Write of Passage

I've never had trouble writing. Writing is just another form of talking and I can talk my ass off. Especially if I'm drinking.



But, now that I'm getting paid - paid! - to write I cannot seem to form a cohesive post. For the last week every entry has begun like this:

"Today was a good day. It was fun. I did alot of things."

And then,

"Being a mother is hard. It is not easy. It is hard. Being a mother is sometimes not hard. ....But, mostly hard."

This is then generally followed by me scratching at my chest until I break out into hives.

Help me.

I Like Long Walks In the Park and Short Cold Baths

It really came down to first time parenting.

Last night S. had a 104.6 fever. I don't know about you, but any fever above 102 makes my heart pound and I start sprinting around the room in circles repeating "It's okay! It's okay! Everyone stay calm. It's...all...fine. Everything is okay. Just...everyone stay calm, won't you?!!!"

Which was exactly my reaction upon reading the thermometer. I am so very grateful that we had taken her to the doctor's earlier even though she seemed to be feeling better. That way I at least had the fact that a doctor laid eyes on her that day and yet allowed us to leave, running in the back of my head.

I started barking random contradictory orders to Chris and immediately called my mother-in-law. She was a nurse for decades and I find her incredibly soothing in these circumstances. She told me to start a cool bath and mop S under her armpits with cool rags.

With the phone on one shoulder I began frantically stripping and mopping S down in the bathroom while she cried and shivered. All the while talking a mile a minute straining to be as soothing as possible.


My daughter, being bright, picks up on the fact that I'm foaming at the mouth and seems concerned.

I then made the mistake of cheerfully asking "You want mommy to get in the bath with you?" Which she of course agrees to.

And then once I am actually freezing my ass off in the ice water, decides she's not joining me.

I coax her to the edge of the tub where I convince her to at least dangle her feet in while I read her a book.

So, imagine if you will. I am naked and sitting in a frigid bath reading a book to my feverish child who is gingerly resting on the edge of the tub wrapped in a fashionable towel.

As if that wasn't awkward enough (and completely pointless) add my husband to the mix, whom I have actively prevented from seeing me nude recently due to the recent weight gain and who now gazes upon me fat, pale, naked, and for the love of god, sitting, in the tub.

I am happy to report that the fever was eventually brought down and with my child intact. I wish I could say the same for my pride.


You Give Me Fever When You Kiss Me, Fever When You Hold Me Tight

What? What's that you say? My daughter woke up vomiting with a fever?

And I'm still sick?

And she was supposed to go to Grandma's for the weekend so Chris and I could have much needed time together?

To maybe go see a movie that doesn't involve animals escaping from a zoo for once.

And have adult conversations. And adult beverages. And adult activities.

Awesome. No. Really!

I cannot stand it when my daughter is sick. I've decided I was an idiot before and I much prefer her well.


Fashion Don’t

I thought it was a cute shirt last week. Express has some killer sales and it was only $9.99. Soft, stretchy, and on clearance. A monkey would have walked out with it, it was such an easy decision.

However, I did have some reservations about how billowy it was when I put it on this morning. But I convinced myself that my lack of fat face, arms the width of thighs, and acne would assure strangers that I was not pregnant and that this was just “the style”.

I could not have been more wrong.

As soon as I got to the post office, a man rushed to get the door for me. Rushed. I tried to dismiss that until the same thing happened on my way out.

Later, at the grocery store I noticed not just one, but at least five different women check out my stomach. And they didn’t even look unsure. They would just look at my stomach, look up at me, and smile. A conspiratorially procreative smile.

Then at the checkout I tell the checker to ring me up for a case of water as well. He immediately runs off to get my water for me (something that is never done) and then intercoms that I need help out!

“Oh, I don’t need help out. I can lift the waters.” I tell the checker.

He looks at me, hesitating.

“Are you…sure…you can?” he asks.

“Oh, you mean, can I be trusted to put my own groceries in the car since I obviously cannot manage to make fashion choices that do not make me appear pregnant when I AM NOT?”

Okay. I didn’t say that exactly.

Actually, I said “I’ll be fine” and pushed my cart out of there feeling part idiotic and part strong fearless fertile woman.

The only way I could have looked more pregnant today would be if a child were actually crowning in the produce aisle.

