I May Be Schizophrenic, But At Least I'm Not At A Drunken Playdate

See, this is the problem. Every time I sit down to write all I can think about is my upcoming Mexico cruise.

I would like to write about Melissa's interview on The Today Show and how she was railroaded with accusatory questions regarding drinking alcohol during playdates.

(Lena's Subconscious: We leave Saturday!)

I would like to let you know that being the trailblazer I am I wrote about this topic awhile back and received a plethora of responses ranging from I NEVER EVER DRINK IN FRONT OF MY KIDS! to I ONLY DRINK IN FRONT OF MY KIDS BECAUSE THAT'S WHEN I NEED IT MOST DUH!

(Lena's Subconscious: Book a bikini wax!)

I'd like to state for the record that the reason this whole "Drinking in front of your kids: Do you or don't you?" brou-ha-ha has erupted has nothing to do with alcohol and has much more to do with our society's misogynistic tendencies.

(Lena's Subconscious: Why haven't my Amazon books arrived yet??)

While I am not blind to the risks of having a glass of wine while your children are solely in your care, I offer you this question to ponder: Why do you think the media has not made a peep about the longheld tradition during the holidays of the kids staying home with dad while he drinks beer and watches the game and mom is out shopping?

(Lena's Subconscious: Speaking of alcohol, fill entire extra duffel bag with booze. Am not paying six bucks for coconut juice again.)

Why does our society assume that fathers can drink while watching their children while mothers cannot be trusted? Is this in case we get the vapors and must take to our beds in our dressing gowns? Everybody knows that women are more attentive than men, which makes this all the more confusing.

(Lena's Subconscious: Must solve missing polka dot bathing suit mystery! Is only one that doesn't cut into backfat!)

It is also important that we understand that the debate on The Today Show was predicated upon A GLASS OF WINE among moms. ONE. I noticed that this seemed to be glossed over when Melissa mentioned it at the outset.

(Lena's Subconscious: What if Chris gets thrown overboard?)

To me, this is the defining factor! We're not talking about getting hammered and screaming home with the kids rolling around in the back of the minivan. We're talking about relaxing with a group of friends while our kids play.

(Lena's Subconscious: OMG. Sharks.)

And the line of questioning regarding whether you would let your babysitter drink while watching the kids? Puh-lease. The babysitter is doing her JOB. We are living our LIVES.

A life that occasionally includes alcohol. And socializing. And kids. Uh, not in that order. Moving on.

(Lena's Subconscious: 29, 30, 31. Dammit! Am totally going to start my period Saturday.)

I think we all need to be honest. Alcohol inhibits our thinking ability as humans. Period. We all know our own personal limit when that pleasant relaxation turns the corner into wearing lampshades.

(Lena's Subconscious: I hope Chris doesn't flash the judges at the poolside contest again. Was so embarrassing. Also, sort of a turn-on.)

And we should all be responsible enough to know what our personal limit is.

The insult really lies in the inference that we as moms would ever knowingly do something that would be detrimental to our kids.

(Lena's Subconscious: Wait. I'm scuba diving on my PERIOD? Why would I dress up like a SEAL while I am blood-letting into the ocean?)

At the end of the interview Meredith asks the psychologist "What do you think it means that more and more moms are taking this route?". My immediate answer: it means we've found each other! Woo-hoo!

(Lena's Subconscious: Am going to be eaten by sharks!)

Why shouldn't moms be able to relax and take a break when it is in a supportive environment?

(Lena's Subconscious: Or left behind! Like in that really really bad movie.)

While one ten minute interview cannot possibly sum up an entire debate, I do hope that seeing the segment helped other parents to check themselves. Moms and dads alike. Whether it was to question whether they may be drinking too much around their kids. Or whether it made them wonder if they've been too judgmental.

(Lena's Subconscious: Must remember to pack the cleavage-bearing dress. Also, pack the cleavage.)

At the very least I hope everyone got good and drunk over the weekend and managed not to sell their kids to gypsies.

(Lena's Subconscious: There will be much laying around and drinking! Shouldn't shock my system. Should start now...)


Because I Probably Shouldn't Name This Post "Spanker"

Chris let me weigh his head tonight.

He was reading in bed without a pillow and his head was sort of lolling to the side so I put my arm out to support it. You know, in an act of love. We were both surprised - he because he wasn't expecting an arm-pillow and me because "holy hell why is your head so damn heavy?".

