Prior to giving birth, I was feeling rather good about myself when I cut the little plastic ties that went around a six pack in order to save marine birds.  I’m not what you would call “dark” green in the technical sense.  But, now that I’m a parent, I’ve noticed I’m more likely to try to choose the “lime” green option. 

Let’s see off the top of my head:

• Since the tyke started drinking juice, I have almost universally bought organic.  The reason for this is mainly that I read about how much pesticide is sprayed on apples.  Why would I want my developing, growing toddler to consume that crap?  This is the most important five years of his life.  I want to try to do everything I can to nuture, foster and stimulate that little brain.  Recently, I’ve added more organic grocery items to my cart.
• Due to my son’s early allergies to lactose…not to mention VERY sensitive skin, not long after he was born I solely switched to California Baby products for his baths.  I use their spritzes for diapering and well-being.  I use their shampoo/body wash for bathing him.  And, I use their bubble bath exclusively (even on myself..when the Overtired & Cranky says good for PMS, believe it!). 
• Our town has a huge recycling push, so since we’ve lived here, we fill one garbage can a week with garbage & one with recycled things.

But, recently, I’ve opted to push a little harder.  I started requesting the paper bags at the store instead of the plastic ones.  These are great for holding the recyled plastics.  Then, I finally broke down and bought my first three 7th Generation things.  This is a huge deal, because I knew the wrath of Puppy would come down on me for 1. being a hippie and 2. spending more money to buy an inferior product (in his eyes).  He tolerates the organic foods (mostly just rolls his eyes - women may try to be green, but men are purely brown liquid with hops!), but moving on to 7th Generation was a big step.  I bought the liquid & powder HE detergents, and the dish washing liquid. 

As I predicted he did have a bit of a hissyfit, but I talked him down with the rationale that it was from Target so it couldn’t be that expensive, right?  Yay for me.  I feel like I’m being committed.  I’m doing good.

Itch.  Sneeze.  Puppy asks last night, if I’m using something different in the wash.  Hmm.  Itch.  Sneeze.  Nose drip.  “Well, I don’t think so.” Cause, I am a bit clueless.  Then, he goes into the laundry room.  He pulls down the liquid detergent.  “You idiot.  You’ve been using this hippie crap, haven’t you?”  I stare, wondering what he is getting at.  “Well, I used the rest of the bottle we already had and switched to that a few days ago.”  I think to how long our allergies have been running even more rampant that normal.  A few days.  “You do know, Holly, we’re allergic to eucalyptus, right?”  Huh?  “Well, yes…is there eucalyptus in that stuff?”  Crap.  I look closely at the label.  Big as day.  Well, no wonder we’re all runny and itchy.  The organic good for the environment stuff is not environmentally friendly in our house - to our bodies. 

I’m off to change the sheets in my bed, in the hopes that Puppy & I stop itching.  Anyone want a bottle of expensive high efficiency detergent?

What’d you get?  What’d you get?  Me?  I got the watch.  And, not just any watch, I got a new Coach.  Wanna see?  Okay, too bad.  I’m sharing it anyways.

Ain’t she loverly?  Her name’s Madison.  She’s comfy.  And, she just so happens to perfectly match a set of bracelets and rings at the land of the robin’s egg blue boxes…some co-inky-dink, huh :)  Now, I wonder what I’ll be asking Pup to get me for Birthday/Christmas.  Hmmm. 

But, that actually wasn’t the best present I picked up this weekend.  I haven’t made it a big secret how much I love Twitter.  It’s great for keeping up with your bloggy compadres throughout the day.  It allows us all to “talk” amongst one another.  And, it provides a big time laugh now and again.  Yesterday afternoon into the night was one for the ages.  I laughed so much my stomach muscles hurt this morning, like they would’ve had I done some major crunches, and at one point, I literally fell off my bed I was laughing so hard.

After I bought Maddy (we’re on a first name basis, the watch and I), I checked in on what was happening with the peeps.  I happened upon Burgh mentioning my name.  Expecting a bit of sass about the loud-mouthed Texan, I guffawed when I saw she was saying I claimed to have a large ass.  A general discussion of larger than normal junk in the trunk occurred between Burgh, VDog, and Law School Hot Mom.  I got in a bit late, but I had to tell the lassies that anyone who has their own students sing Baby Got Back to her, has obviously been sporting some serious bootay.  Back-and-forth this went until I told VDog I was off to learn  The Harlem Shuffle  and then would video record my naked butt doing the moves….well after an exfoliation and facial. 

Then, last night happened.  The discussion continued.  To say we overran and monopolized Twitter would be an understatement.  I think we frightened everyone away.  In the words of Laskigal: burgh & aff have taken twittering to a whole new level . . .