What do you think? Hmm?


Letter B, Let Her Be

I cannot think of one good reason why you would want to know this, but I have been sick more in the last two months than in the last two years. No joke. The same old congestion, cough, sinus pressure. Ugh.

That's why I've been sort of "off" this week - yet another relapse. Those incoherent sentences? And rambling stories? Yeah, that's my best work right now.

So, this morning at dance class the forced mommy conversation for an hour was torturous. Here's a snippet:

Mom1: "Lily wants her hair long and curly and BROWN!" (said in a fit of giggles).

Mom2: "You're kidding!!!! Taylor would kill for hair like Lily's! (this is shrieked at Mom3).

Mom3: "Little girls just love African Americans! The dark eyes! The skin!"

Me (inside my head): Wha....?

Mom2: "My daughter just loves to dress up!"

All three moms laugh as if this is the most hilarious comment ever.

Mom1: "Lily wanted dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Poor thing. She's blonde and blue-eyed!" (again with the hysterics).

Me: "Your husband might have had some questions".

Everyone looks over at me. Silence.

Can someone please tell me how this was not funny? Is it the DayQuil?

So, my day really turned around when I saw that the chalkboard sign of 'Specials' outside the seafood restaurant next to Starbucks, where S and I always go after class, had been messed with.

In 'Sea Bass' someone had erased the 'B' making today's special "Sea Ass". Which I thoroughly enjoyed.

And if someone can come to my house and help me bang my cell phone against the wall maybe together we can extract the picture I snapped.



Every night when I put Savannah to bed, I resolve to be a better mother the next day. Something about watching her sleep, helpless and innocent, makes my heart swoon for her. And makes me hate myself. I promise to do more with her the next day.

And I rarely do. I still selfishly do my errands while dragging her with me, I get frustrated with her dawdling, and we go entire days without me sitting down with her to play dolls, color, or read.

I feel like a horrible mother because of this. I realize there are mothers more horrible out there, but given my love for my daughter and my position in life, there is no good excuse sometimes for my not playing with her. There are plenty of opportunities for me to spend time with her that I pass up, choosing instead to read my magazines, watch t.v., or blog.

I hate myself for this. I feel like she deserves more. She deserves a mother that’s more creative, more fun, more loving. A mother that doesn’t get lost inside herself, that doesn’t have unexplained crying jags, or that isn’t downright evil at certain times of the month.

And I don’t feel like simply having guilt is a testament to what a great parent I am. My father constantly cried, apologized, and lamented his life decisions. And you know what? He was a terrible father. It didn’t help me any that he felt badly about it. I don’t want to be that parent. And yet I often am.

I know exactly how it feels to be disregarded, to be ignored, to be screamed at, to be hit, by your parent. I definitely am not this way with my daughter, but maybe that’s the problem. I think, subconsciously, because I am not as bad as he was, I’m okay.

But, I know I’m not. I need to do more. Tonight I will promise myself that tomorrow I will. But, will I?

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I think the only thing better than discovering the not-so-fresh smell in your daughter's room for the last month has been caused by your cat peeing in her sweater drawer, is realizing you forced your daughter to wear one of the aforementioned sweaters last night.

Fantastic. The next time that damn cat jumps on the treadmill, I'm letting him ride it out.

I'm sure you all can gather that the worst part of this is the fact that I'm being forced to do laundry. During my Tivo time. Is there no end to the abuse?


I Scare Easy

My fear of taxis began about five years ago. Right around the time the movie "Bone Collector" came out (in which a taxi driver kidnaps and murders passengers) we had a similar thing happen locally.

One Saturday night a girl - a friend of a friend of mine - decided to leave a San Francisco club called "Bubble Lounge" - one of my regular hangouts- without her friends. She grabbed a cab and never made it home. Her body was found a few days later and the cab driver was arrested.

A few weeks after this event Chris and I headed to Las Vegas... where the cabs are plentiful. I made Chris promise me he would never leave me in a cab alone – that he would get in before me and get out after me every time.

We were only dating at the time and this cab phobia was on the heels of me melting down in Yosemite after Chris left me in a public restroom to pee alone. (Although two women had recently been kidnapped and murdered at a rest stop in Yosemite, so my alarm wasn’t completely unwarranted. What can I say – I watched a lot of news.)

