start daydreaming about my cute shoes. Sadly, this is not our first rodeo so we both know the roles that the other one plays}.


We leave the Autostrada and get on a smaller road. Fine, fine. We are making small talk and I realize that THIS GUY IS NOT MY CLIENT. Holy shit, Joy, you are in the car with a total stranger. Not that my client was not a stranger (clearly) but at least I had his email address. This is just some random guy who worked down the hall from my clients and wanted to have dinner with me. At this point I realize two things: 1) I need to focus when people are doing introductions and 2) I need glasses.


I am trying not to panic but I keep hearing my mother's voice in a loop saying "Don't get in the car with strangers, even if they offer you candy." Somehow I heeded that advice as a 6 year old but, here I am in my late 20s in a car with a stranger; no candy necessary. By the way, we have now left the paved road. Yep, we are on a dirt road in a forest.


I am TOTALLY CONVINCED that my karma points have run out and I am about to become some sad headline. The passenger door does not even have an interior handle (I did mention the car was a total banger). This is a bad movie plot and I am living it. So, in Penelope Pitstop fashion, I start digging in my purse for some kind of weapon. For those of you who don't know my hubby, his specialty in the Marine Corps was weapons of opportunity. Like how to kill people with a paper clip or some such. Apparently, this kind of knowledge does not leak out across the pillow so I am bewildered and panicking. Can I over-schedule him with my Palm Pilot, make him stress out and have a heart attack? Can I lipstick his face and hope that he dies of embarrassment? I got nothing other than a pen and a perfume sample. My brilliant plan is to throw the perfume in his eyes and then poke him with the pen. Yep, Chuck Norris would be shaking in his boots at that move.


Basically, I am waiting to die because even I know this plan sucks. We are now on a goat path headed to AN ABANDONED FARMHOUSE. Swear to God, I am not making this up. I am in a car with a stranger, armed with Chanel No 5 heading to an abandoned farmhouse. Even I, Captain Oblivious, know this is bad. He is still chattering away like nothing is wrong but, of course, nothing is wrong in his world. I am the one who is about to be chopped to bits and fed to feral pigs not him. Are psychopaths always flirtatious and chipper? We pull up and I start plotting my escape.


But, of course, I have to wait for him to open my door since I don't have a handle on my side. He comes over, opens the door part way and I shove it open and start hauling ass. Well, "hauling ass" might be an exaggeration. 1) I am built for comfort not for speed and 2) I am in ridiculous shoes which look great but they are not intended for a forest escape. So I am screaming at the top of my lungs (and this is one thing at which I excel) and running (not my strong suit). He is JOGGING (yes, let's insult me before you chop me to bits) to keep up with me asking me "What is wrong? Where are you going? Why you yell so much?" I am now wondering if I should just stop so at least my corpse won't be all sweaty with smeared make-up when I hit a tree root and wipe out. I mean I am FLATTENED and skid to a stop at the root of a tree.


He gets on his knees beside me and asks "Ohhh, you are looking for truffles. I see. Let me help." I am shooting tears out horizontally and hoping to be able to write a farewell note and he thinks I am looking for truffles like some French pig. NOW I HAVE HAD IT! "What the hell are you talking about, you moron. I am running away or I was until my stiletto got caught in a root."


Eventually, once he stops laughing, I realize that he is not trying to kill me. Ohhh. "Then why are we at an abandoned farmhouse off of a goat path in the forest?" He helps me up and we walk to the other side of the farmhouse. Complete with parking lot. Full of people. On a patio. Eating, drinking and making merriment. No wood chipper. No shallow graves. No feral pigs. Just some prosciutto.


Now I feel like a total ass, I have grass stains on my pants, dirt in my hair and I have broken a heel to boot (does Nordstrom's return policy cover mad dashes from potential psychopaths?). During dinner he asks a couple of times "so you're sure you don't want to go truffle hunting with my family this weekend? You can tell your very funny story to them."

My Homemade Refrigerator Pickle Recipe

These will only keep for a week or so since they are not preserved in vinegar. But they are wicked good if I do say so myself.