Poor Vdog actually wasn’t around for the general hilarity, and I know she was bummed she missed out.  This was mostly between me, Burgh, Rocking Pony, Law School, and Shamelessly Sassy.  It was actually Sassy who threw down the gauntlet with: when are you gals going to quit talking smack and start this battle?   Followed by Burgh’s: Since I would take last place in the ass off, I volunteer to judge the festivities.  Burgh will decide!  Squee!  As the future wife of the judge, how could I not win? 

You know I am not in any way modest.  Showing off my butt to win the glory of knowing it’s the biggest is enough of an incentive to show it off.  I fumbled amidst the “normal” undies to find a naughty pair…and it had holes.  Screw it.  I’ve been married nine years.  The gals can see me in my granny panties.  I calmly walked into the kitchen and placed my Mr. Canon on the bar.  I struck a Marylin/Betty Boop pose with my finger on my lips and posed, with the tooshy covering 9/10 of the shot. 

Just then, Puppy walks in…oops.  “Holly, what the hell?  Are you taking porn pictures of yourself?  Damn!  This blog thing has gone TOO FAR!  And, hell.  That is NOT flattering!  Your ass looks HUGE! And, you better crop your head off of that.”  Hmm.  He thinks that’s unflattering?  Bingo!  Ding, ding, ding!  We’ve got a winner.  I went back and uploaded the shot.  I emailed it to the “participants.”

The reactions:

LSHM: Weird camera angles are NOT ALLOWED! My arse is still bigger.
Sassy: um..just got my email. hahahahaha.
Pony: My eyes! My virgin eyes!!! (This from a mom of 4)
Burgh: Oh my gawd. There’s a very giant ass in my email. Wow. Just wow.

So, then, Pony and LSHM also emailed their butts.  But, both Sassy and Burgh (nothing to do with our domestic partnership…wink wink) both said I won.  Yay.  I have a big butt and I cannot lie.  You other brothers can’t deny…and I told Burgh to make me a button for my win.  Guess what?  She SO did!  Love that Burgh!  So, ladies, my greatest gift was not Maddy, but this:

Happy Mother’s Day, girlies.  I hope you had as great of one as I did.  And, if you aren’t already, get thee to www.Twitter.com.

Do you want to come?
I’m getting married again
Springtime in Vermont

I’ve sworn off all men
Now batting the other way
Bring on the Burgh Mom

Got a minister
Antics via online site
A lady Elvis!

Cleaver’s our bridesmaid
Mostly kinks are ironed out…
Do we register?

And, one BIG problem:
How do we tell our hubbys?
A Dear John letter?

Thanks for playing along, Burgh.  This has been so much fun, no? Smooches sweetie pie!  Celery you. 

Modern Matriarch
Has a great new cooking blog
With a contest, too!

Crate & Barrel goods
Oh, and $50, too.
Check out Chop. Stir. Mix.

I’m such an idiot.  I can’t believe I forgot to add this last night!  So sorry, K!

A baby shower
For Karmyn’s new little boy
My wishes for you:

10 fingers and toes
Goos, giggles, a button nose
Smiles & contentment.

Okay and: a night nurse to handle the “fun” times ahead, a maid to clean up the messes left by hubby & kiddos, a Staples button (that red one) to FIX all things that need fixing, all the latest gadgetry including my much coveted Orbit Stroller, oh and for me TO WIN THE GUESS THE DATE CONTEST. 

Can you 5-7-5?  Join us.  Sign up at A Mommy Story or Playgroups Are No Place for Children.

Schlong Schlong Schlong Schlong Sha-long.  What?  You’ve never heard that song?  Oh.  How about The Hills are A-live with the sound of MUUU-sic?  Or even Hal-lelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Ha-le-lu-jah?  Do those ring a bell?

I think it’s been well vocalized by yours truly that Sweetie Darling is perfectly content to sit in his own pee and poo until he reaches the age of Depends and dentures.  Partially, if you remember, this has to do with his darling papa threatening to spank him last summer when he didn’t want to sit on the potty.  Which, in turn, made the poor child live in fear of ever sitting is pasty white hiney on one.   The grand total number of times the kid has peed the pot?  Three: 1 time last summer, 1 time last fall, and 1 time in the winter. 

It’s sad to watch him try.  He grits his teeth, he clutches his fists, he goes such a startling shade of puce you’d think the kid had the world’s most awful rock of a turd stuck up there somewhere in the realm of constipation.  He’s so impatient.  And, when he doesn’t go RIGHTNOW, he gets discouraged and starts to cry.

 I kept telling Puppy after Disney was over (who wants to cart around a just-trained toddler in a theme park?  “Not I.” said the fly!) and we had the ability to keep trying.  Cue Tuesday night.  We cajoled quite well.  The promise of jelly beans having lost its initial lustre, we added chocolate milk to the equation.   We calmly sat him down.   We tried to explain that it wouldn’t happen right away.  We waited.  My mom said something about warm water poured on the boy bits might help out.  Desperate as we are, I did it.  I poured lukewarm water on him.  And?  Pee.  Successful stream and much heralding, clapping, and rejoicing in our house.  Yesterday, he did it once more.  I dare to think we might be turning a corner?  Could it be?  Might it just click?  Holly said it was possible for this to happen.