So, while on the plane to Vegas I’m reiterating to Chris for the 400th time what my rules are regarding cabs. He is amused, but agrees.

Well, we grab a cab from the airport to take up to our hotel. The cabbie is a fat white guy without a lot of conversation. The worst kind, if you ask me. Please tell me about your kids. Wife? Lifelong dreams? That don’t include dismembering young girls?

We pull up at the hotel and we’re an hour before check-in. The valets are standing in the hotel’s circular driveway waving us through to keep moving. Well, Chris and I quickly agree that we don’t want to lose the cab if we can’t check in yet because this hotel is off the strip (The Hard Rock). Without a second thought, Chris jumps out and runs inside to check with the front desk, leaving me in the cab alone.

I immediately tell myself not to overreact, we’re just sitting in front of the hotel after all. There’s nothing he can do to me here. I do scoot over so I’m right against the door on Chris’s side, ready to bolt.

In the meantime, the valets are yelling at the cabbie to keep moving; that he can’t park there. The cabbie and I are both anxiously watching the doors, waiting for Chris to come back out.

Finally, the cabbie mumbles something and floors the gas pedal pulling out of the hotel and speeding down the street with me in the back. The doors lock automatically as we pull into traffic and take off. If you will, imagine. My. Panic.

I spin around and see the hotel getting smaller and smaller in the back window. I spin back around.

“What are you doing?” I am near hysteria.

He grumbles something about those “damn valets”.

I look at the door handle I am gripping in my hand. We’re going about 45 mph. I look at the door lock – it’s one of those tiny ones, but I think I can pull it up if I need to.

I picture myself bursting from the speeding taxi and rolling across the intersection. What would I do? If I didn’t get hit by a car first, would I start running down the median strip?

My head is on a swivel frantically trying to figure out what the heck this guy is doing as he speeds down the street for a full five minutes. I am actually hyperventilating.

I am literally pressed so hard against the door with one hand on the handle that I am indenting my leg. My cheek is smashed against the window straining to see.

Meanwhile, Chris has come back outside. And we’re gone. His heart jumps into his throat. He consciously tells himself there must be a reasonable explanation. He runs up to the valet and asks what he saw. He sprints to the front of the parking lot. Then he dashes to the median. Then races back to the hotel doors….

Back in the cab, just as I start to pull a little on the handle and say a prayer, I finally realize we’re going up the street to make a u-turn and pulling into the side entrance of the hotel.

Chris is standing at the front doors looking stricken as we race up the driveway. I shoot out of the taxi before it even comes to a complete stop and start crying.

Ever since my cab trauma I can’t help but laugh when I imagine how close I was to leaping out of that taxi and doing a tuck and roll across the busy intersection. I was this close.

Can you imagine? The cab driver getting out of the car, walking around to where I lay on the asphalt. Cars smashed up around me. And him saying “Ma’am. I was…only…going around the block.”


And You Thought I Was Funny

I know you have all been eagerly awaiting my Vegas update - and its a good one, I promise - but I just don't have it in me to post right now. My mother and I just had an enormous two hour long fight and I. Am. Exhausted.

The good news is we agreed to disagree.

The bad news is there is no winning a fight when you make your daughter actually cry with your yelling.

I'm going to bed.


This Is My Life

It's so fantastic when you're cleaning your toilet. Especially if the toilet water splashes and a drop lands on your lip.

Raise your hand if you think this caused me to instinctively douse my face in bleach.



Andrew Shue Emailed Me Today and I Sat In My Closet - How Was Your Day?

I didn't mention this to you all earlier because I surely wasn't going to set myself up, but awhile ago I applied as a writer for ClubMom as one of their featured bloggers. It appears that they like the way I murder a sentence...or Andrew is aware of all those VHS tapes I spent on Melrose Place...because they chose me out of many deserving applicants.

When I received the offer today I literally read one sentence, buried my face in my hands, made Chris read the rest over my shoulder, and then promptly hid in the closet. Will this reaction concern them, do you think?

The fact that ClubMom feels I'm competent enough to represent them as a blogger is a huge compliment and I'm overwhelmed by the opportunity. I am honored. And published? Stop it.

