Heifer International!

A further explanation of yesterday's FB status.

Hubby and I are extremely blessed and we know it.  We are, however, afraid of raising a spoiled, bratty child.  You know the ones:  they demand a toy because they did not throw a tantrum at Target (let me tell you how well demands worked at my mother's house), they have yet to utter "please" or "thank you" by the tender age of 16, they complain because they don't have this or that (my new Mercedes has a flat tire - wah, wah, wah), they would not know volunteerism if it wacked them in the face.

Yes, I realize that he is not even a year old and that he is great at sharing (he shares his yogurt with Delilah the bulldog, unless it is Banilla, his favorite.  If that is the case, the dog can rot).  However, I still worry that he will be bratty at some point and I figure there is no time like the present to start his appreciation for all his blessings.  {On a personal note, I am CONVINCED beyond a doubt that one of the reasons why I have received so much is because 1) I give a lot to non-profits {time and money} and 2) I am one grateful bitch.  I believe it is a law of the universe.  Seriously.  Try it and let me know if your life does not start looking up.}

So, Hubs and I decided that every year we would make a donation to Heifer International (LOVE THEM) in bebe's honor.  By the time, he is 18 we want to have donated an ark (their words, not ours).  In our idyllic world, he will research and figure out how many lives the donations have changed over time (like the dozen chickens we donated year two would have become x chickens now and would have produced y eggs, saving z lives because of protein, minerals, etc).  Philanthropy and Algebra combined:  boNANza!

I know, I know it is probably rose-colored glasses to think that an eight year old will want to donate part of his savings {we are thinking we might expect him to donate 10% of his allowance, birthday booty, etc to causes of his choice -- what do you think of that?  Are will going to raise a well-rounded, giving sweetheart or stingy curmudgeon if we "force" it upon him?}.  However, we do have this vision of him helping to select the animals in the future and him wanting to help pay for the gift.

Last year we gave ducks (because he had a pair of duck pajamas that I loved.  Brilliant rationale, I know).  This year, we are deciding between chickens and bees.  But we might have to repeat the ducks because he loves his rubber duckie so, so much.  Sadly, he can't eat honey yet and does not have a rubber chicken.  Though he loves lamb kabobs so maybe we should donate some sheep...  oh, train of consciousness, how easily you get derailed...

So, that is the long version of my Facebook status from yesterday.

Thanksgiving 9

As Hubby lays in bed with a cold...

Ungrateful side note:  Has anyone else noticed that, as a general rule, men are fine with serious, life-threatening wounds but are totally knocked out by the common cold?  Honest to God, Hubby was mortared/rocketed in Afghanistan and that was on his list of "no biggies."  However, three shoulder and knee surgery later, he is flat on his back from a cold. 

You would think the world was ending.  Seriously, I had a 9.5 pound baby and 36 hours of labor without anesthesia and I complained less than Mr Runny Nose.  I mentioned once "Oh dear God this hurts" and I assumed that he would be able to recall it, preferably for the rest of his life, or, at the very least, the rest of the event.  But the converse is not true.  He is compelled to remind me every time he regains consciousness that he does not feel well.  "Yes, Sweetness, the fact that you have been asleep for 24 hours would indicate as much.  However, you will be happy to know that I got the memo the first 300 times you mentioned it."

But back to gratitude.  I am so grateful for my health and the health of my loved ones.  Cold dramas aside, we are all crazy healthy and, for that, I am so, so happy.

People often ask me why I am so laid back as a mom.  I finally concluded that when you face your worst fears, you really stop sweating all the small stuff.  Sweet bebe got RSV (a nasty lung infection as in his pulse ox rate got down to 28) and spent 17 days in the ICU when he was 2 weeks old.  When a nurse says "If he makes it..." Well, you don't get upset when the baby eats some dog food.

And, finally, since I often rant about food ... a friend of mine asked me "where do you get your prescriptions filled?"  "Uh, we don't have any prescriptions."  "Fine, where do you get the baby's medicines filled?"  "He has never had prescriptions either.  So, I guess you could say that we fill them at Whole Foods in the kefir and spinach section."

Mommy Lessons

If you missed Friday's blog about my mom and the film discussion, I recommend that you go read it.  It is a quickie and hilarious.  I have had so many people email me about it...