Then, there was today.  Yep.  Damn skippy gals.  The stars aligned themselves today.  The day that milk and honey and pee flowed.  The day I heard Puccini and Handel as the kid, after peeing his sheets this morning, went on the potty.  Then again and again.  He went SIX times today.  Let’s recap, shall we?  Prior to today?  A grand total of five times in a solid year.  Today?  SIX.  I am stupified.  I am actually almost speechless (and we all know how I can gab, right?) with joy.  It’s like a dream.  Don’t let me wake up!

There’s only problem: he won’t go without the lukewarm water.  How much longer must I pour water on the hooter?  I cannot stop singing The Schlong Song in my head.  Have I created a new obstacle?  Will he be 13 and having Mommy pour warm water on his wanker?  What do you guys think? 

Puppy, this has nothing to do with the fact that you are the world’s most modest person (offsets my total lack of modesty) and refuse to pee in front of him…even locking the bathroom door when you take a leak, right?  Hello, numnuts!  I don’t have the proper equipment!

I was reading Jennifer’s post yesterday about Mother’s Day presents, thinking to myself, “At least this year, bozo knows what to get me, cause I flat out told him in the car last week.” If only it were that easy, right?  Are these things ever that easy? Hardly Never.

As we are driving to Disney, I am foaming at the mouth to get to Epcot.  Epcot has Wee Britain (please tell me I’m not the only AD fan?!) in it.  I’m an Anglophile.  I obsess over Wee Britain.  This is a given.  I’ve been fantasizing over the new Lulu Guinness I am going to get myself.  When I was at Epcot two years ago I discovered they carried the whole line.  And, me likey!!  Buying one at Epcot saves me from frantically doing the math  (100 pounds now about 175 dollars + the tariff tax of about 35% = I’ll be buggered & fanny!! look it up if you aren’t British!) the Harrods website would require of me. 

Last Monday I arrived at Wee Britain precisely 21 seconds after it opened.  I finally decided to tell Puppy we were there to get me a new purse.  He was not amused, but as is customary, he followed me in anyway.  Hmm?  Where is it?  Did they move it?  I’m forced to talk to the cute little pasty guy behind the counter named Jonathan (from Manchester).  I’m informed the license to sell Lulu expired two months ago.  Come again?  I sit on the steps in front of the Twinings tea room feeling very sorry for myself.  Well, crappity crap.  There goes the Mother’s Day present I wanted.  Harumph.

Now what??

This requires a trip down memory lane.  Oddly enough, through another Jennifer post.  I must really be having fantasies aboutcrushing on Jennifer, huh?  Anywhoo, for years and years I wanted a nice pretty Coach watch.  I could just never justify the upwards of $500 price tag.  As I am forever losing things, I was worried I would shell out the money only to discover I’d put it someplace safe- which in my house means it might disappear forever.  Ask my brother the insurance agent.  I’ve literally made three claims on jewelry only to find the missing item in question (one being my engagement ring but shhh about that, okay?!) and have had to return the checks. 

Then, comes 2005, my very first Mother’s Day about a month postpartum.  Puppy said I could get the much coveted watch, because he saw the size of that rip and oh, the episiotomy, too, so he took pity, because he freaking adores me.  Ah.  Amor of a watch kind.  Love.  Love it.  We moved from our tiny townhouse to our current house in July.  And, my watch?  Disappeared.  Jennifer flat out discovered she’d been robbed by her movers.  I hesitate to say that..and feel better in my head by saying it got mixed in with some boxes or paper and tossed by mistake, but the day I moved my new watch went awol and never returned.  Regardless of what actually transpired, I’ve been without a watch ever since.

After discovering my dreams of British coture quashed by the evil Mouse and his minions, I decided three years of not wearing one was enough - I wanted a watch.  I shared this with Puppy.  Very explicitly.  With exclamation points!!

Today he walked in from work.  “Honey, what do you want for Mother’s Day?”  Huh?  “Sweetie, I told you very specifically what I wanted.”  Giving me a very doubting glance.  “No.  Normally I ask and remember that you told me you wanted something and I forget what that is.  You never told me this time.” He admits it!  He deliberately forgets what I ask for!  “Pup?!  I told you I wanted a watch.”  Dawning realization.  “Oh, yeah…you did.” So, forgive me for not being around tonight, but I will be looking for a nice new watch online.  And, the price has just effectively been doubled.  And, I think I’m totally justified in doing that, don’t you?

Well, I’ve returned from my trip to the House O’Mouse.  The Puppy, my parents, and I had a stellar time; Sweetie Darling?  He was rather nonplussed.  I was shocked.  There were moments of WHOA! involved for sure, but considering Pup and I thought he’d be like a pig in poo?  It was a mild let down.  As this is a solid week’s worth of stuff involved, I’m afraid I am gonna have to do the dreaded bullet list in order to get ten thousand random things lurking in my head to form thoughts.  That, and if I take them each individually?  There would be nothing but Disney for a solid week….and I won’t bore you to tears that way.  Not that this is any better!

