Valentine’s Day Explained

February 14th is Valentine’s Day and from what I can tell people are divided into three basic groups about it.

Those Who LOVE It: Flowers!  Candy!  Fancy Dinners! Gifts! Kisses and cuddles!  What’s NOT to love?!

Those Who Are Cool With It: Yeah, I will totally eat a pink frosted cupcake but no, I will not make out with you.

Those Who HATE It: Ridiculous!  Waste of Money!  Romance make me want to punch people!

Haters, your rage is showing.  Which is ok, I guess.  You are entitled to your ragey feelings.  You don’t have to like Valentine’s Day.  I just feel like maybe I can help explain why other people like it so that you can, you know, calm the fuck down.  Let’s talk through some of your complaints and see if we can’t find you a little peace, alright?

1. But it’s so commercialized!  Hallmark holiday! Greedy greeting card companies…blah blah blah…

I get this.  I really do.  I get irritated about the commercialization of holidays too.  I hate when I start seeing Christmas decorations in the store when it’s not even Halloween yet.  Hell, I went to Target recently and they’re already putting up the Easter stuff and we haven’t even gotten through Valentine’s Day yet.  Absurd.  But here’s the deal; companies are in the business of making money.  They want to sell you shit.  Any shit you will buy they want to sell to you.  Case in point: cookie dough Oreos.  If that’s not some gross abuse of retail power I don’t know what is.  So when there’s a holiday that’s existed for hundreds of years coming up, you can bet your booty every shit-selling entity on the planet is going to try to get you to buy something for it.  Bottom line, you are not a rebel for refusing to buy Valentine’s Day cards.  You’re just someone who saved themselves three bucks…that you’re probably going to spend at Starbucks anyway.  Way to stick it to The Man.

2.  Why do people send flowers?  It’s so depressing when they die!

Come here.  Sit down.  Take my hand.  No, it’s not weird that I’m caressing your arm.  Shhh…  I need to tell you something really important.  Are you ready?

EVERYTHING DIES.

All the things.  Literally EVERY SINGLE THING dies.  Stars, animals, insects, every houseplant I’ve ever had…they all die.  And thank god because spiders! Ack!  That wine you’re drinking?  Dead grapes.  That book you read yesterday?  Dead trees.  The universe you live in?  Dying as we speak.  Here’s a cheery prediction from scientists for you, “…all the stars (will) have long burned out and the cosmos is a cold and dark place. Dead stars and black holes are all that (will) remain.”  Bottom line, if you are worried about some tulips dying on your desk at work you are definitely misdirecting your angsty energy.

3.  But I hate chocolate!  I don’t even like candy…

Then don’t eat it?  I don’t really know what to say here.  I understand that you would not like to receive a huge box of Godiva truffles if you don’t enjoy chocolate but to reject an entire holiday out of hand because some people DO like to receive chocolates is a bit silly.  You can’t just go around dismissing holidays because you don’t like some of the foods associated with them.  I mean, take St Patrick’s Day for instance, many people don’t enjoy corned beef but everyone loves leprechauns and beer right?  Ok, maybe not the best example but I think you see where I’m going.  Bottom line, skip the chocolate, drink the booze.  Problem solved.

4. Romance grosses me out!

What are you?!  A 12 year-old boy?!  Get over it.  Sometimes, when two grown-ups love each other very much, they give each other a special hug and that’s how babies…oh, sorry. Wrong explanation.  But seriously, if I need to explain to you why it’s ok for couples to be a little mushy and lovey-dovey once a year then maybe you need to sit in on the other talk too.  Do you need to write a love sonnet to your partner in order to take part in Valentine’s Day?  Nope.  Do you need to gaze into your partner’s eyes and whisper sweet nothings into their ears?  No again.  Do you need to stop caring whether or not other people want to do those things?  Yeah, you probably do.  Bottom line, just tell your partner you want to get laid and be done with it.  It only has to be as “mushy” as you want it to be…or as mushy as it takes to get them naked.  *wink*

5. But I don’t have a boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse and this kinda sucks.

Ok, I’ll give you this one.  This is legit.  Because if you are single and you don’t exactly want to be or you just simply feel like maybe you’re missing out on all the flower-sprinkled chocolate feasting and smooches, Valentine’s Day can kind of suck.  I’ve been there and even though I was truly happy being single at the time I did still feel a little bummed about missing out on the festivities.  The way I look at it you’ve got three fairly constructive options.  Option 1: If there are children in your life (nieces, nephews, friend’s kids etc) join in on their fun. Make them a card.  Buy them a little treat or gift.  Better yet, go hang out with them and make heart-shaped pizzas or play Candyland.  I’m being completely serious.  It’s hard to be truly down when you’re debating whether or not Lord Licorice is a bad guy or just misunderstood with a four-year old. Option 2:  Party with your other single friends.  This can be as wholesome or ridiculous as you want it to be.  Spa night at your house with the girls.  Playing beer pong with your buddies.  A movie marathon featuring the Twilight movies. (I’m kidding.) Option 3: Make someone else’s Valentine’s Day a happy one.  Take cookies to an elderly neighbor.  Secretly send a card or gift or (gasp!) flowers to someone you know who’s having a hard time right now.  Buy people’s drinks at Starbucks pay-it-forward style.  Do something that you know will make people smile.  I promise, it will feel good.  Bottom line, don’t let your relationship status stop you from giving and receiving love.  Yes, Valentine’s Day is typically associated with romantic love but I think we all know that’s not the only kind of love worth having.