A couple of things I have learned since becoming a mom:
1)  The following stains platinum blonde baby hair:

strawberries
dark chocolate
blackberries
poo

These stains will dissipate within a couple of days but the berries leave pink or purple highlights for about a week.  People will ask if you are trying to make "a statement" with your child's hair.  At first I explained but then I got annoyed and sick of 'splaining {Lucy!}.  So I started telling the nosey weirdoes that we were showing our support of breast cancer awareness and Barney (that obnoxious purple monster who sings and dances.  We don't watch it, for the record).  This tended to shut them up.  Except for one moron who asked if Barney had breast cancer. 

Just stop talking and please use a condom.  The world has enough morons without you adding more to the ranks.

2)  Should you want dreadlocks without the hassle of braiding, knotting and not washing (and doesn't that get itchy?), a nice gouda fondue rapidly speeds this process along.  I can also vouch for the lightening fast speed with which yogurt causes tangles. 

Dreadlock lesson part two:  Do not think that it is best to wait for the gouda to dry so that you can comb it out.   Once cheese hardens (especially cheese that has been mixed with leeks, dried cranberries, wine and corn starch), it becomes, essentially, a stalactite.  There is no brushing it out and you can't safely reheat your head to a high enough temperature to get it melty again.  The only choice is to cut the monstrosity out.  I have a nice bald patch on the side of my head from this lesson.  And my {childless} hairdresser had the nerve to ask me "You don't tell people you come here, do you?"  Like I am a walking bad advertisement...

Thanksgiving 6, 7 and 8

I had an email-free weekend... fabulous but today's Inbox is a little scary.  So, I figured I would post Sat, Sun and today's yahooos all at once. 

Saturday:  Totally grateful for aspirin.  I had a major hangover from too much wine {and sushi} on Friday night.  Note to self:  you are no longer 25, self. Stop drinking like you are.  And, furthermore, self, bebe does not care if you are hungover and will still wake up ready to play even if you are not.  Use your head for something outside of a hatrack, self. 

Sunday:  I was ridiculously grateful for my neighbor snow-blowing my driveway.  {I normally get annoyed with people randomly making a noun into a verb but, yet again, it is my blog so adapt}.  Hubby is sick and I really loathe shoveling snow. 

Monday:  I am so grateful for my neighbor watching bebe.  She is totally the "Oma" we all wish we had and my son is in love with her.  It is so cute to see them as the founding members of the Mutual Admiration Society.  And God love anyone who is willing to spend that many hours pushing him in a swing at the park... I lose interest at the half hour mark.  I know, I know -- bad mommy.

Thanksgiving 5

Today I am really thankful for music.  God knows I am not a musician or even remotely musically inclined but I love it nonetheless.

It can pep you up.  (Walking on Sunshine)

It can calm a baby.  (Beethoven especially)

What else can instantly bring back moments of your life (your first date, your wedding dance)?

Who doesn't laugh when they hear "I Will Survive" or "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf?

Cecile B DeMother

My mother gets antsy if she is not done with her Christmas shopping by July.  It is not that she is super-organized but rather that she loves throwing it in everyone else's face that she is already finished.  She resembles the ever-compassionate Gandhi in so many ways, that one.

This is a conversation that I had with her a couple of days ago {clearly, she is finishing up really late this year}. 

Mom:  What kind of film does your camera take?
me:  It is digital.
Mom:  Well what kind of film is in it right now?
me:  Mom, it is digital.  It does not take film.
Mom:  Fine, moron.  I won't get you anything for Christmas then. 


she hangs up

five minutes later... she calls again


Mom:  What kind of film does your camera take?
me:  It is still digital.
Mom:  So you are still being an asshole?


she hangs up


five minutes later... she calls again



Mom: What kind of film does your camera take?
me: It is still digital.  Digital cameras don't take film.
Mom: What kind of film is in my camera then, Miss Know It All?
me:  Yours is digital too.  No film.
Mom:  Wrong, moron!  I go to Walgreens, give them my camera.  He takes out this stick thing and they give me pictures, Dumb Ass. 
me:  That is not film, Mom.  It is a card.
Mom:  Whatever, idiot brain. 


she hangs up
five minutes later... she calls again


 
Mom:  Last chance, jerkface, what kind of film does your camera take?
 