This of course sparked a debate as to why his head was so heavy and whether or not it was due to his brain holding many large facts. Such as every single president's name and who fought whom in which war and why Justin Timberlake is totally better off without that skank Cameron.

So, I insisted he get up and come with me to the bathroom where I made him lay on the floor with his head on a scale. TEN POUNDS! As we all know the human head weighs eight pounds and dogs and bees can smell fear. So obviously: freak among us.

Until he made me weigh mine. Seven pounds. Sev. En. A pound less than average. I guess that's why I blog.

This is also exactly the news I need to learn right now too because I was only mildy freaking out about an article that was due to a parenting website last week that I have not even begun to...uh, begin. And what would be even better is if the editor of said website is reading this right now. She'll be so pleased to find out that my article is late because I'm too busy weighing my husband's head. And I have no clue what I'm going to write about. None. I'm taking suggestions. Also, donations.

Oh, also? If you're a spanker or if you're an anti-spanker do go over to this post and hit me up with your opinion. (Har.) Don't use too many big words though. My pea brain can only retain so much.


She's Posty!

I have no idea why I'm sick. I am super healthy. See?

Health Nut
(click to enbiggen)

What I'm not telling you is that all of that was consumed in one day. In the Starbucks bag? Maybe coffee cake. And that tall container on the right? Totally vodka. And that iced coffee? Whole milk. Which: ewww. And also: Mmmm. All delivered by my loveslave. Who every time he leaves the room asks "What can I get you?".

I spent the entire weekend feeble and cranky while using the cat as a pillow. What I presumed were allergies for the past two weeks were actually a slow buildup to the Worst Head Cold Ever. I stayed propped up all night watching Jon Stewart reruns rather than lay down and be faced with 800 pound sinuses. Chris was so pleased. Especially since I also ate crunchy chips and kept the lights on.

My head cold wouldn't be news (and honestly it still isn't) except for that we are supposed to be listing our house TOMORROW. Which meant Chris spent his days off gutting the entire backyard by himself and making numerous runs to the store for me. For sustenance.

[Here's a riddle: If a thumb is hammered on the side of a house in the suburbs and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound to your selfish whore of a wife inside who continues typing? The answer is no m'kay?]

So I was useless this weekend, which is just a notch below how I am generally. I did manage to get up Sunday afternoon and at least clean the office. See? Pretty Ikea boxes. FILLED with ugly pointless crap.

Ikea Rocks The Cardboard

And a clean desk. Because virtually everything is now in the garbage due to my extreme illness and also boredom with cleaning. (I sure hope that red envelope from the gas company wasn't pressing.)

You're so jealous of my Kate Spade desk calendar you can hardly see straight.

Sadly, despite Chris' best efforts and my half-assed help the house is still not ready to be shown.

I have already rescheduled with the realt*r twice and for some reason I have a problem disappointing people and I would almost rather list a house that has piles of laundry and frostbitten bushes in the front yard (only the bushes are in the front yard, not the piles of laundry; although that's a thought) than go back on my word yet again.

So, the realt*r's response when I called to delay the listing was all the more humorous. "Yes, I think that's the best idea. I drove by your house earlier." HAHAHA. Did I mention she lives on our street? And is sassy? I like her. We shall be friends.

In other news, we are going to Mexico NEXT WEEK! I am so excited that there are not enough exclamation points to convey it. Mexico!!! For a week!!! Without A Child!!! But, with many alcoholic drinks the size of a child!

This also means that we'll have another rousing round of Catalog Shopping: Look How Fool Ass I Am In These Clothes as we get closer. Mark your calendars. Even if they aren't Kate Spade. I won't hold it against you.


Hillary Clinton Announces Her Presidential Bid!

How exciting is this?

So, what do you think her chances are?


Victoria's Secret Is That She's A Dirty Liar

I'm happy to report that I've taken my Thorazine and I'm all better now!

Especially after reading the comments on this post and god, people's babies DIED and they still moved on with life and are positive again. Surely I can get over my zip code. I've got a healthy daughter with a constant smile, an adorable husband, a great life. I have luxuries most women would love - to wit: the ability to sit on my ass in front of my laptop and bitch about my life.

So, learn from me, won't you? I present you with Do As I Say, Not As I Do:

1. Don't let the dirty whores at Victoria's Secret trick you into thinking that the photos in the catalog AT ALL resemble what you will actually receive. I'm no Giselle, but c'mon.