My closet is calling me.


Why I'm Weird and Five Other Things You Don't Care About

Shout out to Rockin Robyn for tagging me. With the recent departure from Thursday Thirteen I'd actually spent the last week not banging my head against my desk trying to come up with good content.

Thanks, Robyn. No. Really.

Five things you really don't need to know about me:

1. I pretend Dr. Phil is my dad.

2. I am obsessed with googling symptoms. If I or someone I love has the slightest symptom, you can bet that I'm diagnosing a random, often deadly, disease. This sucks. Mostly for them.

3. When I was 12 my best friend and I would crank call people from the phonebook. But, here's the thing. We would only call couples whose names were both listed. Then, we would ask for the husband by name. When the wife would say he wasn't there, we would act upset and claim to be his mistress. We did this many times. And many wives believed us. If I'm wrong and there is a hell, I am in big trouble.

4. My nose has been broken my entire life and I just found out last year.

5. When I was 14 I snuck out with my first boyfriend almost every night for a year. And we would park and talk. Never touching. And no, he wasn't gay. Just supremely patient. Who sneaks out to talk?!

6. I lied to my boss for two years and said I was an important witness in a high profile case when in fact I was taking the time off to testify at my own trial. For taking matters into my own hands with a cheating boyfriend.

p.s.- When I asked Chris "What's something weird about me?" he answered, "That you won't go camping when you're on your period because you're afraid the bears will smell you." I told him this was too much information for you lovely flowers. Was it?

What Happens In Vegas...Was Tame Enough To Drive the Car Home

Is it just me or is the road trip your favorite part as you get older? When I was single, we'd all pile on the plane and that's where the party would start. Now, that I'm "domesticated" I actually get excited about car snacks. Because everyone know that calories consumed while going 75 mph aren't assimilated by your body. It's physics. Plus, all the uninterrupted magazine time. Ooooh, I'm getting all excited again just thinking about it.

So, we stayed at the Mandalay Bay Hotel, which wasn't bad, but you did get the vague feeling that with the new "The Hotel" they just built next door, the MB has become sort of the bastard child.

As soon as we arrived, we went looking for drinks sustenance. In Chris's defense, he just wanted to lounge around in the room. But, we all know what that means and I didn't want to mess up my makeup quite yet. So, we wandered downstairs to dinner.

If you've never been to Vegas, let me tell you that you are missing the best food on earth. Every meal we had was amazing. And amazingly expensive.

But, it feels free because you just say "charge it to my room", which is such an easy habit to get into and a difficult one to break. As my local grocery store this morning can attest to.

Our first dinner was awesome, but our waitress (wait person? food server?) was horrible. It was like she was purposely avoiding our table. At one point I asked the busboy to please get her, watched him tell her, watched her look at us and then walk away. Never to return.

So, later on our way back to our room in the elevator full of people, I asked Chris if he tipped her.

Chris: "Yes."
Me: "How much?"
Chris: "Twenty percent."
Me: "You gave her twenty percent?! Are you kidding?"
Chris: "It's not a big deal."
Me: "Chris, but that was the worst lap dance you've ever gotten!"

Of course, this being Vegas there were only a few snickers. But, Chris' face made it all worth it. He stared straight ahead for the next 16 floors in silence. While I giggled. Did I mention that in Vegas they actually give you a plastic cup for your drink as you leave? So, that you can continue to walk around with it? Or harrass your husband in the elevator? It's handy I tell you.

So, how was Dane Cook?

Dane was...Dane. You know, the usual. Pulling me up from the audience, swinging me around, and carrying me around on his shoulders for part of the show. I think it may have been a little awkward for the rest of the audience, but there's no stopping the Dane Train.

I finally asked him kindly to put me down...right to my husband who I prefer. (He's just as funny plus he's a superhero and who doesn't love superheroes?)

Oh! You mean in reality.

He was very very funny. His very very skinny girlfriend sang the national anthem first. I thought that was a little disrespectful to me. You know, I was right there, but whatever.

My advice is to definitely kick off any vacation with a good comedy show. Nothing gets you in the mood for good times like laughing your asses off while shrieking in each other's faces "That's so true!". Chris and I were hysterical and it set the tone for the rest of our trip.