 
And people wonder why I was afraid to have a baby...

The Great Gumbo Incident

I have to admit, I make a mean bowl of gumbo.  It takes me two days to complete this task so when I make it, I make vats of it.  I figure if I am going to stir roux for two hours, I am going to make it worth my while.

One of Hubby's favorite foods is gumbo. 

This is a dangerous combination. 

A couple of years ago I made two stock pots full of this yummy.  Hubby was eating SO much (about a half gallon of gumbo plus rice) that I said (and totally meant) "If you don't stop bingeing, I am going to purge.  Seriously, I am going to throw up if I have to see you eat one more bite.  Please stop."

Off he sulks.

A few minutes later, I walk into our closet and see Sweetness sitting on an exercise ball EATING GUMBO.  I swear, he looks like I caught him masturbating or looking at porn.  Oh the horror!

His defense was "you said you did not want to SEE me eating.  You did not ask me to actually stop eating." 

Mr. Letter of the Law should have been an attorney. 

Thanksgiving 4

On the fourth day of gratitude, my true love gave to me...


I am most grateful for my pert near perfect husband and baby. It would be impossible to love one without loving the other since, well, the baby looks like I washed his daddy in hot water and shrank him. However, I am more blessed with them than I deserve. Seeing their faces makes me melt a hundred times a day. I must have been a saint in a past life and am now reaping all the good stuff I have sown.

Thanksgiving 3

On the third day of gratitude, I am most grateful for our veterans.

Without these men and women, our country and the world would be dramatically different and we would all be, well, German (or German slaves). 

I don't have a yellow ribbon on my car (because, honestly, if a bumper sticker could save the world...) but I am humbled and honored to know so many veterans.  I am, of course, especially proud of my husband who not only served for 24 years in both the Marine Corps and the Air Force but continues to serve his fellow vets by running a job search blog aimed at vets and companies who hire them. 

Every vet deserves our utmost gratitude and respect. 

Veteran's Day

In honor of Veteran's Day, here are a couple of quick vet stories and salutes.

My husband was in Afghanistan shortly after September 11.  There was not a base yet and there were certainly no facilities.  He called me (yeah, color me happy when I get a call that he is leaving Kuwait and heading to Afghanistan -- I called in ALL of my favors with the universe to get him home safely.  I will never pay off that debt) and wanted me to send him a sleeping bag since the AF issued ones were not designed for the Himalayas.

I know nothing about sleeping bags or camping {seriously, I have an enormous mortgage, why would I sleep outside?}  However, I know when to outsource my decision-making so off I toodle to REI.  They know everything about outdoor stuff {random side note:  this summer I went to Africa and needed shoes to trek for gorillas in Rwanda.  I went to REI and told them what I was doing.  The guy naively asked me "what kind of hiking boot do you have now?"  "Uhhh, I have some open toe kitten heels but that is about as rugged as I get, my friend."  They TOTALLY hooked me up and I happily trekked for gorillas blister-free}.

But back to Afghanistan, I tell the REI guy that I want a sleeping bag designed for the cold.  "How cold?"  "As in the Hima-flipping-layas cold."  He gives me this pathetically thin bag.  "You sure this is enough?"  "Yep, it is designed for extreme camping."  I have never heard a deployment to a war zone referred to as "Extreme Camping" {and why would anyone do that in the first place, I mean, really, this is why the Ritz Carlton was created.  We were not designed to sleep outside} but whatever.  So, me being me, I buy two of these bags.  Take no chances is my motto.

Sweetness gets these thin bags and assumes that I have bought them at Bed, Bath and Beyond on sale.  Not that I don't love my sales but there are times that a discount simply will not do.  So, into the sleeping bag he goes with a gazillion layers of clothes on.  About five minutes later, he is stripping off all the layers of clothes and sticking his feet out.  He sleeps so soundly that night that he snoozes through a rocket attack.  Yep, that is my baby. 

Random funny quickie:

BP, my bff's dad, is quite the personality.  I adore him but he is a bit of a curmudgeon.  For some unbeknownst reason, he went through boot camp for all four branches of the service.  I believe that Marine Corps was first, followed by Air Force.  While in AF boot camp, one of the drill sergeants asked him "What's a Marine doing in AF boot camp?"  BP's response "Taking a break."  Yep, that is BP at his finest. 