6.  What the hell is up with Cupid?!

I’m with you on this one.  Not compelling as far as mythological characters go and his more recent portrayal as an armed, winged baby is just weird.  Please feel free to continue directing your rage at him.  I won’t because I don’t want to get on his bad side (he is armed, after all) but you totally can.

Bottom Line…
Happy Valentine’s Day! XOXO

Wherein I Piss Off Everyone

Did you know that all my friends are doing it wrong?

Doing what wrong?  Everything.  They are all doing everything wrong.  All the things that people do are being done completely wrong by everyone I know.

How do I know this?  Because Facebook tells me so.

I find this incredibly shocking because I was under the impression that I knew a lot of really nice, smart, kind, fun and just generally awesome people.  I mean, I feel like we’re all friends with each other because we see the good in each other.  Or maybe because we have shared experiences that brought us closer together; life as roommates, meeting on the internet and finding common ground, traveling across the world, working together, laughing together, crying together. Maybe just drinking together?  (That is a definite possibility.)  Sharing our uniquely human experiences with each other and finding ourselves richer for it.

However it turns out I was seeing this all wrong.  I should have been looking at it differently.  I should have been noticing all the ways you do things differently from me and are hence doing them totally wrong.  Luckily, you have all been pointing this stuff out for me.  Saving me the trouble of criticizing you myself. See, all I have to do is scroll through my Facebook newsfeed in the morning while I drink my coffee to see all your faults.  “What faults?!” you might ask.  Fair question.  Let me list them for you:

Crossfit Friends: You’re working out wrong and you’re going to die.  Or at least end up paralyzed.  You should be doing something else.  At least that’s what all my anti-crossfit friends tell me.

Gym Going Friends: You are boring and your workouts suck.  You are nowhere near as cool as the Crossfit Friends and you should just stop trying…your workout of choice will never yield the results you want… or so say all my Crossfit Friends.

Vegan Friends: Your diet is ruining your body and all your hair is going to fall out.  Oh, and don’t even think about getting pregnant because you can’t possibly do that properly on your current diet.  I know because all my non-vegan friends said so.

Paleo Friends: You are a bunch of heartless murderers and you will die of heart disease from the obscene amount of fat and cholesterol you consume.  I don’t know why you can’t see that.  All the vegans see it perfectly.

Pro Vaccination Friends: You clearly care nothing for your children and love nothing more than to pump them full of chemicals and support the insidious evil that is Big Pharma.  Too bad you’re too dumb to question the status quo and do some research for yourself.  All the anti-vaxers are appalled at your behavior. What is wrong with you?

Anti Vaccination Friends:  You clearly care nothing for your children and love nothing more than to spread the plague around to everyone you meet.  Too bad you’re too dumb to understand that you should just shut up and do what the doctors tell you without ever asking any questions.  All the pro-vaxers are appalled at your behavior.  What is wrong with you?

Friends Who Still Eat Bread:  You are all going to die because GLUTEN.  I’m so glad all my grain-free/gluten-free friends were around to tell me!  Put down that bagel!  And don’t even THINK about eating pizza that was baked on anything other than a cauliflower crust!

And those are just the “easy” topics.  I’m not going anywhere near politics or religion.  However, you can rest assured, you’re all fucking those things up too.

I think you see the problem here.

We are ALL doing it wrong…for each other.  But I’m willing to bet that we’re all doing it right for ourselves.

I don’t know why we feel the need to “educate” each other on Facebook and online in general.  I’m guilty of it too.  I feel passionate about things like eating good quality food (as I define it) and trying to go easy on the crazy amount of chemicals we expose ourselves and the earth to every day.  I’m certain I’ve shared an article that rubbed you the wrong way or made you roll your eyes.  But I do hope that I’ve never made you feel that your opinion was less valid than mine just because it was different.  I feel like I’ve seen a lot of snarky sharing and commenting online lately and it has made me sad. Maybe that just means that I need to take a step back from “online” and get over it.  Maybe I need to toughen up.

Maybe…

Or there’s another option.  Maybe, we could all somehow be respectful of each others right to live our lives the way we see fit.  Maybe we could stop insinuating that others’ choices are dumb simply because we don’t agree with them.  Maybe we could decide to trust each others judgement.  I think its safe to say that none of us want someone else making our decisions for us.  (You’d be PISSED if I came into your house and took away your Oreos just because I think they are the worst cookie ever.)  So why do we think that we can make someone else’s decisions better than them?

