Twice over

Don't cry over spilt' milk.

We've all heard it a hundred times. But how many times does it actually take on a literal meaning?

This morning in the posh lobby of a posh hotel, our family ventured forth for the partaking of a continental breakfast. Of course, we could have had the hot breakfast buffet two feet over for the low low cost of $9.95. Sure, the eggs and bacon looked great, but I was happy with my lemon poppy seed muffin and banana. They were, after all, free.

Once we'd arrived, we'd noticed that Adrien's sippy cup was forgotten in the room...12 floors up. No big deal. We'd just put some milk in a big boy cup. No. big. deal. Andi filled the cup, and as usual, put too much in. I'm not sure what happened, or how it even transpired; the next moment the cup of milk was spilled all over the posh flooring. Milk everywhere. I grabbed for as many cocktail napkins as possible to help wipe up the mess. Two cleaning ladies appeared out of nowhere and assisted in mopping up the disaster. So, that was over and I'd just get Adrien more milk, right?

Easy enough. This time, I'd apply one of the to-go coffee cup lids to the cup. It's be nearly like a sippy cup. Right? Seriously, five seconds later....that cup of milk was all over the floor.

As I lept for more cocktail napkins and blurted out an inconspicuous fuck! some fat jackass on a cell phone took the time out of his conversation to inform me that there was no need for me to to clean the spill, that they had people for that. I think I said something in return to the effect of I can help...or something. Maybe more rude. The cleaning lady appeared again and I couldn't help the apologies spewing forth like water from Niagara Falls. I felt horrible. I even told her I could clean it. Insisting it was okay, she retreated -- mess number two cleaned.

As I filed in to the back of the line forming at the breakfast bar, I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment and my eyes well with tears. I was so embarrassed that I'd been part of two milk spills in a row. Two. In a posh lobby. On the posh carpeting. In front of posh people. I just knew all of the sophisticated folk were wondering what the hell was going on with that trainwreck.

But what's the nerve of that guy? They have people for that. Pssh. It was my mess -- twice over. Am I supposed to be like, oh yes, my son spilled milk twice, now mop it up Cinderelly? I think I heard something in his conversation after that to the effect of "people that lack sophistication" (most likely referring to me). Even before that comment, in his command to me, I'd heard something stupid come out of his mouth to the effect of "you're going too far to the left". I can only imagine that meant I was putting myself on a lower level with my milk mopping.

But I don't want to be as sophisticated as that fat prick. Not if sophistication means letting someone else clean up after me constantly, while I standby acting as if I'm too high and mighty to even help clean up my son's mess.

As I sat eating my poppy seed muffin, I shed a few tears. I had to remind myself not to cry over spilt' milk.

My Monkey

I fell asleep last night watching the Cowboys play the Packers (Go Cowboys!). It's no surprise that I fell asleep on the couch.

With no recollection of the preceding events, I woke up sometime in the wee hours of the morning in my king sized bed wondering how in the heck I'd gotten there. I really don't remember. I mean, I assume I went back there willingly -- and not that I was complaining. My pillow top mattress outranks our hand-me-down couch any day of the week. I was just confused. So confused, in fact, that I woke up Andi and asked him how I'd gotten back there. In his sleep, he mumbled something to the effect of you walked. Thanks, smart ass.

What's even more puzzling is what I realized next. I felt something fluffy and soft in my arms. I pulled my hands from underneath my quilt only to realize that I was clutching Adrien's stuffed monkey. Oh my gosh. I'd been cuddling with my son's stuffed animal lovey thing. I feel very grown up right now. Very grown up and confused. I had been having a bad dream, so I guess that explains the cuddling -- but why the heck did I bring it to bed in the first place? And was I cuddling it on the couch too? These answers we'll never know. But it gives me something to chuckle over.

I went to the OB yesterday and got to see the baby's heart beat. That's wonderful -- it's something I never got to do last time. I got to hear it also...It was great. The doctor said everything looks good. But then again, it did last time too. So I'll just keep praying.

In addition to the teensy tiny baby, the doctor also found something else on the ultrasound. He said he saw a fibroid. He didn't explain anything about it other than that most people have them and when I asked if it would be a problem with the baby, he said no. Of course (big fat hypochondriac that I am), I rushed straight home and searched it on WebMd. Everything that I saw was either very alarming, or very mild. Some information said that most people never know they have them -- other parts of the article stated the only way to ensure a bothersome fibroid doesn't return is to have a hysterectomy. There is another procedure that could be done to remove it, but for some reason, you can only have that done if you don't plan on having any more children. So it looks like removing it equals no more children. Hm. Lovely. Obviously it's nothing too serious or my doctor would have had a talk with me about it. Instead the whole exchange consisted of "You've got a fibroid..." and then he was looking at other things like the baby's measurements, etc.

All of the information I read said that they're not cancerous...but of course (hypochondriac) I'm wondering what would happen if it really is a tumor and not a fibroid. I mean, he's never said anything about it being there before, and I had enough ultrasounds done about five and a half months ago that they should have found it if it was there before. The information also said that most fibroids are slow growing. But it looked kind of big to me. I mean, a good few inches in diameter possibly (I'm guessing here). So, if it wasn't there six months ago and it's already that size, how the heck do they figure it's "slow growing"? Hm. I'm not a doctor though, so who knows.

We're leaving later today to drive about five or six hours away for a business trip. Andi is going to be working tomorrow, and his company just so happens to be footing the bill for the hotel for us to stay in. So we'll be in a super nice hotel (five hours away) tonight and tomorrow night. Please, Lord, let Adrien be in good spirits for the car trip. Please. I'm still bummed that they don't have an indoor pool though. Oh well, at least I'll have Monkey.

Disproportionately Pregnant

We went to the mall today. It was time for the play group's monthly birthday party. Yay.

So we had play time for a while, and then I believe I was the first to head up to the food court to eat. Why? Because my 19 month old was having a melt down because he wanted to run out of the play area and into the photo booth to play with all the buttons. I generally oblige him, but today he was particularly interested in wrapping himself up in the curtain that covers the doorway. Funny at first. Then gross. My mind was swirling with all of the bodily fluids that could be lurking about. I mean, come on. It doesn't take a fiction writer to imagine what could possibly go on in one of those little boxes, let alone the filth that can (and does) accumulate on the fabric of that curtain. I'm sure it's never been washed. So, ick. Ugh. Gross. Barf. Gag. Pull the toddler out ASAP while kicking, screaming, and limp body-going occurs. I carted him back to the play area, where he commenced to a full blown tantrum (complete with real tears and red face) face down on the floor. Somehow I managed to calm him down enough to get him strapped into the stroller so we could go eat. Maybe it was the french fry bribe. Not sure. But at that moment, I'd use any bribe to distract him from his crying frenzy. Mean, mean, Mommy.

After eating some Chik-fil-a and a chocolate cupcake with a boat load of yellow icing (which covered Adrien completely), a friend and I walked around the mall for a little while. We both went in to the maternity store, where she went about trying on eight billion shirts, only to discover that they are all entirely too long. For some reason, all of the shirts seem to completely cover your butt. When the associate asked if she could help my friend, my friend shared her dilemma, only to have the associate respond with "Well, they're made to cover your belly." Well, yes, yes, they are. How observant Miss Associate. But explain to me why you need an extra foot of fabric in the back to cover something in the front. I went to school for fashion design and I still don't get the tailoring of it. But seriously, every single shirt in the place was like that. Why?

A dilemma I have with maternity clothes is pants length. I'm a fairly tall person -- but not overly so. I'm only about 5'9'' or so. I have a problem with pants length even when I'm not pregnant, but I think for some reason, designers and companies must think you shrink a few inches when you conceive. I start out wearing a size "small" pants at the beginning of pregnancy. Since most maternity stores do not offer pants in numbered sizes, I get lumped in with the smalls -- even though I could generally use a medium, they all bag and sort of fall off. Somewhere along the lines, in getting lumped in as a small, I guess someone decided that since you're small in width, you're also small in length. So I get stuck with pants that fit my booty like no tomorrow -- but I'm floodin' up a storm down below. I'm not talking a little short. I'm talking a good five inches or so in some cases. It just really bothers me. I mean, just because I'm relatively thin, doesn't mean I'm short. And who decided that all thin people are short and that all tall people are heavier? It just makes zero sense.

So I guess all pregnant women are stuck with pants that are too short and shirts that are too long. I mean, we're pregnant -- not deformed.

A Lead covered Christmas

It's been more than a little while since I last posted. But last week was hectic. Thanksgiving and all.

The holiday was good for us. We went to Andi's parent's house and spent it with their family. His mom didn't make any gravy, so I didn't eat any turkey or dressing (have to have gravy!), but everything else was great. There were more desserts than I could shake a stick at, and I'm happy to report that my two pies were the prettiest there. Everyone loved them...and everyone loved the duck I brought. Yes, a duck. We do one every year -- they're more moist than turkey and they're smaller. I feel kinda bad cooking one, because I like ducks so much, but it tastes pretty dern good. Especially with the orange glaze I use.

I haven't really been up to much other than cooking. It seems like last week was one big blur of making pie crusts and baking. Now that that's all over, I guess the Christmas bug has bitten a little. I didn't go out on Black Friday (I mean, why?) -- but I never do. We did get a little shopping done last night. It's so great that Adrien's still young enough to be drug along for shopping excursions. We got him a few things from the Disney Store -- all Cars related, of course. Today I went to Target. I needed diapers and wipes, and I thought Target would be as good a place as any because hey - I can get a drink and a snack while shopping. Plus they have a great toy section, and I thought I could do some browsing while there. So I did. I ended up doing some buying too.