Why I will always have a crush on Jimmy Stewart (if only Gregory Peck/Atticus Finch had served, sigh): 

He left his Hollywood career to enlist in the Army Air Corps during WWII.  Yep he VOLUNTEERED.   Picture some Hollywood weenie of today doing that. 

So, a huge salute to all of our service men and women (past and present) who love their country enough to don a uniform for her.  And an equally large salute and my utmost respect to their family members who support them.  And a prayer of peace for those who made the utmost sacrifice.  May it not be in vain.

Thanksgiving 2

Day Two of Gratitude

I am so beyond grateful for my friends.  They are truly the family that I have hand-picked for myself.  It is absolutely the best feeling in the world to have a group of people who love you in spite of yourself and who love you when you are feeling like the most unlovable person on the planet. 

And my friends are also about the most hilarious people around ...

Has Anyone Else Ever Noticed?

Not to be too snarky but, seriously, does a tornado or fire ever strike the educated and the hygienic?  Or do these normal people just not want to be interviewed by some overly-coiffed reporter who, truly, does not give a rip about their crisis?

Honest to God, it is like the media will only interview you if you are toothless, wearing overalls and are unable to master basic subject predicate agreement.  "We was watching the tv and it sounded jest like a freight train.  So I comes right outside.  Next thing ya knowed, my trailer and my tv is gone."

Seriously, Buford, did you NOT know this was going to happen to your house that is not attached to the earth?  Did you NOT read The Three Little Pigs?  And are you so astute at train sounds that you can tell the difference between freight and passenger trains? 

My bff posted this little tidbit on her blog (http://whatsbetterthanbrisket.blogspot.com/, I HIGHLY recommend it, she is hilarious):

"If you are going to persist in live interviews with random idiots who have nothing to add and just want to be on tv, could you please put the following as the identifier under their faces on the screen: Miscellaneous Dipshit. That way, we all know that this person has nothing credible to add and we can ignore their ramblings and speculation."

That about sums it up.  What is it with people who are seeking their fifteen minutes of fame?  Warhol was wrong, we aren't all going to get our fifteen minutes so MOVE ON (there are simply too many people on the planet now).  This being said:

** You can stop "accidentally" launching your child in a pseudo-weather balloon and have AF jets scrambling to rescue him.  Let's see how many people scramble to rescue your sorry ass from your cell mate, Bubba.

** You have my total permission to stop forwarding videos of yourself to YouTube and America's Most Inane Home Videos, participating in ridiculous, humiliating reality tv shows and dancing your ass off at games trying to get on the jumbo-tron. Worst case scenario, you look like an ass and annoy everyone around you. Best case scenario, you end up seeing said ass magnified to 1000 times its normal size. Talk about traumatic!
** You can stop marrying convicted killers while they are in prison.  He butchered his pregnant wife, he is not "misunderstood," he is a toadstool of humanity.  You are not going to change him, you are merely pathetic.  If your only dating option is those with a life sentence behind bars, you might want to consider therapy, plastic surgery or a nunnery.  Hell, even Hitler was considered charming by some. 

Thanksgiving 1

In honor of Thanksgiving (which I was quite alarmed to discover is in two weeks), I have decided to have my "Thankful for" of the day.

Today I am thankful for my unwaivering faith that I am the universe's fair-haired girl and, therefore, get what I want {at least most of the time}.  A friend of mine was stressing about his flight test that he was taking today and I told him not to worry:  he had done everything he could to prepare and, furthermore, I had put my order in with the universe so all would be fabulous for him.  {And, of course, it was}

I am so, so thankful that I am able to have faith and optimism even when others do not. 

I Want to Live in a Catalog

You know you have a cute baby when the Jehovah's Witnesses bring him gifts.  That they bought -- not a newsletter or a bible (and, speaking of,  is the Gideon bible different than the rest of them?).  When the UPS guy brought him a little someun' someun' I thought it was odd but this is truly too much. 

Topic of the day:  I want to live in a catalog.  I know, I know, it is pathetic marketing and all but that is what I want.  And, yet again, it is my blog and if you think I am totally superficial and ridiculous, well, get your own blog.