Here’s the bottom line, I know a lot of really nice, smart, kind, fun and just generally awesome people and I don’t want to change a single thing about any of you.  Even those fucking Oreos.

An Unlikely Complaint

I’m crawling out of my mom-cave to bitch about something.  Because I want to complain and mom blogs are nothing if not self-indulgent.

The issue is this: I fucking hate picture books.

Few things frustrate me more than getting a new book for my kids, sitting down to read and finding that there are NO WORDS in the book.  Books are for words.  Words are for books.  What the fuck kind of lazy ass authors are running around “writing” books without a single damn in word in them?  Or maybe it’s not so much the author’s fault.  Maybe its illustrators with an unwillingness to share the spotlight.  I don’t know what the situation is.  I just know it’s a problem.

How do these books even get published?!

Author: I’d like to publish a book.  

Publisher:  Great!  Send a draft over so I can read it. 

Author: Oh, well you won’t really have to read it. See, there aren’t any words.

Publisher:  No words at all?

Author: No.  Just pictures.  They’re really charming pictures though.

Publisher:  I see.  Is this a coffee table book filled with vibrant photos of the Mediterranean?

Author: No, its…

Publisher: Fuck off.  Come back when you’ve actually written something.

I mean, surely you can see where all my confusion and frustration comes from.  These books shouldn’t exist.

Now I know someone out there is going to chime in with, “Imagination…blah blah…developmental milestones…blah blah…”  No.  NO.  If your kid wants to make up a story, the words in a real book are not going to stop him.  But you know what’s going to keep your kid from reading?  Pages with no words on them.  Which, coincidentally, also keeps me from reading.

You know what else keeps me from reading?  (Bonus Rant!) My kids asking thirty questions per page every time we read a book.  I know, they’re young.  They’re curious.  They’re learning.  They’re also annoying the crap out of me.  You know how irritating it is when someone is talking all through a movie you’re trying to watch? I feel that irritation x 10 when I have to read the same sentence nine times because I keep getting interrupted by questions about the Cat in the Hat’s motivation.  “No, I don’t know why he is standing up there on a ball but that is not all!  Oh no, that is not all!”

I know this says incredibly unflattering things about my maturity level but seriously, I just want to finish a page!  Or even a sentence!  By the time we reach the fifth page of pretty much any book I’m ready to throw myself out the window.  My lovely, long-suffering husband will typically reach out at some point during all this and rub my back in an effort to calm me down.  This is because I’m breastfeeding and still can’t drink bourbon.

I think the takeaway here is this –

DON’T: Read stupid, wordless books.

DO: Pour yourself a drink.

Peanuts & Cracker Jacks

If my sons ever doubt my love for them I will remind them not of the months I spent carrying them in my body, the hours I spent giving birth to them (9.5 and 7.75 respectively…not that anyone’s counting) or even the countless hours of sleep lost caring for them (approximately one billion).  No, I will be reminding them of yesterday.  The sunny, blue sky filled Sunday in June when we took them to their first baseball game.  Why?  Because I fucking HATE baseball.  I LOVE my children but baseball…just shouldn’t exist.  It makes me angry.

In fact, if we were to make a list of things I believe should be banished to the underworld (where are those angry Greek deities when you need them?!) it would read something like this:

1. Nicki Minaj
2. Baseball
3. Nickelback
4. Spiders
5. Oreos
6. Orange Flavored Anything

So how exactly did I end up going to a baseball game on a hot Texas day at 38 weeks pregnant?

I was tricked.  Tricked by cute little people.  It started out so innocently…

 

Max: Hey Mom, one day I want to go to a baseball game with Daddy and Uncle B.

Me: Awww…well that sounds nice.  I’m sure Daddy and Uncle B would love to go to a game with you.  Maybe we can work that out.

Max: Yeah, that would be so fun.

Mason: Yeah, we would like to do that.

Me: Ok.  (This sounds adorable!  I’m totally going to buy them tickets!  For their birthdays!)

 

So as I was working out all the details for this little outing – thinking the entire time that maybe I’d go get a pre-baby pedicure while the boys were at the game – my husband suggests buying the fifth and last ticket in the row we were on.  He made it sound so reasonable.  What if we want to invite one of our dads to go too?  What if Uncle B’s wife wants to go?  What if the boys want me to go?  I pretty much stopped listening after the part about our dads so I just clicked and paid for that last ticket and didn’t give it another thought.  Until we told the boys about the game and the first words out of Mason’s mouth were, “Mama!  Do you want to go to the baseball game with us?!  You can sit in a seat with all the other grown ups and watch me play baseball!!”

Oh dear.