As I perused the aisles of the toy department, I noticed little fliers hanging everywhere that read things like "Such and Such Toy Recalled for Lead Hazard; Effective June 2007" and whatnot. It wasn't just one. There were many. Plastered all over the section where I was looking at goodies for Adrien. Before I'd noticed the first one, I was looking at some sort of Playskool toy train with animals and was thinking something like "That would be a great present..." when I happened to glance down and see one of the fliers. I mean, it wasn't saying the train had been recalled -- but it may as well have. I thought better of the train -- and every other plastic toy in the place -- after seeing it. They were everywhere. And what's more disturbing is that they're plastered all over the toddler toy section.

To make myself feel better, I ended up getting a few of these guys for Adrien while there. He absolutely adores these little toys. I know they say that they're for ages 3 and up, but who cares. I don't really see them choking on one. He seemed to have tons of fun making them walk around on the shopping cart. All of these little animals are made in Germany -- and so I (most likely naively) feel safer with them vs. a Made In China toy. I'm just utterly scared of toys. Grossed out, even.

But I don't want to not get him toys for Christmas. Christmas isn't Christmas without toys! I mean, we shouldn't have to worry about this kind of thing. And the fact that our government can't even do anything about it? Well that just scares the bejeebers out of me. It confuses me a little too. What's our nation coming to when the government can listen in to our private conversations and blame it on National Security, but still doesn't have the power to recall or strictly monitor lead levels in children's toys. I have to wonder what the bigger security problem is here? Our children being poisoned -- or your neighbor Mr. Wilson being viewed as a potential domestic terrorist because he has a knack for the NRA.

So, I guess for now, I'm sticking with my German-made toys. But is that enough? If the recalls are all voluntary by the toy makers, then what's to say there isn't lead in every single paint or plastic coated thing on the market? In my mind, these little fliers have stained this holiday season with a nice coating of lead...and it's hanging awfully heavy on my shoulders. Should I trust and buy that front loading dump truck anyway? Or should I follow my over protective urge and spring for that $78 hand carved non-toxic wooden dump truck on Etsy?

Bah humbug...

My binky.

We had decided it was time for Adrien to give up the binky. I don't mind him having it. I mind the looks people give Adrien. I mind the people who are playing with him and take it out of his mouth and say "You don't need that" to him. I mind all of that. He doesn't need it all of the time. Bedtimes are just easier with it in, and sometimes, he likes to take it while watching telly or playing...but generally that's just when he's crabby. Like now. He's got three canines cutting at once. Crabby. Who wouldn't be?

But nevertheless, Andi and I had about decided it was time. Last week sometime, there were about two days in a row where Adrien didn't even want it when asked if he wanted it. Needless to say, naptimes and bedtimes were rough. He generally goes to sleep relatively peacefully. He falls asleep in the middle of playing, for the most part, or settles in to watch some telly and conks out. But not without the binky. Without the binky, he'd lay down and fall asleep in a furious fit, thrashing about and whining the entire time. I wanted the binky back. He did not, apparently.

I gave him a few days. He wanted it again.

Yesterday, Adrien was hitting and pinching me. I suppose Andi was trying to teach him not to do those things, and seeing as it was around naptime and Adrien had his binky, Andi took it away as a punishment. Adrien didn't understand why Andi was taking his binky. I mean, his attention span is so short. He understands when you scold him and say "we don't hit" (not that it means he won't do it again, he just understands that what he was doing at that moment was wrong). Adrien does not, however, put two and two together when a binky is taken away for doing wrong. He doesn't get it.

So Andi took the binky and Adrien started to cry...hysterically. I had words with Andi over it and he insisted that Adrien doesn't need it any more -- that he's a big boy. He refuted the fact that he'd taken it as punishment. He did take it away as punishment. Andi looked at me like I was crazy when I tried to explain that Adrien didn't understand that the binky was taken as punishment. I mean, what does a binky have to do with hitting or pinching? Nothing. Especially not to a 18 month old. And anyway, who decides to suddenly make Adrien a "big boy" when he was already upset for being scolded about hitting and pinching?

I know at this point I'm getting hard to follow. But try to picture the scene.

Adrien hits and pinches me repeatedly...thinking it's great fun. Andi has enough, as Adrien is not listening to me when I ask him to stop. Andi says something in a rather firm tone to Adrien to the effect of We don't hit and pinch. Adrien gets upset from the firmness (to be expected). Andi then takes his binky mid-cry because in Andi's eyes, Adrien is just crying because he wants to hit.

We all know this is how our husband's mind works.

Andi puts the binky away, out of Adrien's reach. He's crying hysterically, pointing. His feelings were very hurt by it. I had my words with Andi, and as I'm on Adrien's side with this, I get the binky back, give it to Adrien, and cuddle him.

At this point I was near tears and very angry at Andi. Why was I angry at Andi? I told him. I told him it was stupid to take the binky away as punishment...and that he didn't understand why it was taken, blah blah blah. And in the midst, I really did start crying. I was crying because I want Adrien to have it. It's the last little thing that ties him to babyhood. He's growing up so fast. He walked early. He's so independent. I just want the one thing that still makes him a baby. I want him to have his freaking binky...and I don't give a damn what other people think. It's cute for kids to suck their thumbs (not to me), but it's not okay for binkies? I mean, he won't be four and still have it. I will take it eventually. But he still needs it now. I guess I need it now. And it ticks me off when people take it from him. I feel like they're taking something from me: my baby.

So, I have to ask myself, is it his binky -- or mine?

Exclusivity kills.

I know, I haven't posted for the past two days. I'm a bad NaBloPoMo'er. Like so many things, it sounded like a good idea at the time, but turned out not to be so grand after all. Since starting this month, I feel like my writing is slipping. It's forced, not flowing. Instead of blogging when I have a point to make, I'd blog because I had to...and fish for things. Forced.

So anyway, good luck to all of you who are going to finish up the month with a post every day (or more for some people). But I'm choosing quality over quantity.

So I just got on to rant a little bit. About my play group. There's nothing wrong with anyone in particular (although I'm sure I could find something with someone), just the whole thing as a whole. When the group first started it was relatively small and everyone knew each other. Everyone got along for the most part. It was kind of like a little play group family. There was no drama, and we had play dates that everyone attended on a regular basis. We had play dates at most of the same places and rotated through our favorites. Tuesday was for the mall, we had pot lucks once a month, etc. Now our group has grown to be enormous. There are 59 members. Most of whom I've probably never said more than a few words to, let alone know their children's names. I guarantee that I've only actually seen about two-thirds of them in person. What happened to our group being so familiar? Now it's just big, corporate and sterile.

It's become something of a exclusive club, too. And whether some of the members would like to believe it or not, a little cliquish. Of course it's cliquish. It's going to be cliquish. There's no way you can have that many different women together and not have cliques. That would impossible. I just think -- as an organizer -- there should be more done to squash down the festering of the cliques. Don't get me wrong, I do not like everyone, nor do I want to be friends with every single mommy in the group.

The way our group is set up now -- as far as play date scheduling goes -- is that it is broken up into minuscule play dates that cater to every single members need. You've got Sue's Crafty day here, and oh since not everyone came come to that (only five people are allowed to attend), let's schedule a bounce house play date at the same time, and then on top of it let's throw in a baby play date for those with children younger than 18 months. All on the same day. All at the same time.

You get half of the members RSVP'ing yes half of the time. So then there's 25 people split between three different play dates. On. One. Day. Of course, only five can attend's Sue's Crafty play date, so her best friends are the ones who make sure and RSVP first. [Clique #1] That leaves little room for others who may want to get to know Sue, or just to do a craft. It also leaves little room for those with children under the age of 2 who would not be able to craft at all because of the age of their wee one. Okay, well then it would make sense to attend one of the other play dates, right? So you look hopefully toward Plan B...which is the bounce houses. Well that one is discounted automatically: 1) if your child is not old enough to bounce, 2) if your child is old enough, but still not hearty or feisty enough to withstand being bounced on by 20 four year olds, or 3) you're already over budget from the 8 other play dates attended this past month and you really don't want to spring the $6 to allow your kid to bounce around and get a black eye. Okay, so then Plan C would be logical, right? Well, sure...except for the fact that the baby play date is for just that -- babies. If your kid is under 18 months old, or just plain more advanced than the others attending, you're flat out screwed for the day. Plan's A, B, and C were derailed because your kid doesn't fit into any of the age groups...or your RSVP finger is too slow for the 5 person limit.

You've got yourself one boring Thursday. Brace for lots of cartoons and "please don't climb that!" screaming.

Multiply the scenario written above by at least two times per week and you've got yourself a sneak peek into the play group I help organize.

The exclusivity started out harmless enough. Everyone knows that play groups are geared toward older children and toddlers...generally age 2 and above. You get people who join with babies, and feel like they can't participate fully because their kid just lays there, drools, and poops. So, what do you do? As a good group organizer you plan a few play dates per month (which started as just one per month) just for babies. These are generally at someone's home and the space is limited to 6-8 mommies. It really was great while it lasted, but for about 6 months or so, Adrien was the only walker attending these events. He'd run circles around (and over sometimes) the other babies there. Finally, when he turned 18 months, we called these little play dates quits.

I thought it wouldn't be so bad, really. I'd known for a while that Adrien was quite bored at those little get togethers. I'd let it go on so long because I enjoyed getting to see my friends at those events. But alas it was time to say good bye. But since we've stopped going to those play dates, there's been little we can participate in and fully enjoy. We aren't old enough to participate in the home preschool our group does. We can't go to the bounce houses. The mall is getting tiring because Adrien now runs out of the exit to the play area constantly and we spend the whole time with me chasing him around the mall instead of watching him play. When we do have pot lucks, I'm able to attend -- but only assuming I've RSVP'd in time to make the number attending cut off (which lately doesn't happen).