Here is the combination that I would like it to be: 

Organized like Pottery Barn (I would say organized like The Container Store but I am convinced that store is only there to make people like me feel bad about ourselves.  They all have cute bobs, ironed aprons and crisp white shirts.  Hell, even their eyebrows are organized.  When they, pertly, ask me how they can help I want to shout "I have not changed my sheets in two weeks, I am missing three left shoes, some cranberry cheddar that I swear I bought and a dozen baby socks.  Furthermore, I broke my toe on some baby jumpy thing and had sex last night with a Lego digging a hole into my back.  Do you sell something that will fix that, Princess?"}

Gadgets like Williams Sonoma.  I have to admit that place is like a crack house to me.  A French truffle finishing sauce?  Yes, don't mind if I do.  Cafe au lait bowls?  Yes, please, with the roosters on them.  A bright red tart pan?  But of course!  Though I have to say their "pecan pie filling in a jar" makes me sad.  Pecan pie (especially my chocolate bourbon pecan pie) is one of the earth's gifts to us.  A jarred version can't cut it, even if it is from WS.

Baby clothes from Janie and Jack and Boden.  Little boy overalls.  Sigh.

Adult clothes from Boden, Pure and Nordstrom.  Not that I ever take "a brisk walk while apple picking on a crisp autumn day" and need "a light, quilted jacket that goes with everything from jeans to the warmest woolies" but I want to have that kind of life some time.  Sadly, the description "will prevent you from frostbite and fatal gangrene while running into the open-all-night Target to get formula and carpet cleaner" and "hides your yogurt dreadlocks" will probably never make it past their editors.  But a girl can dream.

More kitchen stuff from Napa Style.  But without the overly pert and coifed guy.  Men who spend a lot of time styling their hair totally creep me out. 

Not that I am not grateful and humbled by my life but I sure could use a Style Editor about now...

More on Bitching...

About yesterday's blog... the intent was NOT to cause an argument. I totally get people having the random bitch fest about their honey. I do it (mainly with Kim) about Sweetness's inability to hit the hamper with his socks and the fact that he can't seem to recall that paper towels go in the compost not the recycling. I was referring to the folks whose every phrase is a complaint. Instead of the perpetual motion machine, they are the perpetual complaint machine.



Here is a word to the wise. Bitching non-stop does not make you seem funny or martyred. And the problem with burned martyrs is that they stink. I will give you a minute to get the double entendre of that one. I stole it from Vicki Clark at an AJLI Conference. LOVE her.

We all know them, the people who harp about everything in their life. I dread being around them because they totally suck the life and energy out of a conversation. How about we all make a commitment to be bitch-free for a week (or at least a couple of days)? Really what can it hurt?

I am telling you it will change your life. The universe loves an optimist. You will have to trust me on this one; I am the universe's fair-haired girl. I am the one who gets the business class upgrade on the transatlantic flight without even asking. I am the one who goes to Whole Foods to buy crab legs and, bonus, they are on sale for 50% off. And I have the best parking mojo around.


This is not to say that the dog does not sometimes poop on my floor (note to self: do not change a bulldog's food overnight. This causes some really nasty issues on your Persian rugs) and, God knows, the baby does some totally annoying baby things... but these incidents simply are not entitled to ruin my entire day. One of the best pieces of advice I ever heard was "if it is going to be funny in five years, make it funny now."


When people read about the Great Chocolate Incident of '09 (blog posting on October 29), I was surprised at how many people asked me if I yelled at the baby for making such a mess. Really? Does yelling at a 10 month old work? What, exactly, are you hoping to achieve with that? To me, it would only mean tears mixed with the chocolate/drool combo. When I said that all I could do was laugh, most people were shocked that I found it funny.

But hilarious it was and always will be. Yes, it was a total goopy mess but, ultimately, the funny overrode the messy in my mind. Plus, when I started laughing sweet bebe started laughing too (I think initially he might have been a bit nervous about my response since there was that awkward pause while he stared at me and I was wondering “what the hell…”).


Additionally, for those of you who don’t know, my son’s laugh is about the sweetest sound on the planet. It, literally, bubbles up from the bottom of his belly and spills out uncontrollably. It is the audible version of pouring too much Coke in a glass.


And why not look for more of the happy-makers in your life?

Does Crazy Need a Religion?

As I was driving back from Denver last night, I thought of something brilliant to blog about today and now I can't recall it.  Alas. 