Two major problems with this scenario.  First, NO I do NOT want to go to a baseball game.  Ever.  I would prefer to stay home and scrub every tile in our house with a toothbrush.  Second, my son thinks he is going to be playing in the baseball game.  Of course I can’t tell him I’d rather torture myself than go to a game with him.  Especially since I’m going to have to break his little heart about that whole “only the professional players are allowed to play at this game” thing.  In an effort to soften the blow, I agreed to go to the game before I attempted to explain how attendance at sporting events usually works.  Which, by the way, is borderline impossible to explain to a stubborn very-nearly-three-year-old.  He pretty much ignored everything I said and moved straight on to requesting that I take to him buy a “baseball hand” (aka baseball glove) so he could play at “his game”.  This conversation was repeated for the better part of two weeks.  Which wasn’t frustrating at all.

Finally, game day.  I’m right in the middle of being hugely pregnant and feeling very nest-y and the last thing I want to do is go to this darn game.  There are baby blankets to fold and muffins to bake!  But I love my boys and they are excited, so I go.  And here’s what happens:

• I pay for this game with MONEY and I attend this game SOBER.  The first sporting event I’ve ever attended in my life that didn’t involve kick ass free seats & free booze on the company dime.  I firmly believe this is the ONLY way to attend any sporting event.  Little League is going to be a rude awakening for me.
• Upon arriving at our seats, both Max and my brother step in gum.
• Max gets his foot stuck in his seat and drops his $50 pretzel on the ground.
• Mason also drops his absurdly expensive pretzel on the ground…and attempts to pick it up and eat it.
• Both boys get bored after approximately seven minutes.
• We take them to a playground within the ballpark (genius) where they play happily until a little girl in line for the slide in front of them pees ALL OVER the steps, walkway and slide.  They were not happy when we made them climb down instead of letting them happily prance through and slide down the trail of urine.  We’re awful parents like that.
• We attempted to console them by taking them to buy “baseball hands” at the gift shop.   The gift shop that was SOLD OUT of baseball hands.  And gloves, for that matter.  They settled for some small bats.  I anticipate a game of Beat the Crap Out of My Brother with My New Bat to commence after breakfast tomorrow.  At the latest.
• We hawk a piece of jewelry in order to go buy hot dogs and hamburgers.  They eat three bites before managing to drop these on the ground too.
• They start asking for popsicles.  There are no popsicles to be found at the ballpark.  Ice cream cones are a completely absurd substitution and we are idiots for suggesting them.  Dippin Dots are finally agreed upon.
• We settle back into our seats just in time for a fly ball to come literally curving around the net straight towards Max’s head.  Seats that we very deliberately chose because of their low likelihood of fly ball traffic.  Luckily I’m married to a freaking ninja with crazy fly ball catching skills; he caught that damn thing before it shattered my kid’s face.  He was so excited to have caught a fly ball.  I was ready to beat that player with his own fucking bat for nearly hitting my kid, scaring the shit out of me and taking a solid eight years off my life.  I think my blood pressure is back to normal now.
• My feet are now swollen.  This irritates me.
• The game finally ends!
• We work our way to the end of a seriously long line so that the boys can “run the bases” down on the ball field.
• Parents are not allowed to accompany their kids.  We watch our babies hike all the way down the stadium and onto the ball field without us.  I completely cease breathing.
• We watch our boys run with gleeful abandon around the bases.  I almost cry.  They’re so focused and so incredibly happy.  They look a little nervous coming back up the stairs towards us but they’re little champs, so proud of themselves.  Giving us high fives and hugs like crazy.  (fuck…I’m crying right now just remembering it.)

As we drive away from the ballpark, they are exhausted and quiet.  I glance back to see Max’s eyes sliding shut and his mouth curving into a sweet, sleepy smile.  At home, we put them to bed and they insist on sleeping with their new baseball bats.

I still fucking HATE baseball.  And I would still prefer slurp up cold (free) beers if I have to attend a game.

But I am madly in LOVE with my children and if sweating and swelling my way through a stupid game is going to make their childhood just that little bit more magical, then I’m in.

 

Roller Coaster

Things That Have Brought Me To Tears Recently:

• Feeling overwhelmed by my children.
• Hearing Edge of Glory by Lady Gaga on the radio.
• Seeing my weight on the scale at my last two midwife appointments.
• An episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
• The inexcusable lack of baby bedding in the specific coral color I’m envisioning.
• Feeling too old and mom-ish to even consider attending Bonnaroo.
• Noticing, yet again, that my floors only look clean for about six minutes after I’ve cleaned them.  There is no discernible difference between ten minutes or ten days worth of messiness.  It makes me feel defeated.  By tile.  What the fuck.
• Realizing that the baby is due in about 10-ish weeks and literally nothing is done in her room.  NOTHING.
• Seeing mayflies outside.  They are the harbingers of doom.  Once you see a mayfly you know the rest of the bugs are on their way.
• That poor, poor dead basil plant in the garden.
• That “Slow Burn” yoga class that I thought was going to be fairly easy.  It wasn’t.
• Craving a hot fudge sundae from Dairy Queen and feeling too tired, lazy and guilty to go get it.
• Feeling dumb for crying about dumb stuff.

