New on the blogroll...

Passive Aggressive Notes joins the ranks of the proud blogs that I troll daily. Hilarity ensues when people find courage behind passive aggressive notes. I had one roommate in college who was a huge fan of them actually. Back in my early blogging days, I'd take pictures of them and post them on my blog. Then she found out about the blog and her little weekly feature on it (because our entire dorm floor was addicted to it) and left me another sticky note about that. We didn't like each other much. I think I will write another blog post about my experiences with roommates. But today I reminisce about another dorm memory spurred by my new blogroll friend.



I lived on a co-ed floor during my first semester at college. For reasons I still struggle with, boys are inherently gross. I had a brother and was aware of this fact but it became especially obvious when we had a floor meeting to discuss....and yes, I am serious...

...why we should not poop in the shower.

Apparently there was a recurring issue in the boys' shower area with someone taking dookies. Not only was someone shitting in the shower, but it had become such an issue that it necessitated a meeting with the RAs, the resident director, and a campus nurse. Though I don't know what good a nurse from the campus health center really was, since any time you ever went to the health center, you were diagnosed with mono or an STD. What's that? Your limb has been severed? We'd better take a pap smear...

The humor of sitting through a meeting discussing the negative impact of shower pooping to a room full of 18-30 year olds (yeah, we had a 30-year-old guy living on our floor... I bet he was the Pooper) was outshone only by the cleaning process. You knew the Pooper had struck again because the boys' bathroom would be evacuated and the campus biohazard team (I don't know if there really was a biohazard team, or if it was just the dorm janitors in biohazard suits, but whatever) would take on the bathroom in full force. The bathroom was then quarantined for the rest of the day. What did the boys do? I don't know. I used the girls' bathroom where we females knew not to take a doodie in the shower.

After that fun-filled semester of shower pooping, I moved on to the sorority house. That was much better, because if anyone took a dooker in the shower, I couldn't get mad. Because they were like, my sisters and stuff.

I still got it.

My husband A owns/runs a used record store. If you've ever seen High Fidelity, you can kind of assume the breed of folk that work there. I generally like them all except for his assistant manager, C, who is a complete tool and his wife is a stupid whore -- the kind of stupid that totally doesn't even realize that I don't like her. So anyway. The following is an exchange that apparently happened today after I stopped in the store and left, between A, C, and P, one of A's high school stoner minions.

P: (to A) Dude, your wife was looking totally hot today.
A: She normally does.
C: Well what about my wife? You never say she's hot when she comes in.
P: Because your wife is a fat beast.


At least it's good to know I can still get a rise out of the high school demographic.

If this doesn't make you smile...

...then I will punch you square in the face.


A caught Baby E just having a damn fine time Sunday morning when he woke up. I'm lucky in that for now at least, when she initially wakes up, she's content to sit and chatter and sputter rather than screaming bloody murder. (That comes a little bit later, namely when I think it's safe to go back to sleep.) I fell asleep nursing her about an hour prior, which meant that without my wicked Photoshopping skills, you'd be getting a nice glimpse of my nipple in this picture too. Way to go, Father of the Year -- years from now our child will be perusing photos from her infancy and... what's that? Is that's mom's NIPPLE?

Crazy Cat Guy Suveillance

I know some people who read this blog are cat people. I am not a cat person, but whatever you choose in terms of pets is your deal. I've made it clear before that I personally don't like cats, but more than that, I hate Crazy Cat Guy, our neighbor across the street.

It's one thing to own a cat, or a few cats, or shit, own a whole cat colony if you can keep it contained. But not Crazy Cat Guy. Oh no. His cats are all over the god damn neighborhood, every day. I've battled him over this before, with little to no change. The cats are still everywhere. But since I was home alone with nothing to entertain myself with... I began CCG Surveillance.

I took this picture the day I went into labor and it got lost amidst the hundreds of Baby E pictures on the same memory card. I finally found it today and had to share it with you. I give you, a glimpse into the world of Crazy Cat Guy:


Yes. That's his front door hanging wide open in the middle of winter. Maybe airing out the foul, deathly odor of cat piss. I don't know. I do know that there were piles, and piles, and TOWERS of Tidy Cat in the house. And those are three of his cat minions. Those are just a few. Hanging out on his front step. There you have it, kids, the Crazy Cat Guy Fortress of Solitude.

I don't know what's crazier. All that, or the fact that in my final days of pregnancy I was actually watching him so closely as to take a picture, with zoom in full effect, of his front door. I'm one tinfoil hat shy of complete insanity here, folks...

Self control.

I am neurotic about a lot of things. I hate paper, especially laser paper used for most receipts at stores, and especially newspaper. It's a texture thing. I refuse to eat the butts of food -- i.e., hot dogs, bananas, baby carrots, et. al. I freak out if my food on my plate is touching. But the one thing that absolutely sends my neurotic ass over the line is acne. Whiteheads, blackheads, cysts, zits -- I hate them. I must destroy them. I don't care if it's on my person or on another's. If I see one, I will eliminate its existence. And if I am especially close to you, I will seek them out. Nothing gives me greater joy than when A allows me to search his back.

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than popping whiteheads and zits. In another world I would have gone to school to be a dermatologist, and I would have been so insanely happy popping zits all day. (Note: I know dermatologists do more than pop zits. Save the flaming.)

That being said... Baby E has baby acne. BAD. I'm told it's normal, and WebMD said most babies get it, but I like having something to blame on A's genetics because clearly she didn't inherit it from me -- I've always had perfect porcelain skin. (Namely because I'd pop white/blackheads before they could develop into acne.) But there they are. They're heartbreaking, and they haven't gone away, though I'm told they resolve themselves by two months. (Hence why I haven't called our family photographer laureate, Ms. Fey -- not the porn star. I'm vain on behalf of my daughter.)