After the show, when we were good and liquored up, we decided to embarrass ourselves by paying $50!! to get into the hot nightclub, Rum Jungle. Then drinks were $10 each. Then Chris and I tried to dance to hard core techno that was literally vibrating my heart. It was dark, hot, and freaking loud. When did that stop spelling F-U-N?

Once I accidentally poured my drink down Chris' back trying to lean in to hear him better, we decided we were done. The way Chris figured it, that thrilling experience cost us $2.20 a minute. Awesome.

The next day we lounged by the pool and I read all my gossip mags, which are ancient news now thanks to The Green Straw. Chris and I amused ourselves by playing with our new cell phones and downloading various ring tones. (If you ever hear "Feel Good" by the Gorillaz while you're in the mall, I'm probably nearby. Me or one of 40,000 other people that have it.)

I can't tell you how nice it was to just lounge, read, and soak up the sun. And I was only occasionally bothered by my streaky spray tan and extra 10 pounds. That's a good day, my friends.

We had the dinner of our lives at Olives in Ballagio that night. All I have to say is "hand rolled Butternut Squash Raviolis". Hold me.

(Here Chris and I decided to mock the water show at Bellagio that all the Mid-Westerners ooh and ahh over. See the couple behind me really trying to take it seriously?)

We had a blast, but it is required good to be home now. Less the tattoos I thought for sure I could bully Chris into. Next time we'll get those matching dice. I can feel it.

p.s.- On a side note, I'm done with TT. I'm just...done.


I'm the Creative Director In This House

She: "This is you and me, mommy."

Me: "Oooh. Is this my purse?"

She: "No, that's your lady bug and her cheese!"

Me: "Honey! I love this picture. That is the perfect carrot."

She: (throws picture and starts to cry) "It's a ballerina!"

*In my defense, she's added alot of detail since then.


Monthly Letter

Dear Blue,

You're exactly four and a half today. I informed you of this while we lay in bed together this morning. You asked me what that meant and I said that you are halfway to being five. You didn't like this. You said its taking too long. I know where you get your impatience.

No one warned me of this, but four seems to be the year that you lose the rest of your baby ways. You're very much a little girl now. You can sit in a restaurant with daddy or I and carry on a conversation almost like a grownup.

You've also become very self-conscious. You're aware of when we're watching you play and you get embarrassed if we smile. I don't know what to make of this, but I remember doing it as well. I'm sure I'm passing on those hardy insecure genes to you.

You're also quite observant of what other girls around you are wearing or how they talk. You want to grow up and fit in so badly and I just want you to stay safe by my side forever.

I went clothes shopping for you last week and forced myself to bypass the kittens and rainbows and pick up a few things I knew you really wanted, like sparkly tops and distressed jeans. You were so elated when I got home, you had to pull everything out of the bag and try it all on. You said you were happy because now you looked like me. This made me as happy as it did sad.

There are very few words you mispronounce now - pasghetti and waterlemon being my favorites.

I try and purposely misprounounce your newly pronounced words like you used to, "Do you want to go watch a movie at the 'veeter' (theater)?" or "Look at that pretty 'fowler' (flower)".

You don't like this. You think I'm mocking you. So, you're sure to correct me with exasperation.

Your phrases are the funniest. You asked daddy yesterday if the policeman was going to "roll him over" and you love to help daddy "move the lawn".

We've always had lots of pet names for you, but you've recently decided that daddy is to call you 'Monkey' and I can call you 'Bunny Rabbit'. My favorite's always been 'Blue', but I'm only allowed to use it on special occasions now.

And dear, you put the 'drama' in Drama Queen. Your new thing to do after a full day of activity is throw yourself around the house pronouncing this your "worst day ever". If I make a dinner you enjoy though, this is often upgraded to "your best day ever". It's official - you're all girl.

The only time you still remind me of that little baby that was all eyes is when you have your thumb in your mouth and your "memes" to your face. I immediately see those same sleepy blue eyes, the pacifier, the mop of blonde curls on your head. I love to kiss you right where the corner of your mouth meets your thumb.

I know this is a habit you should stop soon and that makes me sadder than you can know.

I love you.



Weekly List

Thirteen Things You'll Never Hear Me Say

1. "I'm tired of cheese."