 

Things That Have Made Me Want To Punch Someone In The Face Recently:

• Feeling disrespected by someone via text.
• Approximately 94% of all things posted on Facebook.
• The absolutely disgusting smoothie I bought after a work out.  Like drinking strawberry chalk except I got to pay $6 for it.  Yup.  Still angry.
• GMO’s.
• Ordering a newly advertised sandwich at Whole Foods for lunch only to be told that it wasn’t ready and they couldn’t make it for me.  Never mind all the signs throughout the store touting its awesomeness.  Whole Foods should know better than to tease pregnant women like that.  Get your shit together WF.
• Being elbowed in the stomach by all three of my children simultaneously.
• Doc McStuffins.
• The article I read about “optimum child spacing”.  Complete and Utter Bullshit.
• The song Midnight City by M83.  If I hear that damn song one more time…
• Listeria.  I want to eat a ridiculous amount of lox and the fear of contracting listeriosis is the ONLY thing standing in my way.
• All drivers other than myself.

 

Things That Have Made Me Insanely Happy Recently:

• Chocolate milk.
• Yoga.
• Listening to my boys chatting and playing together.
• Watching my husband happily and patiently playing catch with the boys after a long day at work.
• A new chocolate cupcake recipe.
• That half glass of chardonnay I drank over the weekend.
• The boys’ new found love for “basparagus”  (translation: asparagus)
• Finally very nearly perfecting my friend’s epic roast chicken recipe.
• Watching Max’s eyes light up when he felt Baby Marleigh move.
• Bacon-wrapped Dates.
• A batch of biscuits that turned out PERFECTLY.
• Reminiscing about my first date with the Hubs.
• The song Tribute by Tenacious D.
• Being able to hold my yoga poses longer than the uber-fit, incredibly muscular guy behind me in class.  I know it’s not a competition but my clumsy, pregnant self felt damn good about it.  Damn good.
• Watching my crazy baby girl wriggle in my belly.  So freaky.  So glad she’s happy and healthy in there.
• My perfect blood pressure.  I’m like the Michael Phelps of blood pressure.  I own that shit.

Things I Never Thought I’d Have to Teach Another Person

When you become a parent, you know that one of the biggest parts of your job is going to be teaching your child.  You imagine singing the alphabet song, chatting about colors, sorting shapes; all those fun things that Gymboree charges you $700 per minute for.  Of course you imagine teaching life lessons too.  Talking to them about kindness, generosity and how to smile and nod at whatever asinine crap their boss says.  But there are some things I never thought I’d be teaching my kids.  You don’t realize just how many rules there are to follow in life until you have to teach ALL OF THEM to someone.  Rules like:

1. You can’t just send all foods you don’t like hurtling to the ground at dinner.  You are not Andy Samberg.  Throwing stuff on the ground is totally NOT funny when you do it.
2. Speaking of dinner, standing on your chair in order to bang on the light fixture with your fork?  Generally frowned upon in polite society.  And here at home too.  Cut it out.
3. People don’t want you to lick their face.  Usually.  Err on the side of caution.  Don’t lick people.
4. Nobody likes it when you put peas in their wine.  This is a universal truth.
5. The same rule applies to golf balls and sangria.
6. Actually, just stop putting shit in my drinks.  I hate it.
7. It is not necessary to lock everyone out of your bathroom just because you’d like to use a different one for a change.  If you want to use another bathroom in this house please, feel free.  You don’t need to test our lock-picking skills in order to validate your choice of toilets.
8. Speaking of toilets, rocks do not belong in toilets.  Ever.
9. For the most part, people don’t like it when you “roar like a dragon” two inches from their face.  This is especially true of three year old girls.  Well, all girls really.
10. It’s truly not necessary to hip-check everyone that you walk past in the hall.  I promise.
11. The cat does like to play fetch.  The cat does not like to play sit-still-while-I practice-spitting-on-you.
12. While we’re discussing the pets, I can assure you that you do not need to throw everything within a 50 yard radius into the koi pond.  The fish do not want: sippy cups, golf balls, water guns, baseball bats, sidewalk chalk, tree branches or that large spatula from the grill.  A handful of their food will make them quite happy.
13. Swiping the cheese off someone’s pizza is a total douchebag move.  Seriously.  That shit will not fly.  People with less self-restraint than your mother will punch you in the face for that.  