I have nothing. I have not been to one single play date this week. Not one. I was planning to go to one this past Tuesday, but Andi took that morning off and since it was his birthday, I stayed home. It was a clothing swap anyway, and the only other ones attending all have girls, boys that are younger than Adrien, or they themselves wear clothing not compatible with the size I wear. There was no point in going anyway. I had nothing to swap and no one to trade with. There was a play date today, but it was a Tea Party for girls only. Sure they said they'd let boys in (who can really discriminate), but it really is for girls. On top of it, there was a 10 person maximum that was filled long ago. Originally there was also supposed to be a baby play date today. At a person's home who happens to be a good friend of mine. But could I attend? No. We're too old. It was rescheduled anyway.

The solution was to fill the age void with toddler play dates -- like the baby play dates. We put one on the calendar and thus far, I'm the only one to RSVP "yes" other than the hostess (who will, of course, be there). On top of it, the hostess of that play date is the girl who stole all of my cheese. Maybe I'll just go to steal hers. I knew that would happen though. I'd thought of the toddler play dates long ago, but figured there wouldn't be any response. And there wasn't. There are no kids left in the group that are Adrien's age...so we have nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

It's sad, really. I feel very left out. No one else understands, really. The other organizers all have their little niche to fit into. I guess They'll understand soon enough when their kids grow into another age group. But by then the other kids in that bracket will have grown too. I guess Adrien and are just left to ourselves. There are no other 18 month olds, or compatible levels, for us to socialize with.

What sucks even more ass is that all of my friends that I used to see are all too busy with play dates in their own kid's age groups. These are all things I can not attend because of stupid limitations and restrictions. I mean, whatever happened to the days where we all did the same thing all the time. There was one play date scheduled on a particular day and if you couldn't go, you just couldn't go. There was a time when we didn't split it up by age...or by how many people would fit at someone's home.

It's just exclusive now. And I'm excluded.

No time for nappin'

It's 11:30 and I just put Adrien down for a nap. You know, some days he just wakes up needing one. He'll be so cranky sometimes, that I just want to close my eyes and hide until he falls over in the sleeping position. Today is one of those days. Yesterday was too.

I'm so stinking sleepy today. So. Tired. Can't. Go. On.

Alas, I have to.

Today is Andi's birthday and I've got to bake him a three layer red velvet cake (Paula Deen, y'all), and prepare dinner: a menu of roasted pork tenderloin, garlic sauteed asparagus and salt-crusted baked potatoes. Yum. I can not wait to eat. I seriously love food. Love it. Know what else I love? Food Network on my 42" TV. Love it. Paula Deen is life size and Bobby Flay's quesadillas are bigger than Adrien. Holy foodie nirvana, Batman...I think I'm in love.

So anyway, I really just wanna go plop down on the couch and finish watching Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations (Indonesia), but I can't. I've gotta pick myself up off of this stinkin' computer and go bake a cake. The cake better be good, too. I think I might cry if it sucks. Baking is not necessarily my forte -- it's not say I suck at it, I don't. I just don't do as much of it as I do actual cooking. Oh well, at least I know there'll be a good dinner at the end of the rainbow. Mmmmmm, asparagus.

I think I'm about to drool.

Birthday cakes and Boutique Clothing

First of all, I'd like to thank the lot of you who sent congrats and positive encouragement my way. I'm very excited! I'm not even late for my period yet though, and somewhere in my mind I keep thinking the test was botched somehow. Or, there weren't really two lines there, we were all imagining it. Part of the reason I posted the picture was for reassurance that it was, in fact, present. Not just a little wishful thinking.

Already I'm trying to calm myself and look for the sensible outlook on the whole thing: Don't be too excited yet...no reason for celebration until you're a good 15 weeks. But that's no good. I've heard of lost babies and shattered dreams at all points in pregnancy, and damn it, if I've got joy, I'm going to feel it. I don't want to repress all of the happy things I feel. That would do not good. No, alas, I am excited and I am going to act that way. I refuse to let past events nullify feelings I would otherwise be obliged to indulge. So for now my mind is spinning with possibilities -- already dreaming of the name, gender, and all the comfortable maternity pants. But wait, I haven't taken any other test yet. So, for now, I'm still waiting to feel superbly excited. I'd be lying, though, if I said I wasn't just a tad bit overwhelmed with joy.

My email inbox is currently holding two e-vite invitations to some sort of children's boutique party/trunk show thing. I got the first invite. I really did. I just chose not to respond. Trite little jumpers and smocking with quaint embroideries is just not now I choose to spend my Saturday. Nor is it the way in which I want to dress my children. I mean, goodness...what century is it now? And how would one of those balloon-bottomed onesie type coverall outfits fit in with Adrien's little checked Vans? Not at all. So, I did get the first email. I forgot about it, really. It was of no interest. Then, today, I got a reminder from the hostess. She says E-vite is telling her I never got the invitation. Oh how unlucky of me. So she sent me a text version instead. I still don't want to go. Not too much luck having a turn out. Hope you can attend, her email reads. Damn that. She just had to do that. So I guess I will go nosh with her for a bit at her little trunk show. I can never say no, and she pulled the guilt trip card and all of that jazz. Plus, she ordered $80 worth of Pampered Chef in order to give me hostess credit. Hmph. I refuse to buy anything smocked though. Refuse.

Yesterday we had some friends come over in an early celebration of Andi's birthday. I made buffalo wings, jalapeno poppers (that will burn your mouth off), and some stuffed mushrooms. The food was so incredible. I ate all day long. Of course, I also cooked all day long. But it was so worth it! I really enjoy cooking for others. We all watched yesterday's Nascar race on Andi's brand new 42" flat panel, wide screened, high definition TV. Yes, that's right: he text messaged me Friday and announced that We should buy a TV. So we did. He insists that covers his birthday for five years. Ya right. Tomorrow is the actual day itself and I'm planning to make him a yummy dinner and bake him a great cake.

Yummmm....cake. I hope it turns out as good as his mom's.

One light one dark. Still there.

There are two lines.

Sweetness

Bleary-eyed and bed-headed, he wakes from his nap. Refusing to stand, he holds his arms out, and with one noise, insists I pick him up and pull him from his crib. Clinging to me like a baby orangutan to it's mommy, he insists we bring his Larry and Bob pillow. As I swipe the pillow, he holds his head away from my body in anticipation of a daily occurrence; I position the pillow between his head and my chest. He plops his head back down on the pillow, a faint sucking noise emerging from the sweetest two lips that ever graced a child's face. Binky slipping in and out furiously, his blinking is slow and unsteady...sleep is still looming heavily over his head.

We make our way out of his bedroom and down the hallway. Before the sharp left turn we must make to veer into the living room, we come upon the baby gate where, precariously on the floor, there stands a stack of five books. Just before we make our turn, something beckons him to lift his head. He glances in the direction of the books.

Bleary eyes are now as clear as the blue waters of the Gulf; as bright as the beams of light streaming from the now mid day sun. The suckling stops, lips form a smile before jumping into the shape of an O; his whole face lighting up like some sort of animated jack-o-lantern. The binky drops to the floor. He looks at the books; he looks at me. Finger pointing excitedly, he insists that he wants down.

Books, Momma!

I lower him down, and he sits surrounded by his five books...so joyous over these little compilations of simple wordings and pictures.

His favorite is the animal book. He opens it and stares at it for what seems like hours. He points to every animal, insisting I name them all...making noises along the way for the lion or the cat.

Tactuh!, he exclaims as we move on to the Bob the Builder book.

Every page is a surprise, and I just can't get enough of these times.

National Throw a French Fry Day

Today is good so far. A bit hurried...but good. Adrien and I woke up at around 8:20, which left little time to get to our 9:00 walking play date. Dang it. No time to stop at Starbucks or McDonald's or Sonic or anywhere for coffee along the way. Oh well. We made it, and we weren't even the last people to arrive. We walked the trail with the mommies and then played on the play ground for a while and then we all went to Olive Garden for the soup and salad lunch where we had to wait outside for 15 minutes with our screaming babies and toddlers for them to open at 11am. It was fun though. I feel bad for the new mommy in our group though. She sat right next to Adrien, and he kept throwing french fries, salad, pieces of chicken strip, and whatever else her way. I think she must have had at least 10 french fries under her chair. Then I learned she's only been in this country for like 3 weeks. She just moved here from Mexico City. Wow, what a welcome: My son throwing food at her. Sorry! She was really nice about it though. I just apologized over and over again. (Not as bad as about two weeks ago when he chunked his whole cup of water at a lady in McDonald's...it fell to the floor and busted open, throwing water EVERYWHERE!)

There's a get together at a friend's house tonight. I guess I won't be attending. I forgot to tell Andi about it (oops) and I don't want to leave Adrien with him another night just so I can go have a few hours to myself. I'm sick of time to myself, HAHA! Never thought you'd hear me say it? I'm sure you're getting ready to throw your french fry at me at this very moment...or sitting there reading this with a puzzled looked on your face. But it's true. He was with Andi's parents Saturday night through Monday afternoon. The week before last, Andi watched him three nights in a row while I did stuff for the mommy group or went to a mom's night out. Last week he watched him for a few hours while I met the other playgroup organizers at Starbucks for a late night chat about group affairs. So I'm just personal-timed out.

Tuesday is Andi's birthday. He insists he doesn't want to celebrate this year. I know that's a crock. I feel like I should have some big huge thing planned for him. Some superb surprise. But I don't. I feel like I should have something planned. period. But I don't. I feel like the worst wife ever, because if it was my birthday and he had nothing planned, I'd be a bit peeved. I do plan to bake him a cake from scratch and cook him whatever meal he wants. Suffice it to say that if the role were reversed right now, I'd be throwing a gigantic temper tantrum. I like birthdays. Specifically, I don't like to feel like mine is being forgotten or over looked. I guess that comes from growing up as an only child -- everything was about me. I'm high maintenance sometimes, but I know he likes it.