1/4 cup kosher or sea salt (I buy the big red box of Morton's)
1/8 cup sugar
2 pounds pickling cukes (scrubbed and cut into halves or quarters)
8 or more cloves of garlic, crushed
2 Tablespoons dried dill
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
dried red peppers (optional)

Combine sugar and salt with 1.5 cups of boiling water. Stir to dissolve completely. Add in some ice cubes to cool this mixture. Then add in the rest of the ingredients except for the cukes.

In a large bowl place the cucumbers in a somewhat organized fashion. Pour the spiced water over them and fill with water until all the cukes are covered. Place a plate that is smaller than the bowl on top of the cucumbers to keep them all submerged. You might also want to add a coffee mug or something as additional weight.

Start checking them at 6 hours to see if they are "done." Most of the time, it takes 24 - 48 hours for them to taste "pickley" enough for people.

Once you reach that taste, keep the pickles (in the brine mixture) in the refrigerator.

What She Actually Said Was

A couple of years back, Hubby and I went to Dallas to see the family. Hubby was playing with my two-year old niece. He would pop his head up from behind a chair and make this duck sound. Peals of delight ensued each and every time. Which makes you wonder how she could not be expecting this.... He had done this no less than 50 times. Seriously, only a toddler or the village idiot could be shocked 50 times in a row AT THE EXACT SAME ACTION.

But, I digress. She then decides to radically change the game by changing sides of the table. Master of all disguises that one. When he did not make the sound fast enough she says "Uncle Ken, you fuckin' funny."

Total crickets. We are all trying to figure out who this is going to get pinned on. My brother is looking like the most likely culprit since Hubby and I have only been in town for a couple of days.

Enter my sister-in-law on her white horse. "What she said was 'Uncle Ken, do something funny.'"

That'll Do Hal

Side bar: Ken had one of his buddies, Rocky, over last night. Rocky is a man's man. Seriously, 6.5 feet tall, special forces, secret squirrel stud, you get the idea. And he reads scotchandcupcakes! How cool is that? Huge shout out to my fave, S-Cubed guy!

Several years back Hubby was deployed to the sand box for a year. We decided that his mid-tour leave should be in Paris. What could be better than meeting your honey in Paris for two weeks? The plan, in theory, is brilliant.

Now the supply chain to Qatar's BX system is not perfect and there are often shortages. Because of this, when necessities are available people stock up which causes further shortages. You see the circle here. So, before I left, I went to the USAFA commissary to pick up some stuff for Sweetness. Note of warning: do NOT go to the commissary on Wednesday mornings. It is senior citizen day and everyone wants to talk. I have an especially inviting aura and old people love me more than the Denny's Early Bird Special. I am like the Bermuda Triangle: they are inexplicably drawn to me. Normally, this is fine and even kind of cool. They have some great stories to tell and I get to hear how gorgeous I am. Wins all the way around.

Back to the point: Hubby needs toothpaste and there is a slight crowd in this area (also where denture care stuff is) so I park my cart and grab my stuff. Upon returning to the cart, I see that this adorable old guy has put his things in my cart. I tell him "Excuse but I think this is my cart." His response in a huge BOOMING voice is "Oh sorry. I was wondering why I had FOUR BOXES OF RUBBERS in there."

I am horrified. This man has now shouted my sexual status to God and everyone. I want to die or at least escape but there is no where to hide since he boomed this info and everyone knows it is me (I am the only one in the entire store who is anywhere close to child-bearing age). I see his wife dart off to a different aisle because she is also horrified. Thanks, lady, for the solidarity.

I keep stammering the random phrases "husband," "gone for six months," "Paris," "mid-tour leave," "have I mentioned gone for six months?" "legally married" and "seriously, it has been six months."

He then proceeds to tell me, and I swear I am not making this up, "When I was a gunner in Germany during WWII, I sent my wife a letter saying 'better get a tetanus shot because what I am going to poke you with sure is rusty.' " At this point the wife who has scurried off shouts from the next aisle over "That'll do, Hal." Hal says "Oooo, gotta go. Bye."

I can only be so annoyed with Hal since 1) he lost his hearing as a gunner in WWII, 2) he truly meant no harm and 3) WWII vets SAVED THE WORLD.