What is on my mind right now is the attack at Ft Hood.  Not to be political, but does crazy really need a religion or a religious angle?  Everyone seems to be turning this into a Muslim vs Christian thing.  Perhaps it is just my naivity (I certainly am not in this man's head) but if he were a white guy, would he "just" be crazy?  The Oklahoma City Bomber was not accused of trying to start The Crusades again. 

Just my thought for this morning. 

God, I LOVE That Man

This is totally sappy so consider yourself forewarned.

I think too many people spend their time harping about their spouses when, in reality, they should be on-their-knees-grateful for them. Not that I don't occasionally (okay, often) bitch about Hubby but fortheloveofgawd, this woman was like a perpetual complaint machine. At least I acknowledge publicly {and often} that if my only gift to the world is a son who is half the man is father is, I have done more than my share.

I was at a Starbucks this morning eavesdropping on perhaps the most whiney-ass woman on the planet harp about her husband. "Um, perhaps the issue is not that he does not communicate with you but more that you are a harpy-ass bitch, lady?" Cut him some slack, you talk enough for both of you, another small family and a yippy dog.


Now, don't get me wrong. Some men are assholes who should be shot at dawn. I get this. {What I don't get is why women stay with these types} He has 12 children with 11 different women. He pays no child support. Does not know the middle names of half of his offspring. Works rarely and, when so, at a minimum wage job. And yet you think you are going to change him? Big news, babydoll, that man is broken and can't be fixed. Don't bother trying. Sweet talk is great but action is what matters.

Love in action is a man who rocks the baby to sleep; not out of obligation but out of the deepest and truest love for that little person.
Love in action is a man with an extra pair of baby socks in his pocket "in case his feet get cold at the park."
Love in action is a man who gets up in the middle of the night to cover the aged dog with a blanket.


Has anyone else noticed that sit-coms make husbands and fathers out to be more clueless and useless than a Crock Pot? Do the writers just assume that stupidity and banality are funny?


So in that vein, for all the good guys out there who don't get nearly the credit they deserve... consider this a public shout-out in your defense.

Here are a few of the reasons why I adore my amazing husband more than anything, And, yes, I know I am beyond lucky. (For the record, I am skipping all the obvious stuff; these are the little extras that make my heart skip a beat):

1) He is the best whistler I have ever met
2) He always has a pocket knife (which comes in way handier than I will ever admit)
3) He is not afraid to set mousetraps ... or empty them (yucko!)
4) Even in a sound sleep, he is over-protective of me and the baby
5) He always turns on the seat warmer on my side of the car
6) He does not mock my irrational affection for perfect cubes, pi, phi or the number 19
7) He can load a dishwasher better than anyone I know
8) I have not put gas in my car since the 90s

Yes, I decided to end on a perfect cube. If you don't like it, get your own blog...

The Difference Between Men and Women -- Bed Time Routine

I know that there are a lot of differences between the sexes (and THANK GOD for that, I adore my girlfriends but being a lesbian would involve a lot more drama than being heterosexual.  And, besides, who kills bugs and sets mouse traps if everyone in the house is female?  Does that get outsourced to the neighbors?  I know, I know, I get too caught up in the details but this is what keeps me up at night). 

However, of all these differences, one of the more significant ones has GOT to be bed time routines.  This is my husband's routine.

1) get tired
2) finish beer
3) go to sleep

Seriously.  Now he is low maintenance (23 years in the military will do that.  It is not like a rigorous beauty routine is practical when deployed in the desert but this seems a bit pathetic).

My night time routine:

1) not tired but feel like I should get to sleep soon so I won't be a train wreck in the morning
2) cleanse face
3) put on some serum thing that needs to set for five minutes before anything else can be done
3.5) wonder why I spend so much on serums, lotions and potions when my grandma used Ivory soap and Pond's cold cream and has gorgeous skin
4) make bottle for sweet bebe
4.5) shove some probiotic stuff in it "just in case"
5) give sleeping baby bottle (yes, he will down 10 ounces in his sleep.  He is a rock star eater; and, yes, I do count my blessings)
6) move toss pillows from bed
6.5) wonder why I have so many toss pillows
7) set alarm
7.5) laugh at myself because I have not needed an alarm since bebe was born
8) assume time is up and put on moisturizer
9) brush teeth.  Debate about flossing.  Promise myself "tomorrow"
10) cover up baby and coo over his cute sleeping self
11) say a prayer of gratitude for a healthy, happy, gorgeous baby
12) feel guilt that I ever get annoyed with aforementioned "perfection in a diaper"
13) refill bottle
14) put full bottle on dresser so that when "PiaD" wakes up at 4.30 starving (and I get annoyed contrary to #12 because he is a rock star eater a la #5), I can toss the bottle in his crib and not have a) to wander through cold house and b) to be a functioning human being
15) put on eye cream and wonder if I am getting ripped off by the beauty industry which I know I probably am, but why take chances?  Wrinkled men are viewed as mature and weathered, wrinkled women look haggard and "rode hard, put up wet"
16) think I need to join a philanthropic dedicated to women's and girl's self-esteem beauty issues
17) ponder writing in journal but figure blogging and Facebook are about the same thing
18) kiss bebe good night just one more time
19) wonder how I got such a cool life
20) change into pajamas and think "I used to wear cute things to bed now I am lucky if there is no spit-up on me"
21) get into bed
22) remember that Delilah the Bulldog has not gone out and that bad things happen when she stays in
23) back out of bed
24) rouse sleeping bulldog from under the bed
25) wack head on bed and wonder "how many times can a person sustain head trauma without becoming a moron?" 
26) fear I am one step away from becoming Troy Aikman aka "Concussion Man"
27) drag Delilah outside
28) shiver on front porch while waiting for her to noodle around
29) back in house
30) back into bed
31) remember that tomorrow is milk day
32) fear that I have indeed become the moron referenced in #25
33) back out of bed
34) put milk order in milk box on front porch
35) giggle that I have a milk man
36) back into bed
37) rummage for lip balm and hand lotion in nightstand drawer
38) wonder why I wait to do this when supine.  Crawl halfway out of bed, brace arm on floor and proceed to rummage.  Bounce myself back into bed.
39) seem curious as to why I have tendonitis in my right elbow
40) kiss Hubby good night
41) listen to him say FROM A SOUND SLEEP "wanna fool around?"  The man could be in a coma and completely deaf but he would still utter that phrase nightly
42) either fool around or think that I should be doing so -- how many years do I have before we are some Viagra couple sitting in two separate bathtubs holding hands.
43) wonder "what is up with that ad?"  Do men with erection issues just sit around in the tub all the time?  Do they not have jobs or interests?  Furthermore, think to myself  "no man I know would call a doctor if they had an erection lasting more than four hours.  They would be calling every women they know.  No one would be safe.  Hide your children and pets." 
44) shudder at the chafing a four hour erection would cause
45) pass out

Accounting Avoidance

Still trying to avoid Accounting for a bit longer...

Just thought about the following counts:

In 10 months of life, sweet bebe boy has had three black eyes (he was born with one, YIKES!), one split lip, road rash, several bumps and a lot of scratches.

He has also stained his (gorgeous) platinum blonde hair with the following:  strawberries (the pink gave him a slightly punk look that was kind of cool in an 80s kind of way), poo (no details should be provided), chocolate (last week's pictures and posting) and a black stripe of permanent Sharpie.  And they are not joking when they claim permanence; it looks like I drew a part on his scalp (even though it was an ill-fated attempt to get him to decorate a mini pumpkin).  I know he will later hate his hair (don't we all go through that?) but for now, I refuse to cut it.  When he gets out of the tub and it is curling around his ears --- well, there are few things cuter.

My brother said this morning "that kid looks like a cherub.  Jesus, he is cute.  But he is going to need SPF 80."

Last Night

So last night I am at a Junior League meeting and several people came up to me and said how much they enjoy the blog.  That makes me so happy, humbled and complimented.  I am surprised {always} that people read it and actually like it.  I know, I know but don't you have weird insecurities too?

Sweet Melissa suggested that I become part of Momversation.  Not that I know what it is but I am so excited about checking it out.  I would love for this to some how pan out into advertisers or a job.  Not that teaching on-line is not terribly fulfilling but...

However, for now, I need to get back to the bane of my existence.  Accounting.  How I loathe this anti-logic subject.  However, I do, theoretically, want this IMBA...