I don't really know what else to blog about. This was a let down of a read, I'm sure. But now I'm off to drink the rest of my green tea, watch some telly, and possibly doze off for a little bit before Adrien wakes up.

I live my life nap time to nap time. Bah.

Running amuck

Something that's really been on my mind lately is time. I've realized just how little I have of the stuff lately. I've never been one of those busy moms. I just don't like busy.

I recently joined that gym, and darn it if I don't think I need to go every week day -- or at least 3-4 times per week -- to get my money's worth. I'm so grateful to my husband for allowing me the thirty extra bucks a month (not that he'd really say no, but) that I feel I better be putting that money to good use. I mean, thirty bucks could go a long way in the produce aisle. So that takes an hour per day...at least...not counting drive time to and from. [I'm also assuming I'm going every day, and this week I haven't been once.]

Play dates. There are at least three per week, of which I used to make at least two...generally more. I had nothing else to do. I was desperate. And honestly, at first, play dates were a way to keep my mom off of being a stay at home mom...a notion I needed to get comfortable with. I didn't mind the mom part as much as the stay at home. Either way, it was a transition period for me. One that apparently took a while for me to realize that it was, actually, alright to do just that: stay at home. I'm an assistant organizer though, I can't quit going completely: regardless of just how comfortable I am to hermit-ize myself.

Plus there are always get togethers with friends outside of the play group a few times per month.

And now, damn it, I knit. I have to find some time each day for that little hobby...thus far I haven't been so successful at that. Although I'd like to find an hour every day to do this, I just can't. First of all, knitting has to be done in Adrien's sleeping hours, and on nap time I'm either blogging myself silly or doing some sort of cleaning.

Ah yes, blogging. This takes at least thirty minutes a day now. Often times it takes much more. I mean, I don't think of blogging as a chore at all. But I have to do it. Have. To. You all know, you're all addicted too.

I have my Wednesday night church obligations. This is really more of a family activity, but I'm still counting it. It does take time. Two hours per week. I'm the assistant director for WNC activities though...so ya know -- obligated. I'm also teaching Sunday School for my Sunday School class for a few months. I signed up. I take responsibility. But there's another hour per week preparing a lesson.

I have a list of chores a miles long I would like to do. Once again, only during Adrien's napping hours. I haven't figured out how to clean while he's awake. It's near impossible at this point...he's eighteen months old. Into everything.

Painting is something I'd like to find some time for. I really do enjoy it. Oh and I have an antique dress form I'd like to recover...all of which need to be done during nap times.

And I could go on...and on...and on...and on. On.

Really.

Don't get me wrong, I like my mommy group. I liked it more a while back, but that's another topic all together. I really do like going to the gym -- for my sake. I sincerely enjoy getting together with friends more than play dates any time. I love all the creative things I'd like to get back into, and Christmas is approaching very fast. Too bad I've only gotten a few more rows done on my green scarf. How in the world will I ever be able to knit multiple scarves for people in 47 days or whatever. How? I love my church activities. Those are non-negotiable.

So how in the world do I fit in all in. You can't have it all, can you? I know, prioritize -- time management. But really, how can I?

How can I? I'm overwhelmed...and honestly, I'm running out of time for just one on one time with my son. It makes me very sad.

My tongue was bleeding. I had to.

There are times in which you should bite your tongue. You should hold back whatever words are fighting to leave your lips, and have a little self control.

For instance, when an ungrateful bitch was going on and on about how she hadn't gained any weight thus far in her 17 weeks of pregnancy, I held my tongue. When she acted like she didn't know why and went as far as to blame it on stomach flu, I bit my tongue. She has no idea that I know full well she's on a diet: she told this to my friend other day, referring to her yet to be born spawn as a horrid child that would not force her to lose her figure. But I was strong, and played along...even when she said something about having a beer the other day.

I asserted the utmost self control when I overheard someone referring to non church-goers as living in sin. I held strong then.

I even managed to bite my tongue when I overheard a woman say of her two year old brat that she could go all day eating two crackers. I held back the words well if you'd offer her more than Goldfish and Vanilla Wafers.....I fought the urge.

I even showed a great deal of restraint when a little boy twice Adrien's age tumped over the Cozy Coupe he was playing in all because he wanted to drive it. I refrained from scolding the child too hard, even though my child had fell face first into the ground, cozy coupe on top of him, complete with with mouth full of grass. I simply dusted Adrien off, comforted him, and insisted that this hellish child apologize to Adrien -- which he did.

But I could not hold my tongue any longer when the same little boy who dumped Adrien out of the Cozy Coupe ran up to Adrien and threw him off of the trike he was riding and then promptly jumped on it himself. When I asked the hellish turd to let Adrien finish his turn, he told me flat out No! and rode away.

You're such a little brat! I yelled under my breath.

A friend of hell-boy's mother was near (who, by the way, saw the whole situation unfolding and said nothing to hell-boy) and I'm sure heard me say it.

Oh my God, I'm sure she'll report to her friend...Do you know what she called your child?

A Brat! GASP!

Oh, the calamity of it all.

Shit.

Why I feel the need to often state the obvious, I'll never know. I do know that hell-boy didn't hear, but I am glad to note repercussions felt by his mother finding out. Some things need to be heard.

Silver bells....silver bells....soon it will be Christmas Eve....

Nothing like the Christmas Section at Wal-Mart to get you in the spirit.

We had to make a quick run to the evil store for a few things (like a curtain rod to keep out the evil morning light in the bedroom), and the first place we went was the seasonal section. Christmas hadn't really been on my mind lately until the lady who does our children's sermon at church brought it up in the little story she told on Sunday. When she said there was a short 7 or 8 weeks left until the big day, Andi and I (the whole congregation, really) looked at each other with jaws gaping and visions of last minute shopping running through our heads. I know, I know, having shopping come to mind first thing when Christmas is mentioned isn't the greatest, especially while sitting in service, but it's the truth. What are we going to get for Adrien, we asked each other.

Anyway, I'm really excited about the whole thing now. Adrien's slightly older than he was last year, and oh man am I not looking forward to keeping him out of the tree. On top of it, I won't have the added stress of having a four year old foster child living with me (who happens to be my half brother) this year. Man, talk about tight budget: shopping for two kids -- one picky four year old and your own child who is having their first Christmas -- on less than $200. We did it, though, and man were they happy. Adrien got a huge stuffed Mickey Mouse from Santa. He loves that thing still. Just today he made the enormous Mouse give me a high five.

Andi's insisting we not buy anything with Season's Greetings on it. I agree. But I'll steer away from semantics.

So, here I am, anticipating the holiday, waiting anxiously to decorate...and still waiting for that cold weather to kick in. Nothing says Christmas like 80 degree weather and tank tops.

Only in Texas.

One other thing that's been on my mind is the recent time change. It's not so much the numerical time, as it is the day light that goes along with it. Never in my life do I remember the sunrise and sunset patterns to be so out of whack. For some reason, the sun seems to be rising before 6:30am and setting at a modest 6pm. I hate that I am awakened in the morning by the horribly rays of sunlight way before it should be bright out. (Hence the curtain rod we bought at Wal-Mart) And the fact that it's dark at 6:00 is preposterous. I mean, really. The whole thing has made me so incredibly sleepy all the time. On the up side, Adrien's started going to sleep much earlier...which is a huge bonus. But really, I could do without the wee hour sunrise.

Anyone else having that problem?

Hopefully I'll have something more exciting to blog about tomorrow. There's a get together with the mommy group...should be tons of fodder there. This blogging every day is really tiring.

I'm so sweet! (Nah...)

Thanks to Mimi, who awarded me this sweet treat blogger award.

She's really way sweeter than I could ever be, but her blog is so great! And she leaves the best comments ever!

I'd like to pass this award on to Candace because she's still NaBloPoMo'in it up even though she's traveling -- with two children. And also, just because I couldn't get through the day without her wonderful posts and support.

Also, I'd like to hand this little sweet treat over to Missy because 1) Her blog makes me laugh endlessly, 2) She is the best dern Paintbrush artist I know, and 3) Because she stumbled over my blog a long time ago and she's stuck with me as a reader. Let's hear it for loyal readers! Thanks so much, Missy!

Anyway, I'm so happy I got this award. It made my day. We picked up Adrien from Andi's parent's house earlier and he was hoarse and wheezy. Not sure if he's hoarse from crying and screaming a ton or from being sick. He'd been a bit congested, not much, but all the same had just started with a dry cough Friday or so. Lo and behold, we pick him up and it's an icky congested cough. We both have the same thing right now, all allergy induced. I really wanna take Adrien to the doctor and demand they do something. He would rarely be sick if it weren't for his stinking allergies that always turn into a more severe problem! I HATE it. So now the poor guy's all wheezy and whatnot. Let's just hope it clears up :/

But thanks for the award, Mimi! It was a pick up I needed. Our ice skating was thwarted today, as they were setting up the huge Christmas tree in the middle of the rink. That bummed me out. I only stayed a short while in the American Girl Boutique because I felt so incredibly dumb and embarrassed that I was just as excited as the 8 year olds shopping beside me. I could spend hours there, so let's just hope that I eventually have a girl. Then I can camouflage my doll-wielding desires. I did get to go see an exhibit of the 40 best covers and photographs from Vogue magazine though. It was great...some of them were from the early 1900s. Exquisite.

I hope this counts

Just got back from the Angelika. We went and saw The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Very good movie. Superb.

I hope this does not "not" count for my post today. I started to post earlier...but hesitated. I didn't realize the movie would start so late or be so long.

All in all it was a great anniversary. Went through the whole day feeling as though I was missing something. (Pooter)

Went and had the best barbecue for lunch. Shady Oak. Walked around a mall with an ice rink. Decided we'd be better off at an ice rink at another mall tomorrow (today, technically), when it would be a Monday and the hoards would be at work or school mostly.