During the rest of my ill-fated shopping excursion I was treated like a one-woman Rosie the Riveter. The wives were giving me advice on how to be a good wife during deployment, I was getting high-fives from the men and encouragement like "you take care of that man so he can take care of us."

One of the women had this advice "Lie on your back, think of your country. It won't last that long dear."

We Also Don't Say

A few months ago bebe boy and I were in Texas visiting the family including my nieces, G and A, who were 4 and almost 3 at the time. My mom and I decide to haul all three kiddoes out for lunch which, by the way, went splendidly (bribing tots with La Madeleine's Strawberries Romanoff works wonders. Hell, bribing ME to behave with Strawberries Romanoff works wonders). We had to take two cars since three car seats is a logistical nightmare and, as I have blogged about before, car seats and I have some bad juju between us.

The girls insist on riding with me since I 1) "will crank up Pink" and 2) "drive faster than Bamo (Grandma) and we like going fast. You know, like Daddy drives." These are absolutely their quotes. Please don't ask me why little people are listening to Pink and can sing along.

So, in the car G wants to play the echo game. Oh, seriously, don't make me play that. Repeating the same phrase over and over is not even close to being enjoyable or even tolerable. However, because I am Aunt Fabulous, I concede. Quickly, I realize that G (the 4 year old) is simply trying to goad her younger sister into saying something she should not. The trap is set by G and in dawdles A, totally unsuspecting.

G: What the?
me: What the?
A: What the?

G: What the?
me: What the?
A: What the?

G: What the?
me: What the?
A: What the heck?

G: Oooohhhhh, we don't say "heck" in this family. Do we Aunt Joy?
me: No, we don't say "heck."

G: We also don't say shithead, Aunt Joy.

That's Africa, Baby

I am pretty surprised, and HUGELY complimented, at the number of people who do not know me but read this anyway. Special shout out to MP's pal!

Earlier this summer I went to Africa. Tanzania and Rwanda to be precise with a little Kenya tossed in for good measure. Given that it was one of the most profound experiences of my life, I wanted to write about it.

This is my first hour in Africa. I am totally not exaggerating. But no worries, from there it absolutely got better. Sometimes the moment even bordered on divine.

I have not even left the airport and the following happens: I get shaken down for a bribe to, get this, bring in soccer shoes for orphans. Talk about some bad juju! The hideous GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL demands that I bribe him so that I may bring in shoes for kiddoes that have no parents. Sadly, I even had to bargain on the price and since I got "such a good price, no receipt." Seriously.

While I was rummaging for money, the ass steals my laptop...seriously. With a lot of baby pictures on it. And, because I am me, no back up. Aarrgh!

So onto the minibus we go. We are screaming down a pothole filled road (and, as a little aside, Tanzanian potholes, if they get filled in at all, get filled in with sharp rocks and dirt. Yes, this works as well as you might imagine). Not surprisingly, we blow a tire. And I mean BLOW. This was no slow leak where you end up hearing that thump, thump. This was an earth-shattering kaboom!

The driver does not bother to stop stating that he fixed a flat on the way to pick us up and he does not have another spare. Now I realize that I am not a mechanic but, in my limited experience, I concluded that tires were not disposable and that carrying a half dozen would be unnecessary. Blowing a tire an hour did not seem unreasonable to him.

And having five tires rather than six does not dampen our need for speed. We are still flying. Flying, that is, until we hit a snafu. Not traffic per se. We got caught in a riot. And this is not like animal rights activists shouting outside of Bloomies about the evils of fur. This is a no-shit, full-blown, looks like it was shot in Hollywood African riot. Clubs, machetes and all.

Granted, I am a riot virgin but I am thinking that this can not be good. There are thousands of armed people swarming and shouting. Stupidly I ask - "why are they upset?" Have I mentioned that I am a riot virgin? I assumed it had been organized, a text had been sent out, a meeting point had been arranged in advance and a press release had been sent to the major news outlets. That is how the Junior League would run a riot at least (and then thank you notes would have been sent out in a timely manner, thank you very much).