Victoria's Secret Is That She's A Dirty Liar v.1.0
And all I want for Christmas is to be shaped like a box.

Victoria's Secret Is That She's A Dirty Liar v.2.0

My hips don't lie.

Victoria's Secret Is That She's A Dirty Liar v.3.0
    The ankle socks actually add to this rather than take away, don't you think?

    2. Don't watch the news at the airport while you're sipping a glass of wine at 10:00 am to soothe your nerves because you MAY see this. And it MAY have happened just a few short miles from you. And you probably will beg the bartender to drive you to your destination.

    3. Don't travel to Silicon Valley midweek with your widescreen laptop that seemed so cool a month ago. You will feel like you're wheeling around a 1989 Macintosh that's powered by a generator. And people will look up from their MacBooks and laugh. They will.

    first laptop

    4. Don't try to act cool while on said laptop at airport bar by yelling to your mom that you'll meet her on the plane because "my editor just emailed me and I have to get this article in". Because when you sober up you're going to feel really cheesy. And you'll also realize that the people around you weren't snickering in awe.

    5. When trying to avoid your ex-boyfriend at the bagel shop, keeping your head down is okay but your eyes need to be up. Just so you don't completely wipe out on the sandwich board on your way out the door.

    6. Lastly, when you watch this footage, don't even try to resist singing along. Your inner child will thank you.

    And this one's from Savannah:

    1. When your mom is mad at your dad, don't let her brush your hair.

    I have no idea what she's talking about.


    And They Lived Forlornly Ever After

    I don't know why I ever travel.

    The same thing happens when I return: depression. I get home, drop the suitcase and flop into bed. Where I tend to mentally stay for the next week.

    I'll get up the next morning and do the grocery shopping and clean the house and cook meals for my family and zone out in front of the computer. But, my personality won't return. Not yet. Not until resignation seeps into the spaces where resistance resides. Not until I once again give into my life and stop miring in its glaring inadequacies.

    It takes a week or so for me to relax back into the fact that I'm living in a small town I hate hundreds of miles away from most of my friends and all of our family in a house that we may or may not be able to sell and without the prospect of another baby on the horizon.

    I suppose its a form of mourning. Mourning what Chris and I have lost in the wake of the choices we've made. Choosing to move to a suburb which did not support our home businesses, our dreams for our daughter, our social lives, our aspirations, our personalities. Choosing to blow copious amounts of money when we had it. Choosing to not have another child two years ago when it would have been safer for all involved.

    I realize now that most of the decisions we've made over the past few years have been made out of fear. And I'm tired of living my life through fear; through the filter of "what ifs". I want to take risks. I want to live richly. I want to learn from our mistakes and act differently.

    Most of all, I just want to find where we belong.


    You Must Click This!!

    Oh my God. Check out this footage of Paula Abdul. Girl is so wasted I swear she wets herself at one point.

    Click HERE for the carnage.

    I'm warning you: it hurts.


    Don't Happy, Be Worry

    I dared to actually be happy today. MISTAKE.

    Savannah and I were on our way to the library, windows down, singing along to Justin Timberlake. We had ten minutes to get seats for the library's 11:00 storytime - which is incidentally also known as MY ONLY PLANS FOR THE DAY. I was cruising along thinking we would just barely make it. The old biddies won't let you in the plastic tree if you're even a minute late. (What happens in storytime stays in storytime.)

    I actually had this ridiculous thought, "Today's a good day", just before the red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.

    I cursed and pulled off the street into the parking lot as the motorcycle cop pulled up behind me. He sauntered over in his aviator sunglasses and handlebar mustache and asked for my license.

    "Do you have to give me a ticket?" I asked.

    "That's my job" he replied coldly.

    "I really cannot have another ticket" I tried.

    "Mmm." He began writing out the slip.

    "Does it matter that my brother's an officer?"


    "Does it matter that my uncle's a fireman?"


    "Does it matter that you look like you're starring in a 1970's porn?"

    This ticket was a much bigger deal for me than it would be for most people. For a few reasons. Not the least of which is the letter I got just last week from the DMV that started with "Dear Lena, We know that everyone makes mistakes." I am not even kidding. Then they went on to remind me that I've received two tickets already this year and that "while you may consider yourself a safe driver we encourage you to consider safer skills". (Like steering with my hand instead of my knee?.) Then they threatened that if I was unable to control my wild ways and received one more ticket this year my license would be suspended.