Very excited. The mall where we're going ice skating at tomorrow just opened the fourth American Girl Boutique. [I have Kirsten] Very Very Excited. Feeling like a little girl again...a tired little girl...that's still missing something.

We'll get Adrien back tomorrow (today), though. I swear I used to be relish my alone time, and now I can never count the hours down soon enough until I am no longer a liberated adult.

Five dollars for what seemed like a gallon of Dr. Pepper at the theater. I'm strange, I think I went to the same stall in the bathroom each of the million times I had to pee. Andi got Twizzlers that he didn't even eat.

We ate dinner at our favorite little fall back Thai restaurant (once taken for granted) -- Royal Thai. Tom Yum Gai soup with sticky rice...something with beef and peppers for Andi.

There was some sort of screening and Q&A session in the theater with an actor from The Kite Runner before our movie started. It seemed like a clown car -- all the people that kept filing out from that place haphazardly. We showed up to our film a good hour early (maybe more). We just watched all the artsy types and strange ones that came out of the woodwork.

We both felt out of place in that urban, hipster setting. Some place I used to feel at home in.

Now I just feel older, out of touch, and not so "cool".

Why can't I twitch my nose?

Woohoo, I've just noticed I've rounded the 90 post mark. This is #91.

Well I'm just on to post something quick. My one post for today.

I have people coming over again today. In a little more than three hours, a Pampered Chef consultant will be showing up at my door to cook at my house for other people. Don't get me wrong, I signed up for this little shindig. I'm just worried about all the crust underneath my stove burners. I mean, seriously...it's gross.

So I've got three hours to clean my house top to bottom, make it smell nice, defrost some chicken (for her Caribbean Jerk Nachos), and have some time to make it look like I was relaxing all day. Why relaxed all day? Because in the world of the the happy housewife, a perfect house should come naturally -- dontcha know.

Andi currently has Adrien with him for a cross town trek to his friend's house to do manly things. Things like going to the auto parts store and changing his oil. It's a good thing too, because I'd never get anything done if he were here. If there is a vacuum in the same vicinity as Adrien (I'm talking a good 5 miles radius), he will run over and insist that he do it. He's obsessed with cleaning...the tools of the trade specifically. That's also a good thing, as I am not. So I guess it's good that he's off to do manly things, or he'd be at home with me doing purportedly girly things. He'll make a nice housewife someday. Just the other day he dug out a new sponge and was pretending to scrub the sides of the kitchen island. And if he sees the Swiffer? Well, it's over then.

After my party, my mother in law will take the Pooter Dumplin' to her house where he'll stay tonight and Sunday night. Sunday is me and Andi's anniversary. Yes, two whole years going strong, HA HA! Two years.

Well anyway, it's now less than three hours left until the consultant gets here. Better get my mojo going. I got my coffee in one hand, broom in the other. Why can't I just be like Samantha from BeWitched? Go ahead, click on the link.

Picking apart a Guru

Yes, NaBloPoMo, I am yielding. Nothing too exciting from today to post about...but I'll dig way down deep -- a few days ago deep -- for this one. [Oh, and in case you're wondering, I finally made my soup today. SUPER!]

On Wednesday, a friend and I ventured over to Wholesome Living Guru's house for a little mini-play date. I always like going to this woman's house because I know she's always chomping at the bit to throw in her wholesome advice on living, cooking, and doctoring.

Normal Friend mentioned to Wholesome Living Guru lady something about breakfast, and anyway, the subject was turned onto kids' cereal bars: which brand is best. Obviously Normal Friend and I are amateurs at feeding our children properly, so we need the fill-in advice of Wholesome Living Guru (or so she thinks). Normal Friend mentioned something about how she tried the Gerber ones, but then realized that they had zero nutrition. This sent Wholesome Living Guru into a frenzy of explaining the hazards of dyes, food colorings, and yes, the dreaded corn syrup. A five minute lecture on this matter. Five minutes. Normal Friend and I sat there nodding our heads, not able to get a word in edgewise. Later on she offered us some free Gerber Graduates Meals (gag). Now those are some wholesome meals.

I remember another occasion at Wholesome Living Guru's House with Normal Friend. There we sat discussing fevers and medications, etc, when Wholesome Living Guru got into a sort of argument with Normal Friend [who comes complete with medical degree] about how fevers have a purpose...and how she doesn't give medicine unless her child's fever is over 102. Normal Friend has a medical degree. Yet, when Normal Friend explained the pros of fever reducing medications, Wholesome Living Guru stood strong. I mean obviously, her three years of parenthood outweigh a medical degree. What was Normal Friend thinking. I mean, I didn't even try to argue with Wholesome Living Guru on this one. It's a moot point. If she argues with a medical degree backed person, what would she think of my fashion design wielding self?

So then, in irony of all ironies, as I walked into Wholesome Living Guru's kitchen to pour myself another cup of (organic) coffee, I noticed something. Something insignificant. Something so small and ridiculous...nevertheless it made my heart glow. Upon inspection, her dishwasher was set on High Heat Dry, High Heat Wash and Energy Saver was switched off.

Yes, yes, I know. Immature, maybe; nit picky -- sure! But this little switch that wasn't flipped made my heart sing.

I had her beat on one wholesome front: My energy saver is on, buddy! On like Donkey Kong.

Take that!

Observations

I've had this big fat recipe staring me down for a while now. I'm finally going to be making it. Since the weather's finally cooled off a little bit, I've been in a huge soup mood. Andi, however, does not like soup. But what the hell, I'm making a big pot and I can eat it for lunch. My house smells divine...I'm making the vegetable stock for it as we speak. I can't wait! It's vegan to boot.

So I got up today and went to the gym. I had all intentions of participating in a yoga class...but since no clocks are ever exactly correct (or synchronized), I was five minutes late by one clock at the gym and nearly ten minutes late by yet another clock there. The clock in my car said I was three minutes early. I didn't want to be the new chick who held up the class because I walked in late and oh, by the way, doesn't know any actual yoga poses...except for downward dog. Does that pose even count? So anyway, I opted for the treadmill -- again. This time I did an hour.

I like to people watch while at the gym. Generally I go to the very back line of treadmills, but today there were two men on that row, so I opted for the second to last row. I like to watch how all the guys over at the weight station act. I swear that nearly every guy over there glances around at least every three minutes. I think this is to see who is watching them; if anyone is aware of how strong they are. It goes back to that whole primal dominant male thing.

Then you have the women who I see there regularly. There are two women who are always on the treadmills together. I think they got a little peeved today because I was in the prime television viewing spot. It took them a few minutes and a couple of treadmills to find a spot where they could both be together and in front of the television that they wanted to watch. The Price is Right was what they were forced to watch: apparently I was in the middle of their news viewing station. Drew Carrey isn't that bad, ladies.

There are also all sorts of ladies who I think must have eating disorders. I have radar for them. The other day, a rail thin girl I'd been eying all morning ran and ran on the treadmill. She looked like she was running a marathon; arms flailing wildly as her long, blond ponytail swished from side to side. As I was dying on the elliptical machine, she looked like she could run forever...very Forrest Gump cross country-ish. And then, out of breath, she ran over to the trash bin where she vomited for a good three or four minutes. I felt a little bad for the woman on the elliptical beside her who tried to look away as much as possible. I feel like I should have helped her, but at the same time I felt like she didn't want to be helped...like she'd be more embarrassed than she already was. She knew full well what she was doing to herself. But before my conscience could fight too much, another woman went over and offered a helping hand. As the girl stood there vomiting, I noted in my mind her enormous over sized sweatshirt and sweatpants that bagged and sagged where they should have been tight. I remember all too well those days: you wear clothing that's too big to hide the fragile frame beneath...and when you've gotten to your rock bottom, the clothing that used to fit nicely now falls off in places where curves used to hold everything in place. After she was done vomiting, she slunk away and poured herself down the stairs, where I assume she promptly left the building. I felt deeply for her.

Today I spotted another one of these women who, I imagine, tortures herself for perfection. A young girl walked over to one of the stair stepper machines, got on, and began to climb the endless stairwell. As she went, she stared into different directions aimlessly -- painfully. She really looked as though she was calling out for someone to make her stop. After a while on the stair stepper, she pried herself off and left, legs shaking.

I just really don't understand why, as women, we feel the need to torture ourselves to be the ideal. And as much as we want to blame this tendency on others, we really should look inward. I could blame the media for my previous eating disorder. I could. Or I could just confess that it was my own messed up perfectionism that drove it. Why do we keep striving to be something that is impossible? I wonder. We set our minds on a goal that is most likely unattainable (or nearly so), and of we do reach it -- however miraculously -- there is always another impossibility to strive for.

As mothers, we do it as well. We always want what's best for our children. That's what we say, right? And who in their right mind wouldn't want what's best? But we all know we take it a step further. We're guilty of mothering as a competitive sport. It's only natural that we want to be the best at what we do. But we really should learn to take it in stride. As women and mothers, our lives would be a lot more fulfilled if we just took everything with a grain of salt.

Stop taking everything so seriously and just live.

My internal novelist

I don't know about y'all, but I think I spend at least half of my time composing narrations in my head. Seriously.

I don't know if it's the constant blogging, or lack of other creative outlets, but writing has become the foremost activity for my brain. My brain narrates my way through my day. At night, often, I lay awake replaying the events from earlier. The audio and video from the day do not stream through my memory bank in the manner I imagine it does for most people when recounting a day's events. Instead, the trappings of my day are replayed behind closed eyelids, accompanied by what I imagine I'd be typing to go along with them. I assume most people have an internal dialogue when in deep thought, but I feel my brain takes it a few steps further than most minds would. Instead of merely recounting my memories, I compose unwritten vignettes and contemplate which point of view would be more reader-friendly. I find myself striking through wordings; using alternate words to make my vocabulary seem expansive my internal thesaurus always on standby.