Our driver does not know why the riot is happening so, wait for it, HE STOPS THE BUS AND ASKS! I hope that I have established that I am not an expert on the proper protocol of riots but even I know this is a bad idea. Note to self: Do not ask an angry, got-nothing-to-lose 14 year old why he is pissed. Furthermore, do not ask the aforementioned angry, got-nothing-to-lose 14 year old ANYTHING when he is running to a riot and armed with both a machete and a malatov cocktail. I am not making this up, I have been in Africa for less than an hour and I am five feet away with a hormonal, pissed rioter wielding a machete and toting a plastic bottle full of kerosene. This can not be good, grasshopper.

Amazingly enough, he answers us and we all move on our merry little ways.

Less than five minutes later we are tear-gassed by the government. Oh seriously, things have got to get better or this will be the longest and hardest two weeks of my life.

Either Way We Aren't Paying for College

Briefest preface EVER: Have you ever noticed that everyone who drops out of high school does so because they "are too smart for school" and "the school system does not understand" them? Now, I know some pretty bright people and a few downright brilliant people and, somehow, they all managed to get the schools to understand them. And if one more of these parents says to me "Bill Gates dropped out and look at him." Ummm, Bill Gates LEFT HARVARD with a defined plan. Your kid is dropping out of Pigsknuckle High hoping to land a job at the Piggley Wiggley. The similarities are startling, I can see how you could confuse the two situations.

But back to me... When bebe boy was 3 months old, I had him sitting up in his Moses basket. The sheer weight of his bulbous head started to tilt him over. He grabbed the handle of the basket and pulled himself up! "My baby understands counterweights at 3 months, he is a genius!" "Hello Ivy League!" "Hello Ivy League on scholarship!" "Honey, let's crack open his college piggy bank and buy the Valentino Rose Vertigo bag!" "BoNANza!" "Clearly, my genes are at play here."

I am still in a state of euphoria over my brilliant bebe when he leans over, grabs his foot and bites his own toe so hard that he starts sobbing. Good-bye Ivy League. Adios state school. Farewell even to junior college. My hopes for genius are dashed.

Either way, we aren't paying for college.

Don't Forget to Wipe Your Ass!

So, we all have mothers and we all find them to be annoying at some point. That being said, my mom can often take the cake in the annoyance department. For sure, as time goes on you will hear more things that she has done but the following is an example.

Now, she is not all-annoying-all-the-time. But even when she is doing something nice, she gets weird about it. For example, she is obsessed with little people pajamas. She regularly sends sweet bebe dozens of pjs. Not that it is not kind but, seriously, they are not disposable and we probably don't need 30 sets. But there you have it; we are pj central.

Onto the annoying side of things... From the beginning let me establish that my brother and I both have graduate degrees, own homes and have never had CPS take away our kiddies in the middle of the night. We have also never been on the news stating "it sounded just like a train" and then sobbing about how our trailer got sucked up in a tornado. The "take back man" has never visited us in the middle of the night to "borrow" our car. Overall, he and I are pretty successful, productive members of society.

That being said, my mother has this awful habit of thinking that if she were not there to micromanage our lives and constantly remind us to do things, that we would fall apart. Once when my brother dropped her off at the airport (to visit me, oh joy of joys), she called him five times before he left the airport grounds. Now DFW is a large airport but, seriously, five times with instructions that start off with "don't forget to pick your daughter up from school" to "she needs to be seatbelted in." We like to call the obvious instructions the "and don't forget to wipe your ass" phone calls.

My latest one went something like this (and I swear I am not exaggerating):

Ring, ring.
me: Hello
mom: How is the baby?
me: I'm fine, thanks for asking.
mom: How is the baby?
me: He is good. We are going to the zoo in a few. Can I call you later?
mom: Fine. Bye.

10 seconds later -- she calls back
me: yes?
mom: Don't forget sunscreen.
(NOTE: I have worn sunscreen religiously since about the 7th grade. My ancestors were, quite clearly, inventing the wheel or writing on walls or something else that did not involve the outdoors. Otherwise, they would have died from melanoma LONG before child-bearing age).
me: (patiently) Thanks, Mom.

10 seconds later -- she calls back
Mom: Don't forget a hat.

10 seconds later -- she calls back
Mom: Don't forget his food.

10 seconds later -- she calls back
Mom: Don't forget the stroller.