And Baby Makes Five

I think it’s about time for a completely pointless pregnancy post.  I haven’t really blogged about this pregnancy yet.  I think that’s largely because I’m not entirely sure what to say.  I mean, one on hand I’m pregnant and that sort of thing does take over your life to a certain extent.  No more self medicating relaxing with a bottle of wine at the end of the day.  No more steaming hot baths.  No more eating raw tuna while sky diving.  It’s really a lot of major lifestyle changes all at once.  On the other hand, I’m so busy with my two funny, crazy boys that it’s easy to forget what my body is doing until all of a sudden I’m ready to pass out at 7pm each night and wondering what the heck my problem is.  Oh right…it’s a fetus!   They really are demanding little creatures sometimes.  Allow me to explain in great detail.  Here’s pretty much how the first half of my pregnancy has gone:

Positive Pregnancy Test: YAY!!!!!!  Little Embryo is all sweetness, cuddles and daydreams.  Or so you think.

5 weeks – 10 weeks Pregnant: Oh, you thought you were going to wait 3 hours between meals?  Not unless you’d like to be slapped with a wave of nausea that would bring a burly Viking sailor to his knees.  Also, you’re only allowed to eat stale goldfish crackers while sitting in an easterly wind.  The crackers are fresh?  Dry Heaves!!  The wind is coming from the west?  You’re a moron for even trying to eat.  You think you might want saltines instead?  Too bad, you’re not in charge of your stomach anymore.  Your organs are traitors.  They’ve sold out to the power of the baby.

10 weeks – 14 weeks Pregnant: You can eat!  Food!  Real food!  But only certain food.  Not all food, of course.  The baby is still flexing his/her influential muscle, just to make sure everyone knows whose boss.  You can’t smell, touch, cook or even look at chicken but you will NEED to eat chicken fajitas with tons of guacamole on them immediately or you might die.  They must appear magically right when you want them or the deal is off.  Babies are thugs.

14 weeks – 18 weeks Pregnant: BOOBS.  Holy freaking boobage.  Go to bed at night as a happy C cup.  Wake up in the morning with painful, throbbing D cups.  Do not be fooled.  This is not a gift.  This is a total mind fuck.  Boobs should not be able to grow that fast but they DO.  Seems like a perk right?  Magic boobs!  Awesome!  Except for a few minor details: 1) They hurt like a sonofabitch.  2) Your boobs might look pretty sexy all on their own but perched up there above your is-that-a-baby-or-does-that-bitch-need-to-lay-off-the-bagels bump they just contribute to the overall awkwardness of your current physique.  3) All your bras are rendered useless.  And it hurts to wear them anyway.  So you stay home and wander around sore and braless – which is exactly as great as it sounds.  Especially when you have two and three year-old boys cannon balling themselves into your body throughout the day.  Yeah…Ouch.  Babies are devious.

18 weeks – 19 weeks Pregnant: Questions, Speculation and Clothes that don’t Freaking Fit.  Have we chosen a name for the baby yet?!  Nope!  We don’t have a clue who this baby is let alone what he/she should be called for his/her entire life.  Also, I’m a Taurus and my husband is a Leo.  To say that we both have strong opinions is putting it mildly.  Seriously.  Go put a bull and a lion in the same room and tell me how it goes.  Bottom line, it’s really a good thing that babies need to gestate for so long otherwise we’d be screwed.

Next up is the whole “boy or girl” question.  What’s funny about this one is how everyone has an opinion and NOBODY actually knows.  I can’t tell you how many people have told me the sex of my baby even though that information is yet to be discovered.  My favorite is when people start telling me that “statistically” my baby must be a…whatever.  During my first pregnancy the baby was definitely a girl.  Statistically it had to be a girl because my husband is the only boy in his family so we clearly weren’t going to be having a boy.  Then during my second pregnancy I was statistically guaranteed to have a girl because there was just no way on earth I could have two boys.  Well, two boys later apparently I’m now statistically certain to have another boy. (Are you sick of the word statistically yet?  Do you kind of want to punch me in the face?  Good.  Then I’ve made my point.)  The devilish glee people seem to feel when telling me this is honestly pretty shocking.  They’re so sure I want a girl yet they apparently have no problem dashing those dreams by smirking and saying, “You know it’s going to be a boy, right?”  Actually, no, I don’t.  I don’t know it’s going to be a boy.  I know it’s going to be a baby.  A human baby.  And that’s really all anyone knows at this point.  While I do think it would be fun to have a daughter, in all honesty, I’m a bit nervous about the idea!  I’m so used to life with my boys that the idea of adding a girl to the mix is a little strange.  However I’m sure it’s nothing that decorating a girly nursery and doing some long-awaited baby girl clothes shopping wouldn’t cure.

Finally, the clothing situation. Ugh.  UGH.  I’m still very much in the aforementioned “baby or bagels” phase and I just look…chubby.  It’s pretty depressing and borderline impossible to dress.  My regular clothes still fit, I just look fatter in them.  My maternity clothes are still a little big and maybe this baby IS a girl because suddenly I hate ALL OF THEM and I have NOTHING TO WEAR.  We’ve already seen how this baby can manipulate my opinions on food, maybe opinions on clothing are part of the deal too.  I don’t know.  Babies are crazy and their influence knows no bounds.