Take today for example. I was at Wholesome Living Guru's house for a little get together with one other friend. I've already hyper-developed this lady's character in a previous (aforelinked) post. As we sat with coffee and watched our children play, I was internally satirizing the whole scene.

So, I wonder, if I'm using my entire life as blog fodder and making archetypes of my friends, is it fair? I wonder how many writers have lost friends or loved ones to a little world they create all on their own. Don't know what I mean? Well let me explain...

If I didn't have this little blog of mine, I wonder if I'd still hold strong some of my best kept feelings toward people. I mean, if I didn't have my blog, Wholesome Living Guru would not be immortalized as such. She'd just be another friend who has some eccentricities regarding feeding her children. But instead, she is, in my mind, a highly developed character...complete with italicized name. But does that character impede my judgment regarding my personal thoughts that surround this person? I mean, If I go around developing everyone into a hyper-acute version of them self, am I doing a disservice to them? Or am I just doing what every other writer does? Is it fair?

This problem reaches into other areas of my life as well. The other night I was having problems sleeping. I couldn't wind down. I had to take anxiety medication just to hush the narrator in my head who kept going over everything that had happened to me that day and trivializing what words I'd use to describe which event. My husband wanted to make love to me...I couldn't get in the mood. Why? Because apparently I have a novella pushing on the innards of my skull.

This is a real problem for me, mostly because what I compose in my head never makes it to the keyboard.

I wonder if they make internal thought recording devices.

Longest post....EVER

Okay, so I went to the gym this morning at 9:30. With your membership you get a consultation with a personal trainer. I was excited: until my hips started killing me last night. I think I did too many high impact activities yesterday. Anyway, I was contemplating all of the excuses I could call the gym with to get out of my "consultation".

8:30 a.m.: Me laying in bed, thinking of excuses. Phone rings. It's my trainer confirming. Sure I'll be there. Ugh. Then I drug myself out of bed. Maybe exercise would help.

9:30 a.m.: I arrive at the gym with Adrien...after much cajoling to get him out of the house in a swift manner. He was throwing all sorts of fits: mostly about not being able to put his own sock on.

I get there, with Adrien successfully dropped off in the Kid's Club, and I meet Millicent. My trainer for the day. Wow, I thought, don't kill me. She assured me that she was just doing a fitness profile.

And that's all we did.

For an hour I had to answer questions about what I prefer to eat, how much I exercise, my medical history...whether or not I'm prone to constipation. I mean, seriously...bowel movements? I'm too busy paying attention to my son's to worry about my own, and on top of it, who wants to tell someone else (without a PhD) about it. Gosh.

Needless to say, this whole little thing took an hour. My hour. The hour that I thought I'd get trained. I wanted to work on a routine. But I guess you only get that when you're paying. After all, this was my one free consultation.

At the end she asked if I was interested in personal training. I told her no, because it costs too much. I was just being honest. That's when it seemed to trail off, and she informed me of a $49 6 week "Biggest Loser" program -- that conveniently isn't offered after tomorrow (whereby the price goes up to $99). I'd get to work with her for a few weeks, a few times a week. It really is a deal...but $49? I wanted my one hour of hell for free.

Well poop, I guess it's back to the ellipticals and treadmills. I did get a login name and password for some program online that calculates how many nutrients and calories I'm getting, etc. You put in what you've ate and how much exercise you've done that day and it tells you what you need to eat more of (or less of) and how many calories you're shovelin' down a day. I guess that's cool. But ya know...I wanted hell. I wanted to feel the burn, not be asked questions about how much I go to the bathroom and whether I prefer pork chops to veggies.

This whole gym thing is new to me, I joined last week. A friend of mine is a member and she had a pass to join for the same rate she pays (around $30/month) plus no sign up fees or contracts, etc. I've been wanting to get back into shape. I don't want to be Aerobics Barbie or anything, I just want to have more energy and feel stronger. I used to be a runner. Throughout my later elementary school years and partially into my middle school years, I ran Junior Olympics track. I used to run track in school (up until 9th grade, and then I quit but tried again -- unsuccessfully -- my senior year). Now I can't even run a half mile without wanting to fall over...If I can even manage to run the whole thing. On top of it, I gained 60 pounds while I was pregnant. I'm nearly back to my pre-pregnancy weight (how old is Adrien now?), but I still have a whopping 6 pounds to go (JK about the "whopping"). So it's not that I want to lose weight, I just want to be more fit.

I think another reason I joined the gym is because it occupies time. It occupies at least an hour a day, and if I'm keeping myself occupied, then I won't be thinking about the obvious. I like that they have a Kid's Club; unlike some over-attached crazy mommies who never want to be away from their children, I think it's healthy for all parties if there is a small period of separation. Momma needs her time, and baby needs to learn that Momma will come back. It's trust for them, and breathing room for you. Everyone wins. As you know, I've recently started to knit. This is also a great occupier of time. Blogging ranks up there too. Whatever I can do to keep myself busy is great for me. I just hope I don't run myself ragged trying to keep myself occupied. I just really don't want to slip into that depressed slump again. If I find ways to enjoy myself (like those yoga classes at the gym I want to take or my knitting), then maybe I'll be too busy enjoying myself to get sad and stew.

Not only are nearly all of my every day friends pregnant, my Mom called yesterday and informed me that a friend from high school is due December 29. She's glowing she beamed to me...I replied a little snarky, but honest all the same: That's great, Mom, but I'm sure under all that glow she's constipated and got horrible hemorrhoids. My mom sounded a bit put off when I explained my lack of desire to hear of more pregnant friends. I'm happy for her, yes. But spare me the details of her gorgeous belly. I'd just started to show when my baby was snatched from me. My mom also got a little annoyed with me when I was visiting her. For some reason she felt the need to show me pictures of my Grandfather's wife's two kid's brand new babies. I have respect for their joy; but I wish my Mom would respect my feelings a bit more regarding the subject. She should understand; she's had many miscarriages. I'm sure there are many who feel annoyed with my present state of mind: but I don't really care. You can have some compassion or leave me the hell alone. Choose one, I don't really care.

Anyway, what else has been going on lately. I don't feel like I've been blogging too thoroughly about my day-to-day life lately. Every post is either a (meager attempt at a) scathing editorial on moms or me pouting out loud. Hopefully you all looked at my flickr account to see my pics. If not, do so now.

The Halloween costumes were made by Andi's mom. I haven't had time lately to sew anything...actually I don't think I've sewn since I made my wedding dress. We were the Rubbles from the Flintstones and Adrien even won "cutest kid's costume" at our play group's bash this past Saturday.

As I've said before, the Renaissance Festival was a blast. It amazes me how much differently I view the place now that I'm grown, as opposed to when I was a kid.

We've been thinking of putting our house on the market. Not so much that we think it will sell, as much as we just want to move. Our neighborhood is not bad, it's just not what we wanted it to be. We had the house built, and have only lived here since August of 2006. Andi and I really fear that our value will drop the longer we live here. The builder that built our house pulled out of the development a long time ago, and had sold the remaining land to another builder. A few weeks ago we noticed for sale signs in front of the new builder's model homes. Not to mention the fact that the new builder doesn't seem to have sold many homes or home sites within the neighborhood. Both builders have spec homes in the neighborhood that are unoccupied and not selling. We've also noticed some homes that seemed to have been foreclosed on since we've lived here. Those foreclosed houses have been snatched up by various real estate agencies; but all the same, there they sit. So, yes, we're worried that we're going to lose money on our house. At the time we bought, we didn't know anything about buying a house: or what we wanted. We were apartment renters, but knew we needed something a bit bigger with a baby on the way. As the cost of renting an apartment rose in Dallas, we found that we could buy for far cheaper every month. So we bought. We built. We have a cookie cutter house, but it is located right across the street from a brand new elementary school. I mean, that's got to count for something, right? We're just really worried about not being able to sell, or selling for less than we bought for. Do any of you know anything about real estate? We need help. Really, we need advice. We're going to start looking at other homes in the area...but our home is nowhere near being ready to sell. I can only imagine that our second hand furnishings would further push to diminish the selling power of our home. We have put laminate flooring in the office since we've moved in. Ugh, I dunno. It's sort of mind-numbing.

And other than that, not too much has been going on. Our anniversary is coming up this next Sunday. This next Sunday is also my first week to teach Sunday school for my class at church. I've got to find time to get together my lesson. We're going to be reading a book Eyes Wide Open, Looking for God in Popular Culture by William D. Romanowski...but I still need to go over the chapter and pull some discussion topics.

So I guess that's it for now.

Oh, and I joined NaBloPoMo, so you'll get a saucy little post from me every day in November. I apologize ahead of time.

Updates galore

Okay, so we went to the Arboretum today. It was tons of fun. I saw so much more of that place that I even knew existed. There was a concert going on, but I didn't think Adrien would fare well just sitting still in his stroller. So we meandered around the place with a friend.

My day is still productive, I think...although I've been online since I got home uploading pictures and whatnot.

I created a flickr account where you can go see all of my pictures from our recent adventures (Arboretum today, Renaissance festival, Halloween party, Knitting, Recent thrift store finds). So go check it out!

I'm off to knit more.

Let me know what you think of my pics!

Accomplished

I feel very accomplished so far today.

It's seven thirty-five a.m. and already I've been to the gym and ran a mile (well, .7, with the other .3 walked -- let's call it a mile, made husband pre-work smoothie, taken a shower, put on a pot of coffee, and put some eggs on to hard boil.

I'm going to the arboretum later.

For now, I'm at home in my pajamas...typing this blog.

I hope I don't hate myself too much for getting up so early later.