Believe it or not this goes on FOR 10 PHONE CALLS which I have to answer since she knows that I actually have my phone near me. (Normally, I lose it for days at a time in my car or, once, in the fridge -- hey, I was pregnant, cut me some slack. When it is not lost, it is in the bottom of my purse. Dead. Besides, it is there for my convenience, not everyone else's).

And the phone calls continue to deteriorate in quality. The last one tells me, I KID YOU NOT,

"It's your mother (like I have not heard her voice most days of my life). Don't dangle the baby over the railing like Michael Jackson and don't let him put his hand in the lion's cage like those crazy people did in California."

AND SHE GENUINELY EXPECTS A RESPONSE!

me: "Got it, Mom. Only let the baby play with the lion if Michael Jackson is around." And then I hang up and refuse to answer again.

This is the voice mail I get "Very funny, asshole. Don't kill the baby. I repeat, don't kill the baby at the zoo. Call me when you get home so I can stop worrying."

And people wonder why I waited so long to reproduce.

Baby Stuff You Really Do Need

Hubby's quote of the day: "Doing that is like performing an emergency root canal on a menstruating hippopotamus."

Totally random but it amused me nonetheless.

Sweet boy has a ton of stuff; hence why we call him the most overindulged baby on the planet. But I swear it is not us who buys all of it - the boy has a fan club with founding members that include my immediate family, Kim, Tom and Ody. Does a 7 month old need a ride-on alphabet tractor? No, but we have TWO of them. I will admit to going a little overboard on some Boden, Gymboree, PBK and Janie and Jack clothes but honestly the treasure trove that is his room was not done entirely by me. It takes a village as they say.

I got so much stuff from Pottery Barn Kids for my shower (stuff that was adorable but I don't need 8 full sets of towels especially for an infant), that I took a bunch of it back and bought myself some little someun someuns. I am sure that makes me a "bad mom" in some peoples' eyes but they can kiss off. I went through 36 hours of labor for him, in exchange he can front me some organic cotton sheets.

That being said, here is some stuff that if you are pregnant you HAVE TO HAVE. When you get the memo that I have taken over the world, here is what you will get when you give birth (note that it will not include those crappy formula-sponsored diaper bags filled with one sample and lots of propaganda).

** A swing, preferably one that goes both forward/backward and sideways (apparently the sideways mimics the womb so they like it more. Who knew?). Hubby and I love it so much that we call it "Truth" because it sets you free. Yes, I do find myself to be clever.

** A good camera. This might be obvious but we had ghetto camera with a flash that, I kid you not, was like the sun. Get a good one. Learning how to use it is the next step (I am not there yet).

** A bouncy thing with all the gizmos that play tunes, bounce and spin. Ours is jungle themed and we call it the Magic Monkey Machine. Seriously, if you want to be free for hours, get one of these jobbers.

** Homeopathic teething tablets. They are like crack but don't cause nasty nose burns or gauntness.

** Sophie the Giraffe. Yes, $20 for a plastic giraffe seems like insanity until your little critter gnaws on it for hours. Then you realize that you would indeed give a kidney for it if necessary.

** Benefit Ooh La Lift (it makes the mornings of dark circles more bearable)

Another Car Seat Drama

Funny thing about the blog, I now have people requesting that I write about a particular incident since they enjoy that story so much. I have been a blogger for a day and now I am taking requests. I swear I am part lounge lizard. Speaking of, sweet bebe gets his lounge lizardness from me: he kicks back in his high chair with his arms wrapped around the back of it. His expression says "Yeah, I own this bar." All he needs is fake chest hair and a gold medallion. He looks good, bae-bee.

So, Kim and I decide to go on second outing with bebe. This time I remember to bring the diaper bag. I am feeling great: have diaper bag, friend and baby. Seriously, I am part genius, part rock star. We go into Babies R Us. I hate that place. It is like Sam's Club in primary colors. Bad lighting, everything makes noise and the most disinterested staff on the planet. At some point, I will write about my only pregnancy meltdown which happened at BRUs. And, for the record, I hate places that are misspelled or incorporate Old English (Ye Olde Tea Shoppe drives me insane).