    Sus. Pended.

    I found the DMV's letter so funny at the time that I considered posting about it, but now I have something even funnier! A suspended license! Awesome.

    Good thing I'm not, like, getting on a plane or anything because boy, I'd sure feel unlucky. Oh, wait. I am. Tomorrow morning. And this is coming from a woman who normally freaks out when Chris stands up while we're flying because SIT DOWN, YOU'RE SHAKING THE PLANE.

    Hold me.


    HomeStaying Queen

    I was never that girl in school.

    I was never asked to dances, picked by team captains, invited to parties. I was relentlessly teased by the cool kids when I wasn't being, mercifully, ignored.

    I remember we used to square dance during P.E. I don't know if they even do this anymore. Is there anything more demoralizing than the do-see-do? But, ten years ago this was their attempt to keep kids off drugs and out of their backseats. And it sort of worked because everyone loved square dancing. Because at least it wasn't climbing the rope with the amorphous Mrs. Holz and her trembling chin hairs.

    Well, almost everyone loved P.E. square dancing.

    The problem with the process is that the clueless teachers set it up so that all the girls would line up on the bleachers in the gym and then the boys would come choose us individually. Here's the best part: there was one more girl than there were boys. And every single torturous session the same thing would happen. THE SAME GIRL WOULD BE LEFT ON THE BLEACHERS.

    We would each slowly be picked one by one by reluctant boys (at least mine was always reluctant) and the leftover girl would remain and watch the rest of us dance for the next hour.

    The image of this lone girl sitting there, the forced smile on her face, high up in the middle of the bleachers while the rest of her entire ninth grade class danced and laughed has been indelibly imprinted on my brain.

    As hellish as school was for me, imagine how it was for her. How does the human spirit, especially that of a 15-year-old, recover from that sort of rejection day after day?

    I spent the majority of my adolescence believing I was unattractive and unloveable. This gave way to, as it often does, an adulthood where I have experienced hot dates, great friendships, and frequent promotions. True I owe this transformation in large part to my discovery of tweezers. But, it also seems to be the natural progression. People tend to peak either in high school or adulthood.

    I often visit my hometown and when I do I frequently see justice prevailing:

    The former football jock who never gave me the time of day hitting on me in line at the grocery store.

    The ring leader who relentlessly teased me about my leg hair waiting at the bus stop in a Wendy's uniform.

    The prom queen who I hear lives in her parents' basement with five kids from three daddies.

    And I come home to my full life here where I have spent the 10 years since high school working on my personality and my relationships and my career and writing and my looks. And I realize that high school gave me the best life lesson. You have to work for what you want in life.

    I never received the message that things would come easily for me or that I could skate along. I was always too well aware of my invisible status and that gave me determination.

    So, now as a parent I have mixed feelings when Savannah's teacher tells me that "Savannah is so popular!". A big part of me feels tremendous relief that maybe she will not have to endure the torture from her peers that I did. But, another part of me wonders what she'll miss out on if she doesn't.

    I often think of that girl up in the bleachers. I wonder if she's a mother now. I wonder what she hopes for her kids. I wonder what sort of person she turned out to be. And I have a feeling she's amazing.


    Prepare To Be Jealous

    Meeting fellow bloggers is not something I do well. I lead a pretty sheltered life and so whenever I hear the words "meet" "stranger" and "internet" my mind immediately adds the words "axe murderer" and "woodshed". But, occasionally I am able to overcome my fears.

    Especially when it involves incredible writers like Y and Schnozz. Who I'm pretty sure have neither the interest nor patience to kidnap me. Because then they really wouldn't be able to shut me up if I was in their basement all day.

    My plans were to meet Y for coffee Friday morning. This plan quickly unraveled upon getting on the highway for a variety of reasons. See if you can find the major flaw.

    #1 - I got caught in traffic.

    Southern California traffic is a biotch. You do not measure distance in time here (eg. - "It's only twenty minutes away"). You measure it in miles (eg. - "It's thirty miles away") and then add the time of day (eg. - "It's thirty miles and it's ten o'clock, so that means it will take me an HOUR AND A HALF"). Since I'm a little slow on the uptake I stubbornly continue to believe that a location thirty miles away should only take thirty minutes. It does not.