Maybe I can go get a few rows of knitting done before Adrien wakes up.

I feel accomplished already.

So, here's to you Mr. Buff-and-Cocky-Check-Out-Guy a the gym: I'm fully aware that when I was leaving I had just gotten there. No need to remind me of that. But I am just fine with my 30 minute work out. So eat it. :-P

Purl -- like the necklace?

So, ya know, all of my bitching and pissing and whining the other day about not having a hobby? Well, I took matters into my own hands. And damn it, I'm going to learn to knit.

It's supposed to be relaxing, right? HA!

So the whole thing started with a trip to the local library. I picked up the easiest looking how-to book on knitting I could find. Learn to knit VISUALLY, it touts. Okay, visual I can do. Then I picked up some other book about like The Seven Steps of Motherhood...but whatever. Next stop: the craft store. I browsed the wall of yarns for the prettiest looking ones I could find. I got one marled purple and blue type yarn and another green yarn. I bought the respective needle sizes recommended for each yarn type. I was very excited. They also had canvases 2 for $5.99. Those went in the cart too. I need to paint, right?

I journeyed home where I put Adrien to nap and did the dishes. I could hardly wait to try my hand at knitting. I'd done a bit of it in textiles class in college. I sucked at it then. Maybe, I'd be better this time: I was really out on a limb here. Hopefull, even. The green yarn, that's what I tried first. It was too small and my cast-on stitches were to tight. I moved to a bigger needle. Trying over and over again, I could never get past the cast-on stitches. An hour later, I'd cast-on countless times and still had no rows to count. The purple yarn would be better. Yes. And indeed, it wasn't. Please note that just because yarn is pretty, that does not necessarily mean it's suitable for beginners. Quite the contrary, actually. This purple yarn has multiple widths to it. It looks a bit wonky, very erratically spun indeed. Back to the green yarn. Then Adrien woke up from his nap. I'd made no knitting headway.

Later that night, I could hardly wait for Adrien to go to bed for the night. I was (and am) determined to learn how to knit. If it kills me (which it might -- a friend of mine suggested I get a hobby not involving sharp objects). Two hours later, I had 5 rows complete. It was time to learn to purl, which seems to me like knitting -- but backwards. Anyway, it's supposed to be the opposite of knitting, whereby the stitches show on the opposite side of whatever you'd doing (henceforth, making patterns within the knit). One try and that and it was back to knitting. Better not press my luck.

So why knitting? Well, as stated previously, I had heard it was relaxing. I need to relax. I mean, haven't you gotten that I'm high strung already? Slightly stressed. I mean, who isn't? And then, I was on Etsy the other day and saw these wonderfully gorgeous way over the knee scrunchy sock/leggings. I thought they were too cute, indeed. Must have -- and they were something like $11.99 to boot. Had. To. Have. So I clicked, only to find out it was a knit pattern. I must learn to knit these wonderful creations, methinks. And alas, I did not bookmark these great leggings, and now I cannot find them...or I'd link you to them. But take my word -- they are amazingly eccentric and perfectly B. [Update! I found them! YAY! Here are the magnificent scrunchy stockings!]

So that was how it started. And it's going.

Please wish me luck and if you have any suggestions, let me in. I have to get past my fear of purling. Otherwise, I'll just be making nothing but flat, long, scarves.

Yay for hobbies, indeed.

The Pregnancy Police

Fuck.

Well, I mean, fuckin' a, man. Ya know? I think I'm getting better and then it all goes down the fucking shitter.

Am I the fucking pregnancy police or something? I mean, have the balls to tell me yourself. I'm not that horrible of a person am I? I understand completely, I mean, I wouldn't want to face me either: horrible bitch that I am. But come on. Have some sympathy and don't send someone else to do it. I thought the two of us were better off than that.

And then...

And then, when I thought it was all over and I was better, yet someone else in my life is carrying the spawn of their fucking husband. Someone with actual fertility problems. Not that I'm not happy. I can take that. I get that you are appreciative of your situation. You do not tread lightly with your current situation. Having lost a child before, you know full well it was fragile territory to let me in on your little 5 week secret. And at least I heard it from your mouth.

I just don't get how some people are pregnant with their third kid and whine about it...can hardly drag themselves out of the house. I mean, you know you're fucking fertile, woman! God damn it, just keep your legs together if you didn't want to have your third so fucking close to the last fat piece of baby you shot of your vagina. Don't cry about it to me. Do not pretend to come up to me and in hushed tones say "I'm pregnant" and expect me to share your surprise. Why the fuck are you surprised anyway? I mean, no birth control, three kids later...you know you're fertile! I'm not really a friend to you anyway, so I could have done without it. Anger was there. Sure, I wanted to slap you for whining to me about pregnancy like two weeks after I was forced to flush my beautiful baby down multiple toilets and have intra-uterine probes pushed around my vagina all day just to tell me that I wasn't lucky enough to have a viable pregnancy. But, like I said, I'm fine with that. I'm over it. I don't see you constantly. And your post on our message board about borrowing maternity clothes? I could have done with that too. But I can see where you're coming from with the "I've had the same clothes for three pregnancies now, and I'm tired of wearing the same thing" bit. I get that: but come on. Are ya' fucking serious? It is not a tragedy that you're pregnant. Be happy that you are able.

So I guess that's it. I have a friend who can't say it to my face, because apparently I'm a bitch and I don't deserve to hear it from her own mouth. I have a friend who tells me but is afraid I'll hate her (which I don't, more just that I'm upset she thought I'd be pissed off), and then I know countless others who are all magically with effin' child.

Everyone's fucking pregnant. Don't tell the pregnancy police! For God's sake! She's not stable and she's mean and bitchy, and oh poor her, she had a fucking miscarriage. She can't deal. Shhhhhh. I do have some level of poise. Give me fucking credit.

Back to me

Suffice it to say that we had tons of fun at the Renaissance festival! I mean, ass loads of fun. It was fun. However, that post is put on hold: husband has the camera cable in his car at work...so there will be no Renaissance report today. That is saved for later, possibly tomorrow.

But that's cool; I've got other things to blog about.

So Andi and I were havin' a little chat in the car on the way back home yesterday. I brought up a subject; however sore it may be. It's something I realized the other day -- an epiphany, if you will. I don't remember who I was talking to, or if I was talking at all. I could have been typing. Either way, I was asked about hobbies. Mine, specifically. And to my astonishment, I could not list anything but blogging. I have a huge list of things that I used to do, or things I would like to do. Nothing I actually do.

Andi thought it was sort of preposterous that I think I have no hobbies; even further that I'm upset by it...but just imagine: you have nothing that defines you. It's an awful feeling. In the spot where you'd generally fill out "about me" you have a blank. Sure, I could list ass wiping, couch potato, procrastinator, dish maid, personal chef. What service is that to me? I do not enjoy those things, and hobbies, I assume, should be enjoyed.

You paint, he insisted.

No, I like to paint, but do I actually paint? No. I have nothing to paint about.

You like to cook, he says.

I love to cook, but I have to cook.

He went on and on, insisting until finally, in desperation, he asked what it is I think I like to do.

Well, I like to paint...when I have something to paint about (which I don't). I like to cook...but is it a hobby? Cooking is not something you can just do. It has to be for a purpose; a meal. So that moves cooking from hobby to interest. I can sew, but I do not like to. I chose seamstress and fashion as a career, and how many people do you know that come home from a long day of their job and do yet more of it because they enjoy it so? None. So, I'm not a sewer. I hate scrapbooking...don't have the patience for it.

What do I like?

Well I know what I used to like.

I used to like painting. Getting lost in the canvas. Going to concerts; small venues even...staring up at the artist until I got lost in the sea of music. Analyzing every lyric to the fullest. Lying in bed with a loved one for hours on end; CDs on rotation. Contemplating the meaning of life and lyric. I used to love the runway...the shows, the art. Real life artwork being poured into apparel. The designer's creativity and eccentricity oozing out of every stitch and seam. Poetry; small fragments of my reality boiled down into exquisitely eloquent and off beat stanzas...holed up in a notebook and kept for my eyes only. Boys wearing eyeliner. Boys wearing skirts. That exquisite median between anarchy and conformity. Watching indie flicks late at night; alone at the cinema. Deep conversations. Deep. Not the sort I find myself having these days. Making music; my guitar in hand...strumming aimlessly for my own benefit.

I like to make things, I tell him. I never make anything anymore. My music is silent, my canvases empty...I have no ocean of lyrics to be lost in. No one who cares to be lost with me. Spending some time in the fashion industry jaded me slightly. I hate fashion. I have nothing to write about in full stanza, nor broken prose. No notebook to keep it all holed up in. No deep conversations; my lips are silenced. And alas, I do not care to swoon for any other boys besides the one I've already captured: my husband. My creativity is drained. My livelihood is gone.

I do not care to define myself merely as mother or wife. The thought of that bores the shit out of me. Lately, I seem to find myself among a hoard of women who have no further aspiration than this. They have no self. They are mom. They are wife. They are nothing more; they are boring. Somewhere along the road of life, they've lost their own ambitions...replacing them with what they should want or do. But that is nothing for me. I do not want that. I don't want that life. I never wanted to be called mother; never wife. And here I am: I am called both. It's fine with me, but I refuse to let those labels rule me. Neither are definitions I want to truly define me.

If that is all I have, I do not have much, for I have no self.

I need myself back. I'm so far from what I used to be, that I'm not even sure I can get back. What is self? What are you? What defines you? I'm not sure what defines me now. But it sure as hell is not solely mother or wife.

I am better than those titles alone. I belong to my soul. I refuse to let those labels decide my day to day actions. And I refuse to let anyone contain my spirit.

Now, if I could only live by my own words...and not in fear of them.

I'm still trying to figure out how to be mom and myself at the same time.