As of today we’re two weeks away from finding out the sex of our baby.  (Fingers crossed he/she isn’t shy about showing us the goods on ultrasound.  He/she is more than welcome to be shy about his genitalia afterwards though. In fact that would be ideal.)  We are so excited.  This has been a really great pregnancy so far.  A couple of weeks ago I started feeling the baby move and that is always amazing and reassuring.  Laying down in bed at night, being quiet and still and just waiting for those little bumps and kicks is so fun.  I love how the baby already shows a little spunk by kicking and bumping any time I rest things on my belly.  I deliberately prop my kindle up on my lower belly just to feel those bossy little kicks.  They make my heart happy.

Another thing that makes my heart happy?  This baby’s taste in food.  I told my bff that I think this baby might just be my favorite one yet because he/she has great taste in food – now that I’m allowed to eat.  This baby seems to want either Mexican, Chinese or Thai food at all times.  This works for me.  In a BIG way.  And while we’re on the topic here, can someone please explain to me why there is no tamale delivery service in Texas?  I feel fairly confident that Texans eat just as many tamales as they do pizzas.  We have pizza delivery.  WHERE ARE THE TAMALES?!?!?!

Fun can Suck It.

You know that song We Are Young by the band Fun?  I know you know it.  It’s on the radio all the freaking time.  It’s super popular.  “Toniiiiiiiight….we are youuuuunngggg…gonna set the world on fiiiiiire…”  blahdy-effing-blah.  Seems like a great drunken anthem.  The kind of song that comes on at the bar when everyone’s had just enough booze to start singing all their favorite songs loudly and without shame, usually accompanied by hugs.  It’s probably very good for that sort of thing.  I can see myself singing it happily with a beer in hand…about eight years ago.

And therein lies the problem.  This song sends me hurtling into an early mid-life crisis every damn time I hear it.  But it’s catchy, so I listen to it anyway.  Because I’m really good at torturing myself and you’re supposed to play to your strengths, right?  So I listen to this song and think many things.  Things like:

• But I’m not young anymore!  (insert hysterical sobbing here)
• I barely managed to put on mascara today.  I think “burn(ing) brighter than the sun” is a little ambitious.
• Then the doorman from the movie Knocked Up is in my mind saying, “I can’t let you in cause you’re old as fuck. For this club, you know, not for the earth.” (except I kinda think he means for the earth too…and if you aren’t familiar with that line, you need to be. You’re welcome.)
• Wait…Target has quart-sized mason jars on sale?!  Oh HELLS YEAH!!
• Holy fuck I am OLD!

It’s really depressing – and a little ADD – but mostly just depressing.

And the worst part of it is that I thought I was alone.  I thought I was the only person in the world who was thrown into an existential crisis every time this song was played.  I would ask people about their opinion about it, casually, of course:

Hey, so you know that song “We Are Young”?

Yeah!  I love that song!

Oh. Uh…Does it ever make you feel like you don’t know who you are anymore or like your glory days are already behind you or like maybe you need a cooler haircut…or something?

What?  No.  It’s awesome and I feel amazing every time I hear it.  In fact, you should totally see this adorable video of my toddler singing it with me.  We’re both very cute and youthful.

Then another little piece of my soul would shrivel and die.  Because I’m old and that’s the kind of shit that happens when you’re old and you get confronted with your oldness.  It’s the circle of life.

However, today I experienced a breakthrough.  Something amazing happened.  No, I did not work through all my issues and confront my mortality.  (Seriously, who wants to actually deal with their problems?  Why do you think bourbon was invented?!)  In a blessed turn of events I stumbled across something that gave me hope; proof that someone – somewhere – has a psyche as fragile as mine.  That lovely soul went so far as to parody this song and for that, I will be forever grateful.  My spirits are lifted and better yet, I am entertained.

Now, it’s possible that this little ditty went viral four minutes after Fun released their distressing single and I’m only just now hearing it because of, you know, The Old.  But I’m ok with that.  I just want everyone to get in on this sardonic naval-gazing goodness with me and have a little laugh.  I’ll warn you, there are a few rather rough bits in this.  Mostly just crude humor – nothing too awful – but consider yourself warned.

Disclaimer: Just for the record, I seriously love my family and my life and I wouldn’t trade my oldness or boring housewife crap for all the epic bar fights in the world.  

Wherein I Lose All My Friends

This past weekend I attended a dinner party for my best friend’s birthday.  We went to a charming little tapas restaurant and ate many delicious and wonderful things.  I believed myself to be in the company of friends until I was thrown under the bus by the birthday girl’s husband.  The party quickly devolved into mayhem.  People were shouting insults and re-evaluating friendships.  Why?  Because I don’t like Oreo cookies.