Day 1: It’s tradition to listen to books on CD while traveling across the country for Puppy & I.  This trip we each got one: I got the Pulitzer Prize winning John Adams book I’ve been dying to read & Puppy got the new David Baldacci.  After listening to 9 hours of John’s life and not even getting to his presidency, we arrive in Birmingham to visit Blue Momma and her hubby.  My first opinion of Bham is that there are hills.  As I have always been terrified of heights and don’t do hilly well, this is said with a, “I’m not sure about this place.” I loved meeting BM, and considering I’ve been chatting, emailing, and IRL talking to her since August?  This was something I’d been waiting ages to do.   We had a great dinner at a Thai place and Puppy, despite being very scared of her, didn’t cower - well, much.  Of course, we are stupid and choose to arrive in Bham the weekend as some event at Talladega, and being a bit incredulous about why people enjoy watching men drive in circles trying to prove who has bigger weenies by driving 220mph…I didn’t know Talladega was all of half an hour away.  Which explains why it was so damn hard to find a hotel.  And, made me again appreciate only spending $8.00 in parking thanks to the gods of Hilton HHonors (or is it whores?  like Paris?) for giving me a free night at the Doubletree complete with cookies.  I saw far too many people lugging coolers.  Far too many large neck bottles of beer.  And, again, I question how Nascar is a sport (and if you’ve kept up with Puppy’s list you know it is NOT one) and am reminded of how many types of people constitute the USA.

Day 2: Due to the race making I-20 through Atlanta no longer possible, we instead drove through Alabama.  I kept asking Puppy, “What are boiled peanuts?  Why are their signs for them all over the place?  And, oh, look! there’s a sign for fried peanuts.  Seriously?” I’m still wondering if Jimmy Carter (you all knew he was a peanut farmer, right?) is along this rural route hawking peanuts to timid travelers.  Our first night in Orlando is at an Embassy Suites (thanks HHonors!) with the manager’s drinkfest from 5-7.  We arrived precisely at 5 in order to get ample liquid dinner.  We hit Downtown Disney looking for food a few hours later.  And, to my total delight I discover The British are Coming!  I’m surrounded by Europeans.  I don’t know if maybe the UK has a late spring break, which is possible, but considering the Euro & the pound are worth about a buck eighty right now?  Why not come over and see Disney?  Which, apparently, they all did - in droves.  I ate dinner next to a couple with two kiddos that I fawned over.  Puppy kept telling me, “Holly, you know you are not allowed to play “guess where in England that accent is from,” right?  Leave the poor people be.”  “But, Pup!  That’s a London accent if ever I’ve heard one.  Please?”  I left them alone, but there were so many Brits in Disney, I would’ve thought I was on a tube near Picadilly and it really did take all of my powers not to play the accent game.   The Germans, who still don’t wear deodorant (And this is Florida in 80 degree heat…EWWW!!), I was easily able to stay away from them.

Day 3: The kiddo arrives with my parents.  We went to the airport and gathered the family before going to our Disney hotel.  SD apparently slept the whole flight so is still under the impression he’s somewhere near my parents’ house and doesn’t “get” it.  We gather our stuff, and head to Magic Kingdom.  The tyke is about one inch too little to ride most of the “scary” things, which is just fine by me, because…well, because I’m a total titty baby and don’t like rides.  There.  I said it.  I don’t do thrill.  Our first ride was the Buzz Lightyear one where you shoot Emperor Zurg’s minions.  I have Flip footage of this, and I hope at some point, I’ll be able to upload it…but I won’t hold my breath.  My favorite ride the last time we visited the park was the Tomorrowland Transit Authority aka the silly little train that takes you through Space Mountain and goes precisely 4mph.  I rode it about twelve times in a row waiting for Pup to ride Space.  So, obviously, taking the kid on my favorite ride was something I couldn’t wait to do…and then it broke…with us in the tunnel at Space Moutain.  We walked through a super secret door and through the bowels of hell only to emerge with coveted use anywhere in the park Fast Passes.  We used them at the Winnie the Pooh ride.  Then, like Milne says, ”The rain came down.” We left the park soaked, ate at the hotel dining hall thingy, and went back to the room where Pup & I realized sleeping in a room with the kid meant either he’d be up late or we’d be going to bed at 8.  We somewhat compromised and went to “bed” at about 9:30, which is VERY late for SD. 