To the Renaissance Festival!

This evening, our family will be heading to my Mom's house...actually my Grandpa's, but I digress. We're heading down to my Mom's house, as a belated birthday gift to my Mom. Adrien and I were supposed to travel there a few weeks ago, but I had the stomach problem and Adrien had the upper respiratory/double ear infection problem. Needless to say, neither of us was in the best of shape to be up for a four hour car trip.

Yes, you read right: four hours. I don't live in one of those tiny New England states whereby it takes only a few hours to cross the entire state. Oh no. I live in Texas. You could drive for 10 hours and still be in Texas. It's expansive. The second largest state. I digress, again.

So anyway, we're gonna saddle up and head for my Mom's house so that we can go to the Renaissance Festival tomorrow. It's very exciting for me. Up until I was 19, I was able to say that I'd been to this festival every year since I'd been born. My parents loved this place, and took me accordingly. When I was younger, I'd get all excited to go and I even saved up my allowance so I could buy a costume to wear. I love it there -- the gynormous turkey legs, the merriment, the costumes, the shows. All of it. It's also safe to say that my childhood trips to this place are some of the only happy memories I have of my parents when they were still together. Even still, after my parents divorced, I was still taken every year...generally either by one parent or the other, or on the happy occasion that I'd get to go twice that year; once with each parent. Maybe that's part of the reason I cherish this place so. Happy memories from my childhood are not abundant.

I remember waking up early one morning when I was five or so and springing into my parents bedroom to wake them up. Let's go to the Renaissance Festival, I begged. I really wanted to go. My parents tried to explain to me that it wasn't yet the time of year for the festival, and alas, I'd have to wait. I remember pleading with them that I'd pay for the whole thing, so long as we could go. I even remember getting my piggy bank -- it was full of pennies, of course. Yes, I loved this place then, and still do a great deal.

I supposed it's the magic of it all. As a child, you see the fairies in their costumes, and to you, they're real. You see the jousting tournament taking place and get caught up in the action. I'm sure I wanted to be the Princess the knights were jousting for...and to me, the Princess wasn't an actress in a costume: She was real. I think I've always felt as though I don't belong in this modern age. The Renaissance Festival was the perfect place for me to pretend (just for a day) that I wasn't in this day and time. It was an escape from reality, and I always hated to leave at the end of the day...but even Cinderella's magic wore off eventually, and she was forced back to her reality. After I'd gone each year, I remember hardly being able to wait for the next. And the next year came, the excitement and revelry were there again...no matter how fleeting the day was. For that one day I was at the Renaissance Festival took me out of whatever crap I was really having to deal with back in the real world. Just as I thought as a young child that I wasn't cut out for this modern society, I knew entirely too much about what went on in the lives of adults. The Renaissance Festival was my place to be a kid. No wonder I wanted it all the time.

I still see this place as magical. Even now, I can't wait to enter the gates there tomorrow, because it remains mostly the same as it was in my childhood. I remember all of the excitement and magic, and now I can't wait to share that with Adrien. I've told him about all the dragons and fairies he'll see there...all the fun he'll have. I know he doesn't have the slightest clue what I'm talking about, but I can't wait to share this wonderful childhood experience with him.

I hope it's as magical a journey to him as it is to me.

The cheese analogy

The people came. They stayed. They left.

Amazing, isn't it? The last one left around 2pm, and that ain't bad considering I was being more than just the happy hostess.

Remember the one I mentioned that had camped out at my friend's play date? Well she left around 1:30pm. She even eluded to "staying a while" at the last play date (in which instance I looked away from her and averted conversation). I was quite relieved when she'd left. I took in a deep breath and proceeded to tell the last girl there that I was carrying a lighter load with her absence. Indeed, I was. We'll call her Camper. Camper is strange. Nice, but strange. Her teeth are muddled with white and grey. Swirled, I'm sure, from either a lifetime of bad oral hygiene or lack of fluoride. She beckons from Missouri. Her husband works for a pool supply company. She's strange. Not someone I'd become best friends forever with.

The woman who left at 2, however? Well she's a new addition to our group, and someone I could (maybe) see myself being friends with. The problem with this mommy group thing is that it leaves little to no room for friendships. It's all about the kids. Every mom there says that. But is it really true? I know, for sure, that I didn't join the group when my son was a spry 6 month old so that he could go romp around. No. I joined for an excuse to get out of the house and socialize with other humans who did more than just coo and poop. It's not to say that I haven't made a few friends and many acquaintances through this group. I have. In fact, I'd venture to say I'd have no friends at all if it weren't for our meet ups. I just have to wonder to myself: How many friends is enough? And what defines friend from acquaintance?

Well, I tell you, a lot determines whether you are called friend or acquaintence in my book. I'm still not quite sure I have any true friends. I do. I know. Some of you reading this may balk at what I've just written. Hear me out.

Friends, to me, are people who you can go to with your darkest secrets. You tell them everything without fear of judgment. Moms? Well there's always fear of judgment from other moms. I mean, it's the nature of the beast. When you're a mom yourself, it leaves your personal life and parenting skills open season for judgmental fodder. So can you really, truly, befriend someone who could be judging your every movement? I don't know. But I try. Why? Because I'm lonely, I guess.

I miss friendships. Those ones where you are just flat out bored so you put in a phone call for some good talkin'. I miss sleep overs most, I think. Those get togethers of yesteryear, whereby you and a few other friends get together, stay up entirely too late and can hardly fall asleep due to the amount of gabbering. Boys, gossip; everything is talked about in full circles. Over and over again. It's a smattering of girlish nonsense. And I miss it. I really miss the friends I had to partake in those sort of things with. Can we just be honest with each other? Not when there's this motherly facade to keep. It's all about saving face...not reality.

Friendships these days seem to orbit around our own family lives: talk of boys has turned to talk of husbands...gossiping is relinquished to "can you believe so and so's kid acts like that?" It's really shallow, and more so than ever, you're left wondering what the others would say about you if you weren't present. The friendships of my today are framed in and ruled by the trappings of family life. Family is front and center, and somehow that leaves friendship to the fringes of personal socialization. I'm not saying that family shouldn't be the most important thing...it should. But why is it seemingly impossible to also hold friendships that cater to my needs? I need friends. Close friends.

This little matchstick edifice of a social circle I've gotten myself into bores the shit out of me. Bores me.

So, when the 2pm-er was lingering, I was happy. I recently found out that she was a painter. Or she calls herself that. OH my brain screamed...someone that shares something with me!!! I must latch on now. Friend alert! Friend alert! I was screaming full force at myself like that robot from that show. But the latch-on-nows soon turned to DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!

As desperate as I am for friends that I can have deep conversations with (outside of the, "so...how many times does little Evie poop every day?"), I offered nearly everything up to my possible new BFF.

Does your little one like chicken nuggets? I can cook some! So I did...eventually. But only after I was backhandedly asked "So...when's Adrien going to eat lunch". Apparently I wasn't preparing said mechanically separated chicken soon enough. Oh, I thought you'd be gone by now, I don't really want to cook any, I was just being nice.

Oh it is late, I replied. I want you as a friend, but I want you to leave right now.

And I promptly shoved some in the microwave...along with some peas and carrots. At this point Camper was still lurking. Her little one is too young for chicken nuggets -- I didn't offer any. Camper and 2pm-er sat at my kitchen table feeding their little ones. As if my scones and pumpkin biscuits hadn't been enough, 2pm-er starts to rummage through my pantry and fridge. I offered some pinto beans from the night before. Not to mention the fact that you just ate 2 of the nuggets I cooked for my own son.

Do you have any cheese, asked 2pm-er.

You can have some of this...I explained. And before I could offer a sensible portion, she'd cut off a 3 inch by 3 inch chunk of cheddar and was downing that...all the while her beans were heating up in the microwave.

Then she left the ziplock of uneaten cheese on my kitchen island.

I ate beans too.

Midway through this meal, Camper said it was time to go. And that's when my load lightened...slightly. I saw Camper off, and 2pm-er was still around.

After she'd finished with her beans, she was still rummaging about my kitchen. My fucking kitchen's not your personal grocery store, get your own food, bitch. I kept my smile going. I was really fishing for some friendship here. My nerves were being tested; my hospitality over extended.

If it's something sweet you want you've already eaten a million scones, fatass I have ice cream sandwiches.

I saw those. I never keeps snacks around like you do. I have no self control.

Oh really, I thought you had boat loads of control Miss Beans and nuggets and scones and biscuits and scones and I don't drink coffee, and I don't keep snacks, blah blah blah.

Oh, I said...I like snacks.

It went on and on. 2pm-er turned from possible friend to someone to stay away from.

If you eat half of the block of cheese I have left, what would you do with my friendship? I can't have someone as a friend who will constantly take more than their share...because, you see, I'm the one who will keep giving and giving. I'm like that. I hate takers. And you, Miss 2pm-er, are a full fledged taker.

2pm-er also kept commenting on how small her house was compared to mine (I only live in 1800 square feet, it's not a mansion, or FANCY as you called it).

She reveled at how my fridge has the freezer on bottom. She'd never seen one of those before. And that must be why she took half of my cheese.

I have purportedly fancy things, as she says. I suppose she thinks I'm all up for the taking.

I'm not all up for the taking.

Why's it so fucking hard to find real friends who don't want more of you than you're willing to give who eat you out of house and home, yet don't take the coffee that you offered?

And I supposed that's the cheese analogy. If you find yourself in the same boat with someone who is more than willing to see what all they can get out of you, then get out of that boat as soon as possible: it's going down.

No one drank any of my coffee but me. It wasn't gourmet coffee. It wasn't fancy. It was just a pinnacle of social offering, and no one partook. I should keep that as rule: those who do not drink my coffee will always take half of my cheese.

Don't touch the cheese, bitch.