But back to the story... Kim and I get the car seat out of the base part and try to stick it in the shopping cart to no avail. We have seen it done a million times but, for the life of us, we can't sort it out. It is either at a ridiculous, capillary-bursting angle, tilting precariously over the edges or taking up the entire basket part. All we knew for sure was that it did not go in the dog food area of the cart. After 10 minutes we give up and head in to the hell hole. The first mom that walks by explains it to us and snaps him in. She makes it look easy. Whatever, bitch, can you do calculus or diagram a sentence? Ha! We can.

We buy our stuff and head to the parking lot where it is freezing and snowing. Lovely. AND NOW WE CAN'T UNSNAP THE FLIPPIN' CAR SEAT FROM THE CART! Oh the injustice. We are lifting the stupid cart as we shake the car seat. Sweet bebe is now turning blue from the cold so I shove him in a Whole Foods bag on the floor of the car while the two of us manhandle the car seat. I am still hormone soup so I am now crying and convinced that I am the worst mother in the history of mothers. Even those wackjobs who leave their girl babies to dehydrate and die under a tree are preferable to me, the mom-who-can't-work-a-car-seat.

I then have the brilliant idea to simply buy a new car seat. We can leave this one in the cart as a gift to the universe and I will simply start over. Halfway to the store (and how serendipitous that I am parked in front of the car seat mecca known as BRUs? It is amazing how an emotional crisis can change your whole perspective on things), Kim points out that we would have to reinstall the base thing if we buy a new one. The base install took three adults and two fire department visits. I kid you not.

So, now I am postpartum, sobbing, freezing, and wet in a parking lot with my newborn in a grocery bag. Seriously, war refugees would look with pity upon me. At long last, someone finally pulled into the parking lot. This was not her first car seat rodeo and she EFFORTLESSLY unsnapped it and popped it into the base. Then she made the snide remark of "Is that your baby in a shopping bag?"

Car seat 2 Me 0

My First Outing with Bebe

On our first ill-fated outing en famille, we had to take bebe to the pediatrician. As awful as doctor visits are to me, the yuckiness was exacerbated by the fact that it was the height of flu season, we had to fill out paperwork and, oh yeah, I had just delivered a 9.5 pound baby. I also had pneumonia which I did not realize at the time. Clearly, I am not at the top of my game (this is my excuse for the following stupidity. And, trust me, it does follow. The stupidity not only follows, it downright flows).

Now I realize that I had 40 weeks notice on the baby thing but I am, and always will be, a Last-Minute Lucy. Besides, why pack a diaper bag in advance? Hubby and I spend 20 minutes trying to figure out the car seat (someone told me they did test runs before their baby was born with her collection of dolls. Seriously? Get a flippin' life lady! What adult woman plays with dolls and why would you admit to this? And you have nothing better to do with your time than practice your car seat maneuvers. Might I suggest volunteering...). However, car seats are not self-explanatory and we did not have directions since we got it from my brother and sister-in-law (huge thanks again, guys)!

Finally, we get to the peds office, avoid all the hacking people who have to fawn over bebe (get your nasty-ass coughing self away from my kid, Typhoid Mary!) and, at long last, make it into the exam room. There they strip him to weigh him (yes, in Colorado in the winter) and THEY TOSS THE DIAPER IN THE GARBAGE. The tech leaves casually tossing the following comment over her shoulder "you can dress him again now."

NO I CAN'T, BITCH, YOU THREW AWAY HIS DIAPER!!! Now in hindsight, I realize that I was probably a bit hormonal but I had this unimaginable rage toward her. And I am not normally a rage kind of girl. However, I am forced to rummage through the exam room cabinets looking for a viable alternative. Let me get this out there right now... there are no alternatives to diapers. Mustard and ketchup are viable substitutes, nothing and I do mean NOTHING is an acceptable alternative to diapers.

The doc walks in as I am taping a wad of paper towels to my baby. I will let that image settle in for a moment.

Doc's face is a montage of shock, confusion and amusement, with a dash of horror for good measure. Then he asks the world's dumbest question "don't you have another diaper?"

"Yep, I do. I just wanted to see if duct-tape and bailing wire would also work." Twenty years of education and this is the question I get.

Lesson learned: To avoid a visit from the friendlies at CPS, bring a diaper bag with you.