Day Four: Oh, it’s 2am.  What the hell is that?  Oh, my child!  “Mommy, you aren’t wearing your necklace.”  “Ahh, Sweetie, go to BED!”  Tuesday was early park hours (the best perk you get by staying at a Disney resort) at Epcot.  And, my kiddo, loved it.  Afterall, it is the home to “the biggest golf ball of all.” And, not only that?  You can actually ride a ride inside the golf ball.  We realized only after we got there that only about three things are open at 8, when Magic Hours start.  One being Soarin, which is the ride Dad and Puppy have gone to do.  My mom and I had to deal with Sweetie Darling and the fact that the ride we planned to do, Nemo, is not open.  So, we waited.  An hour.  And, thank God the kid is being angelic and agreed to sit in his stroller (something he’d NEVER do at home) for most of the hour wait.  Well, that and the seagulls saying, “Mine. Mine. Mine.” were something so hysterical, he could not get enough of them.  We ran from Nemo to the “character meet & greet” line in order to get pictures with Mickey.  Another full hour later, we “meet” Mickey.  And, the lovely cast members taking pictures apparently only took pictures of the back of tyke’s head (which we found out only upon returning home, of course!).  My dad, being a dope, was given our camera to take the family pictures.  He kept telling us the camera was broken.  Umm…we figure out later the brim of his hat prevented the flash from popping up and that was the “broken” camera.  Dope!  The only halfway normal picture is the one at the top a cast member kindly took.  This is also day four of me having forgotten conditioner.  My hair in the pictures goes from bad to appalling accordingly.

Day Five: Animal Kingdom.  Ho hum.  I’m not a huge fan.  Puppy and my dad ride the Everest rollar coaster several times.  The kid is losing his excitement.  We left quickly after riding the dinosaur copy of the Dumbo ride multiple times.  After nap, we hit the Disney MGM park which is also ho hum and where my dad & Pup rode the Aerosmith Rockin Rollar Coaster twice.  This was where we got the best giggles from the kiddo.  He loved the Muppets in 3D show.  LOVED it.

Day Six: Early hours at Magic Kingdom.  I don’t know how, but we managed to hit every single ride we’d missed by 11:30 am.  And, this included: Dumbo, Small World, Jungle Cruise, Snow White, Tiki Room, Country Bears, Haunted Mansion, Pirates & Teapots - did I mention my 63 yo dad got sick from the teapots?  No, well he did!  We were en fuego at getting through the lines.  Rock on me hearties.  And, despite Burgh saying to the contrary, there was this new deadly drop in Pirates.  I only discovered this as the boat in front of us erupts in screams in the dark cavern ahead of us.  Umm.  Shite!  I debated jumping into the water and grabbing hold of Cpt. Barbossa, but I thought this would not be good role modeling for the tyke.  So, I screamed like the sissy I am…and he laughed.  Boy.  I felt just great that my newly three year old was better at a kiddy ride than his 30 year old mom.  Yeah.

Day Seven: Drop the tyke and the ‘rents at the airport and head towards the sunset.  On our way to Orlando, we stopped for lunch & gas in Tallahassee.  We arrived in New Orleans with rain.  Yuck.  And, how sad.  It’s been 2.5 years.  It still looks like it might’ve weeks after the storm.  Puppy’d never been.  And, you just gotta go once to eat some beignets and walk through the Quarter.  His initial reaction? “Damn this place is a shithole.” His final reaction? “Damn this place is a shithole.”  I was really shocked at how little reconstruction had taken place.  *Here is my rant* As the dregs of NO society were bussed to my hometown and the murder and crime rate went up 25% accordingly…not to mention many of them spending those 3000 cards our taxes gave them for free at Tiffanys in the Galleria, you would’ve thought the people left behind or that returned would’ve cleaned the place up.  Nope.  What are they doing with the billions in aid they’ve been given??  *end of my rant* Although, I did notice there were some really nice places that didn’t seem to belong.  I walked by mini-mall with a Saks, a Pottery Barn, a French Connection (and there isn’t even one in all of DFW!), and a Brooks Brothers that were across the street from Coyote Ugly and some sketchy bars.  It didn’t make sense.  Although, Mr. Diabetic did love his beignets from Cafe du Monde.  How could you not?

Okay.  That’s the trip in a nutshell.  I know this was a long, random hodgepodge of crap from the inner workings of my kooky brain - SORRY!  But, then I return.  And, discover something: Catwoman has gone and called me out in a guest post on MY BLOG.  Saying something about my kitchen table o’nookie.  Well, I must set the record straight.  There was one nooner at that table and it was 9 years ago.  I can’t believe you got me to admit that.  Geez wumman.  Where she’s getting this swabbing the poop deck crap?? I have no idea.  Oh, and thanks.  Having to face my brother & sister-in-law about that?  Was justification to drink to excess.  How do you look at your baby brother (well, one you’ve known since before his voice changed) and discuss rear entry and how Catwoman is a total liar?  Egads!!  The position YOU put me in was far more dirty than the one you imagined Puppy did!