That’s right.  I said it.  I DO NOT LIKE OREO COOKIES.  Because they are awful and gross.  I believe the phrase “stupid little cancer pucks” may have been bandied about at one point.  The thing is this; I had no idea people were that passionate about Oreos!  But they are.  Oh dear god, they are.  I’m pretty sure the list of topics to avoid discussing in social situations should now read: Religion, Politics and Cookie Preferences.  In a party of ten people I was literally the only one who didn’t think that Oreos were heaven-sent.  My friends were attempting to sway my opinion to their side:

“But have you dunked them in milk?  You HAVE to dunk them in milk!”

“What about the other flavors?  Strawberry?  Chocolate Mint?”

“Double stuffed!  What about double stuffed?!”

The problem is that no matter what form Oreos take, they are still sub-par cookies made of shitty chocolate with a disgusting, gritty shortening type filling.  I find it shocking that apparently nobody has realized this yet.  Why do people like these horrible cookies?!?  Cookies should be delicious.  Oreos are not.  Cookies should not contain chemicals.  Oreos do.  Cookies should not make people angry.  Oreos make people want to punch each other in the face.  Clearly this is not a cookie I can stand behind.

So I ask you this: What the fuck is up with Oreos?

Oh, and can we still be friends?

The Sliding Scale of Terror

It’s an election year. Everybody hates everybody and nobody hates anything more than I hate politics. But I believe, with all my heart, that there is one piece of common ground we can all find. A place where we can all finally agree. A utopia of like-mindedness. A little place I like to call, The Absolute Hatred of Spiders.

And if you don’t agree, you can get the fuck off my blog.

Because spiders suck. They’re gross and ugly. They’re shifty and nefarious. They are conniving bitches who will eat the last cookie and think nothing of polishing off your best scotch. In short, they are total assholes. Allow me to explain…

Once upon a time, we bought a new house. A lovely house with many windows, including a nice big window over the kitchen sink. A window that some clearly deranged spider decided to build a web in. (Exhibit A: Spiders show no respect for personal property. They are hooligans.) So I vacuumed up the unattended web and figured the spider would get the hint and move on. As it turns out, spiders aren’t good with subtlety. She built another web right back where the old one was literally overnight. (Exhibit B: Spiders have vampiric tendencies. Not the sexy kind.) I was mightily displeased and thus began a vicious turf war on my windowsill. Everyday I would clean up this web and EVERY night the spider would rebuild it and go into hiding during the day. The strain of the situation began to wear on me. I would stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen each morning to assess the damage and spew curses when I saw the web of defiance. Finally there came a day when I saw the icky rebel in action and I killed her. Or at least I thought I did. Until the next morning when I walked into my kitchen to see one long strand of web spanning from the ceiling to the counter, right across the kitchen sink. It shimmered in the morning sun, a delicate and indisputable “Fuck You”. So I totally snapped, filled my cabinets with C4 and blew up the entire kitchen in a fit of fiery rage. Actually, no. But I was really pissed and wrote a very long and strongly worded email to a dear friend who had the good grace not to make fun of me. You’ll be relieved to know that I prevailed and the spider did eventually meet her demise. You’ll also be relieved to know this paragraph is finally over.

So, perhaps you now understand how truly awful spiders are and how I may just have a smidge of the PTSD where arachnids are concerned. Perhaps you will also understand how the following announcement struck fear into my very core.

It’s about 6:45am. The Hubs and I are in our bathroom getting ready for the day.

Max walks in and says, “Mommy! There’s a spider in your room! A big, wriggly one!”

Time stood still. The Hubs and I looked at each other and began doing that silent communication thing that couples do:

Hubs: “Don’t freak out!”

Me: “OH MY GAWD I’M FREAKING OUT!!!!!”

Hubs: “Why don’t you have a prescription for Xanex?!”

Me: “WHY DON’T I HAVE A PRESCRIPTION FOR XANEX?!?!?”

Etc.

Armed with shoes and an intense longing for prescription drugs, we went into our bedroom to assess the situation. There was no spider to be seen. Which could only mean one thing; he was the kitchen spider’s unstable ex-boyfriend coming to exact revenge on us in the most painful way possible starting with psychological warfare. Obviously. And it worked. Because on the Sliding Scale of Terror this falls precariously close to the “All Music Other Than Nickelback Has Been Destroyed” end of the spectrum.

Let’s all take three cleansing breaths to release that horrifying idea back into the ether.

I lived the next 36 hours in a state of high alert. I was like Jason Fucking Bourne up in here. I carried a weapon on my person at all times. I regularly patrolled my bedroom and at long last my vigilance was rewarded. I saw The Target, went into cardiac arrest, located The Target again, hyperventilated, looked at The Target some more, thought about sealing off the room and waiting for The Hubs to come home, checked to make sure The Target hadn’t moved, girded my loins and finally killed the bastard. Death by flip-flop. Booyah. Then I tried not to puke on myself as I destroyed the evidence and framed the next door neighbor for the crime. You can never be too careful. Spiders are vengeful beasts.