2. "Oh, no more drinks for me. One's enough."

3. "Well, all the laundry's done!"

4. "I can't ever miss an episode of "So NoTORIous".

5. "These jeans are too loose. Let me try the zero."

6. "I'm too busy to gossip."

7. "I'm over Tivo".

8. "It was still dark when I got up."

9. "Make mine decaf."

10. "I wish I could lose this tan."

11. "Yes, I actually do want to watch "Drake and Josh Go To Hollywood" again."

12. "Am I getting too muscular?"

13. "It sure would be nice to grow some more hair on my face."


I Guess I Forgot This Part of My Vows

Okay, Chris has weighed in and decided that "boy wonder" and "flesh" are not appropriate terms to use to describe another "boy" within our marriage.

So, I will add that I am just as excited about drinking, dancing, misbehaving with my husband in Vegas for THREE days as I am about what's-his-name-I-already-forgot. Actually, more. Chris has great hair.

Without getting into particulars (you know the drill about Vegas, yes?) I'll just say that every time Chris and I have been there we have had an amazing time. A. Mazing. We're almost scared to go again because the bar is set so high.

Also, last time we went I looked like this. I can assure you that I do not look like that anymore. Although, I do think I'll make Chris wear that shirt again. Hell, maybe I'll wear it.


The BK Lounge

Take it from me, there is nothing more enjoyable than laying on the floor of your home office with your husband and a bottle of wine while listening to him and laughing your everloving asses off.

Did I mention that I am actually seeing this boy wonder in the flesh perform in Vegas in just over 72 hours? I didn't? Well, that's because I am so freaking excited I'm afraid to even speak of it for fear I will jink myself and the show will be cancelled.

Then I'll never be able to throw my panties onstage at Mr. Cook. Don't worry - Chris said I could. As long as they're big panties.


Curiosity Made the Cat Run Real Fast

I really really don't want to post about my cat. Alas, I have no choice because this is funny stuff.

So, I have this fat orange cat. His name is Oliver, but that doesn't matter. Especially because you never need to call him since he is like a permanent slipper on your right foot wherever you go all day.

Oliver is an affection whore. He must be touched at all times. He shimmies along the walls as he walks, runs his cheeks across anything with a corner, and pulls himself along on his back on every surface throughout the house. Wherever you are, there he will be. Petting himself with your hand without you even noticing.

Well, the other day I was running on the treadmill. Which is next to my bed. Oliver was sitting on the edge of the bed, two feet from me, slowly reaching his paw out toward me over and over as I ran. I'm thinking, 'Of course he knows he can't come near me. He's an animal. They have an innate ability to sense danger? Right?'

His round orange eyes were boring into me, pleading for physical contact. As his reaching became more urgent, I started to consider that he just may get desperate.

Not a second later, the cat jumps. On. The. Treadmill. And. Runs. With. Me.

Never one to overreact, I start wildly yelling "No! No!" as he races behind me. I look over my shoulder and this cat is running like his tail's on fire. His eyes are wild and his face is registering something is terribly wrong with his current situation.

After about five full seconds of sprinting behind me, he realizes he's going to need to step up his game if he's going to make it out of this alive. His eight inch legs start to spin like a cartoon character and he actually manages to run faster than I'm running and shoots off the front of the machine.

Poor cat hid in the bathroom for three days.

I'm taking this as yet another sign that exercising is dangerous and it's much safer to sit and eat french bread. Also, that my cat is...."special".


Don't Let Me Eat Alone

I started another blog. Just for recipes! I'm somewhat of a "Recipe Whisperer" to my friends, so I thought it only fair to share my secrets copied directly from my cookbooks with you.

Since most of my recipes require the talent of no more than that of your average ground squirrel, please do not expect a complex cooking experience. I am all about fast, easy, and delicious. Yes, like me. You're funny - I knew you were thinking it.

Anyway, I'll be posting a recipe a day. I try to do lowfat with lots of veggies and use meat sparingly. (And, yes, that is only to allow me to eat the crapass McDonalds "meat" when I so desire.)

Please email me any favorite recipes you have and I'll throw them up there. As long as they don't include Spam or Cheez Whiz. ...I don't want you stealing my thunder.