Then, Burgh goes and brings up the damned jon jon debacle of 08.  She’s really making me think about calling off our girl-on-girl wedding in Vermont again.  And, after Antics already agreed to shell out $19.95 to get an online officiant license.  Burgh?  Do I need to cancel the caterer?  Everybody’s set to spend that stimulus package in New Hampshire - the land of no sales tax.  You wouldn’t want me to get cold feet again, would you?  I mean our June wedding.  The invitations are set to go out.  June Cleaver is our maid of honor.  The perfect shade of lavender.  I would’ve even been the boy & gotten the tux.

Thank you to BM, Janet, and Bren for doing nice, innocent posts….hmmm….see if I play hooky again anytime soon!

*Peeks around corner*

hello?

Anybody there?

HI!

Burgh here.  Yeah, The Burgh.  The one that AFF spends entirely too much time saying is funny and that the real funny chicks that were in charge earlier in the week talked up way more than necessary.  You know what happens when a bunch of people say you’re funny and go and build up big expectations?  Life grabs itself the most ginormous straw you’ve ever seen and sucks every last ounce of funny out of your brain.

Hear that?  That’s the sound of life burping on my funny.  I’ve heard it tastes like chicken when it comes back around the second time.

So, I’ve spent the entire week trying to think of what I would write over here.  At first, I was going to endlessly mock Southerners and some of the crazy things they make their kids wear.  But then I remembered that time I kind of sort of but not really inadvertently assisted someone else in proclaiming that jon-jons were grounds for your kid not liking you in a few years.  When I kind of sort of but not really did that, I wound up with a box full of Dora stickers and temporary tattoos in the mail.  The only thing I hate more than Dora is my 2-year old walking around with a semi permanent tramp stamp featuring good old football head.  Lord knows what AFF would do to me if I really let loose on some wardrobe malfunctions of the toddler kind.

My next thought was to provide a sort of list of rules for Puppy.  You know, a helpful guide to not getting your ass kicked by AFF.  I was going to suggest things like frequent manicures for himself, shopping at Tiffany’s at least once per month, and sending Calla Lillies each and every Friday.  Then I remembered that time I sent a set of nail clippers down to Texas especially for Puppy.  He might just find a way to come to Pittsburgh to gouge my eyes out with those nail clippers if I don’t leave him alone.

I thought about doing another one of my favorite kinds of posts, one of those ones where I go shopping for stupid stuff like creepy dolls.  The thought of AFF being stuck looking at a freaktacular baby doll on her very own blog amused me for at least ten minutes.  The only problem was that I would have had to look at all the dolls in order to get them posted here.  My brain still hasn’t recovered from the last time, so I decided that wasn’t a good option either.

In honor of AFF’s trip to the happiest place I used to work at, I briefly considered sharing some of the many, many, many stupid things I heard people say while at the House of Mouse.  That would have made for a long post and would have included wondrous statements like “I need to return these socks, please” (mind you, the guy was taking them off of his own stinky feet as he said it) and “How do I get back to the monorail” (said while standing in a part of Disney World that has no monorail service), but I can’t be sure that she won’t come back home yapping about how some ignorant Disney Cast Member refused to help her find the Tweety Bird t-shirts.  In the interest of not pissing off the ones I love, I figured I better not go there.

So, I’m left with nothing.  My funny has been sucked dry and I’ve got nothing worthy of this blog.  Good thing AFF will be back in a flash.

Sorry that I suck, AFF, and WELCOME BACK!  (It’s your turn at Scrabulous, by the way.)

Hello, everyone.  For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Catwoman.  And to those of you who don’t know me, I ask “what the hell is wrong with you?  Do you not like Canadian women with beer guts pregnancy bellies who have really, really cute toddlers and an aversion to Dora the Explorer and gigantic Texas spiders?”  Oh, you don’t.  Well, then please return tomorrow when the hot woman from the most polluted city in the country (per the Today Show this morning) takes over tomorrow.  The woman who apparently shares my decorating style, as she doesn’t even have the floor space to save her potted plants from frost, because her Burgh home is littered with toys that are probably oozing lead everywhere.  But did you know her daughter, just like my son, can glow in the dark thanks to these toys with lead?  Makes it easier to find toddlers that way when they try to sneak out to buy beer at night.

But this isn’t Burg’s blog, even if it will be tomorrow.  This is AFF’s.  And as her guest writer today, I thought that I would answer questions about our dearly beloved 30-year old AFF who thanks to the greatness that is Oil of Olay, looks to be only about 17.

Only two questions came in, the first one asking me how do I know AFF in real life.  Well, simple really.  I met AFF at StrollerFit, a class for moms who look pregnant, even though they’re pushing a stroller around that has an infant in it.

I joined, and about a year after I did, this girl showed up with a boy about six months older than mine, a toddler who was walking.  And he liked to climb stairs.  This was incredible to me, as my own son could barely sit up and would regularly spit up on himself, or poop so much that it would climb up his back like Gene Simmons’ back hair.

The other thing I noticed about AFF is that everything she owned had her son’s name on it.  Her diaper and wipes holder.  Her diaper bag.  His sippy cups.  I believe that on her very small and very white hiney are tattooed the words “property of SD.”