    I was in traffic, very late, with no contact numbers, sweating, and running out of gas. It was awesome.

    #2 - I only had her cell phone number ...and it wasn't working.

    Once I realized that I was going to be seriously late, I tried to call Y to warn her. You should have seen my way overreaction when the the number she gave me didn't work. You would think that my getaway accomplice wasn't responding to my screams to "start the car!" as I raced out of the bank.

    #3 - She only had my home phone number ...and if you're following closely you'll notice I was not at home.

    Even awesomer.

    #4 - I couldn't remember Y's last name.

    This proved to be a fatal error when I tried to call information. "Her name is Yvonne? Um, she has a blog called Joy Unexpected? How can you not know her?! Everybody knows her!"

    #5 - I had to go old school and call Starbucks.

    There's nothing funnier than hearing Y on the other end respond to the barista calling out "Is there an Yvonne here?" "......yes?". Like who does that anymore?

    When I finally arrived Y was gracious enough to hold me while I cried. Then we sucked down some caffeine (aka personality) and had lunch.

    I met Y at Blogher, but this was way cooler. Mostly because I wasn't drunk on box wine, but also because it was nice to just hang out without interruption.

    We laughed our asses off and bonded over our love of pizza and also she let me pet her. Sweet.

    Me & Y: The Glasses Do Not Convey

    If I wasn't so lazy I would stalk her.

    On the heels of that successful fondling I headed to San Diego later that night with my friend Vi to meet up with Schnozz and Sam. Never have I met two more wry, sarcastic, and damn funny people. HEART THEM.

    Being just a little insecure pretty much guarantees I'll drink too much when I meet people I admire.

    To wit:


    Highlights Of the Night:

    Schnozz: "Okay, I'll have one more drink." (She had all of two total.)

    Waitress: "Okay."

    Schnozz: "Better bring me a lampshade too."

    Waitress: "....."

    Schnozz: "To wear on my head."

    Waitress: "....."

    Schnozz: "Because I'll be drunk."

    Waitress: "....I'm new here."

    Schnozz: "Me too."

    (See? Heart!)


    Me: "I'm sorry. I don't have any cash on me."

    Bathroom Attendant: "That's okay."

    Me: "Don't worry. I'll be back. I pee alot."

    Hear that noise? That's Schnozz still laughing at what a dumbass I am.

    Me & Schnozz: Thumb War

    When you point at each other that means you're having a good time.

    Overall we had a blast. At least I think we did. I remember a lot of laughing and joking and talking.

    Me & Schnozz

    But my vodka addled brain can't be trusted to decipher whether that was solely me.


    Don't Blink

    Having plans for the weekend takes on a whole new meaning once you become parents. Instead of "Let's check out the new restaurant downtown" it's "Why don't you stay here while I go to Home Depot?".

    I remember during those first few months of having a new baby I would often lament our choice to ruin our lives. I would sit in the Saturday early morning darkness - also known as 4:00 am - with this baby in my arms and think "we have nowhere to go". I would watch the sun come up and think of all the weekend plans that rose with it in other people's lives and I would cry.

    I know this seems dramatic now. But, the thing about parenthood is that every stage feels like it's never going to end. First, it seems like they're always going to be strapped to you. And then you soon learn that them strapped to you was way better than chasing them around the house all day prying their fingers off the cat's tail. And then that's replaced with the non-stop energy and the constant demands to "hold you" "go outside" "get out" "get down" "catch me" "sing song". Which is accompanied by impromptu napping on the floor mid-sentence from exhaustion.

    Then just when you think you've got the toddler thing down they become little people who are holding up their end of arguments and asking tough questions and have strong opinions on food and movies and bedtime and homework and chores.

    I realize that these stages go by so quickly and that one day soon Savannah will no longer beg me to "watch this!" or "can I come?" and that she'll start whispering on the phone to her friends and rolling her eyes at me and closing her bedroom door when I walk by.

    And then I'll have my weekends back. And all I'll want is to be sitting in my living room at dawn with that baby on my chest again.


    The Artist Formerly Known As "Showered"

    For those of you who have commented and emailed asking "How are you going to update multiple blogs?" I present an answer in picture form.

    This is how:

    Dude. My hair. My ego's writing checks my hair can't cash.


    The Devil's In The Pringles

    I know by now that were it not for my regularly scheduled weekly grocery shopping my family would eat each other.