So, come into my kitchen and grab a recipe. And resist the urge to wipe down the counters and do my dishes.


I Don't Want To Master My Thighs Anymore

Can anyone tell me how I can order this book on Amazon this morning ...

... and then get this for lunch? And just to have all my bases covered, I even made sure to get diet coke for my Nutrasweet consumption.


I sometimes miss the days when we thought healthy eating was this:

And exercise was this:

Ah, a simpler time. Don't you sometimes feel like all our health knowledge is a double-edged sword?

I don't think I like knowing exactly what it is I am doing to my body as I enjoy my hot tasty french fries.

It allows me to reason too much: 'Let's see, what do I want for dinner tonight? Do I want inflamed arteries or an overworked pancreas?' 'I feel like a snack. Hmm, should I open that bag of breast cancer potato chips or go for the colon polyp salami? Decisions decisions.'

Knowledge is power and responsibility...and bor-ing.


I Wish They All Could Be (Northern) California Girls

Yay, I'm back in my posh surroundings! That being my blog, not my humble little four year old suburban house. Although I'm glad to be back to that too. I did miss me some laundry.

So, Northern Cali was lovely - all sunny and cultural and classy and stuff. I have to tell you something about So Cal that some of you may not agree with (Hi Kelly!) - the people of southern California are often, not always (Hi Kelly!) - tacky. I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area and people are just more classy there. They too have million dollar homes and Range Rovers, but their hair is natural, they shop in their yoga pants, and their wedding rings are simple platinum bands. I'm just saying is all....

Anyway, my mom and S and I headed out Wednesday morning. I knew I was in for a wild weekend when my mom's overnight bag had a "Daily Scriptures", a bible, and her crocheted shawl peeking out of the top. The drive up and back was interesting. My mom read me Bible texts on the way up while my daughter interrupted her with "My Humps" lyrics. (My mom: "Did she just say lady lumps?") Nice.

But, we had a great time at my aunt's.

Emily is young and beautiful and successful and a strong self made woman. She stands for everything women have fought for. She has it all - she's successful, beautiful and has granite counters. Four years ago she arranged her booming career so she could stay at home with her sons. I hope to be like her when I grow up. Especially the successful career. Or any career. Or maybe its just her house I want. Or the fact that she never has laundry with a family of four.

Anyway, my mom and I had a good time fondling Emily's furniture and wasting her time. Also, making homemade playdough with the kids (my mom) and introducing Emily to some new horrendously depressing cancer blogs (me).

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Thursday night I had dinner with Renee. This consisted mostly of Renee standing in the aisle at Chili's and rocking Rocco in her arms. But, that was okay. I've drank through worse.

We talked about Blogher - Renee's going! - and discussed hotel arrangements. I have to say, I wish you were all going. Can you imagine how much fun we would have together? I am way less whiney than you think. And I drink way more wine that you think. Also, I'm likely to say or do something wildly inappropriate so you don't have to. And that's just f-u-n. So, go! Won't you already?

S. was thrilled that she got to play with "the big guy" and "the little guy" as she likes to call her 8 and 5 year old cousins. She thinks "chother" is its own word, so she kept saying "We like to play with our chother while you and Emily talk to your chother!". Get it? Instead of "each other"?

Let your ovaries commence to bursting.

And, for my part, I was pleased to show my aunt and uncle what happens to a 28 year old's body when she eats everything covered in cheese for three months. They were not impressed.

After I felt we had adequately chastised my aunt for weighing less than me (thanks for the walk around Burlingame looking for 'the bagel place' - we can all tell you don't eat no damn bagels!) we headed back home Friday.

On the way back my mom and I played 20 Questions, in which my mother totally cheated and chose both "the man who checked my disabled aunt into a nursing home" and "the girl who searched our purses at the Dr. Phil show" as her people I was supposed to guess. You see where I get my clever moves.

I look forward to my next visit. Maybe I can run into an ex-boyfriend or my old parole officer and actually have an interesting story for you next time.

I did miss all of you internets while I was off 'road tripping'. Especially your Thursday Thirteen comments saying "My TT's are up!" or as Chris likes to read it, "My titties are up!" (Please excuse his lecherous immaturity).

Next time I'll bring you back a t-shirt.

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