Which if I were Pup, would totally freak me out and stop me from doing her from behind.

I’m pretty certain that this is the first time in AFF’s blog’s history that the words “doing her from behind” have been written.  From what I hear, AFF’s bro-in-law reads this blog.  To him, I say sorry I made your eyes bleed.  Also, you may not want to eat on their kitchen table anymore, bro-in-law, because I’m sure it’s seen more action than a 10-dollar ho.

(disclaimer:  This is my attempt at making AFF never leave town again because I miss her).

The second question was to share a deep dark secret about AFF.  Well, there are none I can share that wouldn’t make her bitchslap me.  Which I guess is one of her secrets, she likes to bitchslap people. The other thing I have to tell you about AFF in real life is that she wears cardigan sets and pearls and headbands.  And she looks clean all the time.  I’m serious, I’ve worked out with the woman many times, and she doesn’t sweat.  Her hair doesn’t ever get messy or sticky.   I’m pretty sure she’s one of the only people in the world whose shit don’t stink either.  When we go out anywhere, she looks like she stepped out of some ad, you know, one of those with the perfect stay-at-home mom, while I look like Frumpy McFrumpster.  And yet, I put up with it.  Only because she amuses me with her stories of excessive spending and she’s my gossip girl.  If there’s gossip, I find out about it from my AFF.

One of my favorite AFF stories is when she told me excitedly that she wanted a Humathingiejimingie.  I’m sure this wasn’t the name of it, but I’m not a brand girl, so I wouldn’t remember the name of it if you held a gun to my head.  I asked her what that was, which most people would gasp at my ignorance, but not the ever polite AFF.  She just said “oh!  You’ll want one as soon as you hear about it.”  She then proceeded to tell me (this happened a year ago, might I add, when neither of us were even thinking of becoming pregnant with baby #2) that this Humathingiejimingie was an 800-dollar stroller.  Or maybe it was 1,500 dollars.  Either way, it was the price of a small car in India.  AFF proceeded to tell me that she was going to spend her and Pup’s tax return on this extremely expensive stroller that as far as I could tell didn’t clean the kitchen, give foot massages or give bj’s so I wouldn’t have to.

I’m sure she was stunned to find out that I would not be following her path and spending our tax return on a stroller I didn’t need.  However, she did remain my friend, to my great relief.

I’ve learned very much from AFF over the  years.  Like, during my first pregnancy?  I didn’t even know there was such a thing as designer maternity clothes.  I swear to you, this is how ignorant I was.  The majority of my maternity clothes with Little Man were either on loan from my best friend, or they were bought from the clearance rack at Old Navy.  I know, you scoff at how someone can be so ignorant, but I didn’t know any better.  At the time, I also believed that socialized healthcare in Canada is a good thing.  Oh, wait, I still believe that.  Also?  Despite what AFF tells you, basketball?  Is a Canadian sport, because it was invented by a Canadian.  I don’t care how much she argues that it was invented on US soil, that does not make it American.

Anyway, back to my story.  AFF and I went maternity clothes shopping last fall at a consignment sale.  Neither one of us were pregnant at the time, so it might seem like an odd thing for two friends to do together to someone on the outside, but it made perfect sense to us.  As I followed AFF down the maternity racks, she told me “we have to look for Japanese Weekend stuff.”

I thought this meant that her and I would fly off to Japan for the weekend once we became pregnant and have non-alcoholic sake and non-raw fish sushi.  I thought it was oh-so-glamorous and thought to myself, wow, that AFF, she sure knows how to live.

Ends up?  Japanese Weekend is a designer brand of maternity clothes.  And once AFF got me hooked on it, I became obsessed with the brand.  In my non-pregnant state, I bid on hundreds of dollars of clothes on eBay and found much more at other consignment sales.

Now, the Old Navy clearance rack maternity clothes sit at the bottom of my closet.  A sad reminder that once upon a time, I was an unhip Mama with no AFF in my life.

I may not have a $1,500 stroller (which by the way, AFF doesn’t either), but I am richer and better for having a crazy twin sweater-set wearing Houstonian who tells me daily that she wants to move home. Also?  I have a better maternity wardrobe, so everyone wins.

Another fact about AFF and I?  AFF’s house?  I visited two months before she bought it and wanted to make an offer on it.  Sweetie PIe didn’t want it, because the road is too narrow and he couldn’t have parked his big ass truck with a trailer behind it in the driveway without driving through the neighbor’s house (note:  I know that might sound really white trash, but I swear to you, we’re not).  If that doesn’t mean we were meant to be friends, then I don’t know what does.

Love,

Catwoman.

Howdy, y’all.

I’m Janet. Usually I blog on my own Planet, but Holly gave me the keys to the joint so I could party while the folks are away entertain you while she is at the Happiest Place on Earth.

Holly and I are likethis, so I know she won’t mind if I tell you a little story.