    If we go more than a few days without snacks in the house Chris starts forlornly loitering around the pantry absently pawing at the space on the shelf where chips normally reside.

    The produce drawers go virtually unnoticed. That is until I ask from the living room "What is that stench?". Or I make my own cider without trying. Whichever comes first.

    I was a vegetarian for most of my early 20's. I belonged to dozens of vegan organizations, wrote many a term paper on animal cruelty and wore t-shirts that said things like "Meat. It's What's Rotting In Your Colon."

    Then I got pregnant. And the child wanted blood. Chicken would not suffice. It needed to be big bloody burgers with cheese and preferably fries and a shake. Mmm...and pickles. Extra sauce.

    Anyway. Don't blame me; blame the blood-sucking baby.

    Since abandoning vegetarianism five years ago I've tried to keep a fairly healthy albeit flesh-filled kitchen. I've made it my mission to get vegetables into these people without their knowledge at least every fortnight (tip: pureed zucchini and broccoli in all homemade sauces; they'll never see it coming). I consider myself pretty knowledgable about health and nutrition and feel confident in my menu decisions.

    That said, do you have any idea how many potato chips we eat around here? Or when we want a snack, how often it's Cheerios? (How can that be wrong? They're OATS for godssake. Horses eat them.) And when we're feeling especially naughty, how often that includes McDonalds fries?

    I've managed to protect my family from donuts and Cheez Whiz and e.coli, yet apparently I'm hand-feeding them CANCER.

    Can you believe that link? There's 60 times the amount of acrylamide in a bowl of Cheerios than is allowed in your drinking water!

    So, what do you do with this information? How do you know where to draw the line? Or blur the line for your family's enjoyment?

    I'm trying to avoid going into hyper-obsess mode (Seriously. There's a switch on my bellybutton). But, after reading this article my first reaction was to immediately throw away the half full bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles in the pantry. Then I stood there looking at the Cheerios (my daughter's favorite) and Wheat Thins and thought "Am I overreacting?".

    Sure, we would like our families to eat nothing but whole foods fresh from the farmer's market but is that a reasonable expectation? And, if so, am I failing them?

    I mean I've already banned trans fats, red meat, and nitrates. And hookers and porn. What reason will Chris have to stay around anymore?

    How do I find the balance between health and fun? Between protection and deprivation? Is there such a thing as knowing too much?


    Just Speed Read To "Punk Ass Hoo Ha"

    WTH? Seriously.

    I'm not one for introductions. So, let's get this party started.

    2006, You Cheeky Monkey


    This completed my first full month of blogging. I was mildly obsessed with my sitemeter and returned every single email and was all polite like. I also bought a new laptop which died on me hours later and I actually named a post "Dude, You're Getting Ripped Off By A Dell". Then I got a sinus infection (Oh my, Lena. How absolutely gripping). And wrote about it.


    I was nominated for a Perfect Post Award for this post, which some lovely people enjoyed and graciously linked me. I suddenly had all kinds of new readers. I discussed my blog envy, had a domestic crisis, and talked breasts with my mom.

    Then I was nominated over at One Woman's World for a bloggy award, which sucked in some more unsuspecting readers. Joy! Clapping!

    I also resented little hookers and posted the FUNNIEST PICTURE EVER.

    In the end I outed myself for the old lady that I really am.


    I divulged The World's Worst Job Ever, popped my 50 comments cherry on Requirements To Be My Friend, and posted photographical evidence of us being active.

    This was also the month I took a "break" from school and started having existential issues that culminated in my crying in Savannah's teacher's arms.

    I wrote my first letter to Savannah.

    This was also the month of My Most Favorite Post Evah About My Ass. And hey, Quotes From My Exes! What could be better than that?


    I wrote The Award-Winning Cat Post, which made me famous among about twelve people for about three hours.

    I saw Dane Cook in Vegas. Love. Him.

    I divulged that I have a broken nose and I don't camp on my period.

    ALSO. Andrew Shue emailed me. And I was offered the job at Club Mom. I danced around in my underwear and Chris took me to dinner to celebrate.

    I told my very own Almost Bone Collector Experience. And an awkward lesson in Insensitive Unintentional Dumbass Racism 101.


    I Weighted and Watched.

    I got all worked up over THE Study and wrote My Favorite Post (print this out and show it to your husbands like yesterday. Then let the ass-kissing commence).

    We said goodnight to an incredible blogger. (If you haven't read her archives yet, you must get over there now.)

    I officially started writing for Club Mom. Hello paying gig! Helllooo writer's block!

    Savannah had some strange vague and freaked-me-the-hell-out ailment.

    Our financial house caved in.

    And I got My Very First Troll on this post.


    I start writing for Real Savvy Moms website.

    Told the world all about my Punk Ass Hoo-Ha.

    Bitched and moaned about the babeeeeeeeee no one will giiiive meee.

    Threatened to kick my own ass.

    Won a Perfect Post Award for this post.

    Barely lived through The World's Most Awkward Playdate.

    The Grocery Smackdown: Mommy goes toe-to-toe with the grocery clerk.

    I confess I'm Playmate of the Year.

    Confessions of a Mother Who PUSHED DOWN HER BABY.

    I find out I'm -- DUN DUN DUN DUNNNN -- allergic to sun. Yeah, the one in the sky. And get felt up by my doctor.

    I'm nominated a Finalist in this contest. Yay for me and my ability to almost be a winner!

    I find out My Entire Family has been READING MY BLOG. Hold me.


    I rush to my aunt's deathbed. My heart hurts. My writing hurts. It's all just bad.

    I almost kill my realt*r.

    Top Toddler Mom Blog interviews me.

    I SCAR MY CHILD for life.

    Who knew tummies could piss off people?

    A parenting magazine offers me a column. A. COLUMN.

    I Once Dated An Axe Murderer.

    I send out an SOS at BlogHer.


    I turn 29 and freak the hell out. Because 29 comes before 30. Did you know this??

    I let go of a ten year friendship.

    The "column" at unnamed parenting magazine quickly turns into a scary almost-rape (I'll need to write about this in detail sometime soon).

    "I'd Put My Head In the Oven, But I Can't Afford the Gas"

    Who knew I'd get so much hate mail over Jon Benet Ramsey?

    I confess a dirty secret.


    SIX Years in pictures.

    Little me is nominated as a Finalist for BTR's "Women In the Blogosphere" award. I proceed to then forget all about it and give SURPRISE DRUNK INTERVIEW. Another surprise: I didn't win!


    I tell the story of Cheeky Lotus and the three bears: Post, Partum, and Depression.

    The Starbucks Throwdown.

    We lose our new house.

    I say goodbye to my Auntie.

    I show the Internet my credit card bills.

    I feel like I'm doing SOMETHING RIGHT WITH THIS CHILD.

    I get the Internet all riled up over my trainer.

    I succumb to the urge. Luckily, it passes before I spray my delicate parts with Lysol.


    I do something UNBELIEVABLE.

    If a Muppet can sing it, I can say it.

    Embarrassment: The No Limits Edition.

    Savannah turns five. Mommy spends eleventy quintillion hours making a movie set to music.

    I get all up in Dove's face.


    I'm nominated for a Perfect Post Award for this painful post.

    I hire a friend. Wha...?

    I think my daughter has been sold to gypsies.

    I question Parenting Under the Influence.

    I Left My Good Attitude In San Francisco.


    My article is published at HMC. And it has "bra" in the title because I'm classy like that.

    I turn ONE.

    Bi-Sex?? I'm still reeling.


    Lastly, I start my old blog back up and it feels awesome.

    Here's to 2007 my friends!

    Coming Home

    When I was offered the writing job at Club Mom I was thrilled. I had only been blogging for four months and was blown away that I could actually get paid to do what I loved. They requested that I shut down my personal blog and transfer my archives over to my new blog on their site. And for some reason I agreed. I thought that if my new readers saw that I had a history of writing that they would be more confident in me as a writer. Or something. Whatever I thought, it was the wrong move.

    As much as I love being paid to write and still consider it a blessing that I get a paycheck for my babbling, the reality of not owning what I write has been a rude awakening. How could I divulge things like this and this and not own it? How could I put something like this out on the internet and not call it mine?

    It feels so good to be able to stretch my legs again, to have my own little home again. I hope you continue to read me here and at Clubmom because 2007 is going to bring some major writing-worthy material.

    Not the least of which is that somehow - in some way - I WILL have a baby this year. There will be fear. There will be tears. And I'm so grateful that I'll have this private place (ha! I called the internet "private" - good one) to document all of it along the way.

    So, welcome to my new/old little corner. Please come often. There's always plenty of bitching to go around. And Triscuits. With fancy cheeses.

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