My Wonderhubby and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary last Thursday.

(I will pause while you thump us both soundly on the back with hearty congratulations. Thank you!)

Anyway, romantic soul that I am, I had the PERFECT present all picked out for him.

You see, he is a service tech. He works with his hands and scary-looking equipment, and jewelry — especially rings — has always been a no-no.

When we got married, I bought him a wedding band, KNOWING that he would wear it only for the ceremony and the honeymoon (because I asked him to) and then it would live in a drawer, never to see the light of day again.

So I didn’t put a lot of thought into the band. It was plain and simple.

And came in under budget.

Accordingly, I developed a fair amount of guilt when he did NOT take the band off after the honeymoon.

In fact, he has NEVER taken the ring off.

So you can imagine the trauma this has caused for a neurotic creature like me.

About three years ago, I thought I should do something about it.

About two years ago, I figured out that our fifth anniversary could possibly be biggish-dealish enough to warrant a new wedding band.

About a year ago, I started hatching my plan and looked at rings whenever I was out.

But, truth be told, my man has very large hands. The simple band he has been wearing needed to be resized three times before it was right. So I was a little nervous about getting something that had “decorations” that would be “interfered with” in the resizing process.

So I hesitated.

And debated.

Meanwhile, we began to kid each other about what we should get each other for this auspicious anniversary.

He thought we should get a juicer.

But not just ANY juicer. More like a juicer-blender-pulverizer that did everything but laundry.

It makes juice. It makes hot soups. It makes frozen desserts.

He was in looooooooooooooooooove.

With a juicer.

I told him that he lacked any romance or sentimentality in his soul whatsoever.

He told me he was PRACTICAL!

Whatever.

So I continued to stew over buying him a ring. And to worry that he wouldn’t like it.

And then on Tuesday, I threw caution to the wind and just told him my plan.

And here was his answer:

“While I appreciate the sentiment, if it were bigger or nicer, I probably wouldn’t wear it.”

That whooshing sound you may have heard was all the air leaving my romantic balloon.

So what does he want?

The juicer.

I’m 100 percent serious.

After all, he said, “what could be more romantic than the gift of health?”

So. I. bought. him. the. juicer.

He is the happiest married man on the planet today. Which, by association, would make me the happiest married woman on the planet.

All this happiness begets happiness, if you get my drift.

I guess romance isn’t really dead after all.

But I do think it’s very, very sick.

Maybe a nice healthy glass of juice would help …

Hey! It’s Bren, the monkeymama, filling in today while your favorite anglophile is posing for pictures with a mouse while humming “It’s A Small World.” I was working on this post over at my Primate Place where monkeys freely jump on the bed, but thought I’d share it here instead.

It’s almost that time of year. Here in Texas, the summers are so hot that my monkeys and I spend most of our time at the neighborhood pool. If we don’t go early, like by noon, it’s too crowded to really enjoy ourselves. I mean, who can swim when there are enough kids crammed in the kiddie pool to freak out Old Mother Hubbard. The last time we went to the pool in the afternoon, I decided we would never go when it’s that crowded again.

I’m usually pretty tolerant of other children running around, making noise, etc. Mine can be loud occasionally. But I don’t let them bug the crap out of other people. And I actually watch my children. An inconvenience for some parents, I know, but hey, it’s my job since I birthed them and all. I was on one of the chairs, relaxing, soaking up the sun, watching my kids swim best I could with all of the others splashing around them, and minding my own business. A kid who looked to be about 5 walked up and pointed out a sign above my head.

Him: That sign says no running.
Me: Ah, okay.

Five minutes later…
Him: That sign says no running.
Me: I know. You just told me.
Him: I know too.

In the meantime, his sister wanders over. Their mother is under an umbrella on a cell phone completely oblivious to where her kids are or what they were doing. The kid was maybe two. She wanted our beach ball so I told her she could play with it. She promptly threw it in the water and walked away. I had to get up from my nice comfy spot and fish it out of the water before it floated away and disappeared. As soon as I sat back down, she returned and tried to take my phone from the top of my open bag on the chair next to me.

Me(trying to be nice): No, no honey!
Her: Waaaaaaaaa!

The kid’s mother never looked up. The kid wandered off but as soon as I got settled and relaxed, she came right back, reached up, and grabbed my boob. No kidding! WTF?
Me(pointing and no longer trying to be nice): Go over there with your mommy!

I then told my kids they had five more minutes. Since it was obvious I couldn’t relax and I’d just been felt up, it was time to go. As I’m leaning over to pack up our things, the little boy came back.

Him: That sign says no running.
Me: Do I look like I’m running?
He made a face and walked away.

This year we will go to the pool when it opens in the morning. So what if the water is so cold that my little monkeys are blue-lipped and shivering. At least, I won’t have to worry about the overcrowding, the unsupervised kids, or fighting off unwelcomed advances. And hell, everyone knows I need a few tequila shots before I let strangers grab my boobs.