Do you understand that it kills me to not be able to pop them? I look at her sleeping so soundly, and I just want to go on a pinching spree. Seriously, like fifteen minutes and I'd have her looking as flawless as the Gerber baby. (Who was an Alpha Omicron Pi sister like yours truly, FYI.) The tiny little whiteheads... they mock me. A will catch me lovingly stroking her face and he can see the wheels turning. At which point he sharply tells me, "NO!" and I'm zapped back to reality.

I will not pop my daughter's baby acne. I will not pop my daughter's baby acne. I will not pop my daughter's baby acne...

Dog Whisperer, Your Thoughts?

In addition to deliberately crapping on the floor and eating umbilical stumps, Bodhi has now added compulsive licking to his list of weird and annoying and altogether frustrating habits. I don't know what sparked it and frankly, I don't have the time or energy to try to psychoanalyze my neurotic little dog. Me, Andy, the baby, the fridge, the couch... he's a licking fiend.

And it's gone too far.

Baby E has been feeling extra saucy this week (by "saucy," I mean a fussy, screaming, kicking, writhing, possessed demon child), and after nearly three hours of rocking, humming, shh-ing, and sobbing (on both parts), I'd finally gotten her to sleep. Carefully and quietly, I walked her over to her swing, fastened her in, turned it on.... and waited. Stood and waited for a minute, not believing my luck. Yes... she was finally out for her nap. I quietly tip-toed to the kitchen to do dishes. Still not a peep. Praise Vishnu...

Then I hear it. Fussing. God damnit. Not even five goddamn minutes. BUT... it was just fussing, not full-bore crying. I may be able to intercept this one. So I fly to the living room and there's the scene...

E in the swing in her sleeping gown, little feet and little legs flailing... and there's Bodhi. With his head completely covered by her gown. Licking up a storm.

Seriously, what is an appropriate reaction to this scene besides what I did -- screaming? There's my dog, one Huggies away from defiling my daughter... I mean really what is the course of action here? Dr. Spock? Dog whisperer? Anyone? Any input here?

I guess I should just be thankful that he's already been neutered long before E came along. Licking is one thing. Humping and peeing are entirely another.

I should not be saying that last sentence for at least another 16 years.

Sometimes.

Sometimes... I'm just not funny. I'm sorry.

Sometimes I'm just pissy and a monstrous, rabid, unrepenting bitch, and anyone who knows me will attest to it. And not even the fun kind of bitch, like how I'd make fun of customers who were especially huge pains in the ass at work, or how A and I love to make snide, cynical and all-around hilarious comments at whatever TV garbage we're staring at. No. Sometimes I'm just not fun to be around.

This is one of those nights where I just need to emote.

There is so much I wish people would just freaking tell you about having a baby aside from that "Babies are such a blessing" bullshit. Okay, it's not bullshit, but sometimes you just want to go insane. And it's such a weird combination of anger, resentment, and exhaustion, topped off with extreme guilt for feeling all of the above. My friend Jaime put it the most accurately, I think: if it weren't for the blind, unconditional motherly love, humans would cease to exist.

Baby E is screaming right now. Again. There is absolutely no reason for it. She just got two full boobs' worth of milk. Her diaper has been changed -- and changed again after she pissed on me when I was finishing up the first initial changing. She doesn't need burped. I think she just senses that I am tired, that it is 2 a.m., and therefore, it is time to be a fussy, nasty little demon.

A. is an incredible father. He adores her, dotes on her, and does whatever he can to help during those moments -- and there are many of them -- where I'm almost certain that I am going to go running from the house screaming. We are best friends, and we make a fabulous team in this whole parenting nonsense. But at night... that's when I feel the loneliest as a parent. He goes to work in the morning and since I'm on my self-extended maternity leave (when will I go back to work? Couldn't tell ya...), I feel obligated to be the one to handle all E-related fussiness. There's a lot of it.

And so I sit in the dark, Baby E on my lap still reeling from her latest raging tantrum, the glow of the laptop in front of me and CBS morning news on (it comes on at 2:30 a.m., so the tired mothers like myself can catch up on the real world that we miss during the days of poop, puke, feed, poop, change, rinse, repeat). Deep down I hate A. for being fast asleep. There's been a few times where she starts crying, and I've started to sit up to take care of her, which with infected stitches (yeah, vaginal stitches are still there and they're ANGRY) is a slow and painful motion, and he rolls over to face AWAY from me and the baby. I just want to punch him in the back sometimes. Oh, I'm SORRY we woke you up, babe. Don't worry, you go back to sleep, I'll take care of this for, oh, the next four hours.

I love my little family, I really do. But some days I just want to run away, get in my car, and drive. Just drive. But then I'm reminded by the scary 3 a.m. news that gas prices are insane and we're in a recession. Which makes me feel even better about the fact that I'm not working, that I have run out of my personal money that I'd saved up, that there's a leak in the plumbing that we've yet to figure out, that the dog is behind on getting his immunizations, that I need to find a new pediatrician for Baby E (one I don't hate, like the current one).....

Being awake at 3 a.m. eventually causes you to lose your mind.

That's all.

Belly-button ballyhoo

Baby E's umbilical cord stump has fallen off.

How do I know?

Because our dog, Bodhi, ate it.

I'm squeamish. I'll admit it. There are certain things I just don't and won't do because they totally gross me out, and recently added to the list was umbilical stump care on the baby. That task was relegated to A., which he didn't seem to mind too much. He's pretty unflappable (he did, after all, investigate my taint region in a completely nonsexual way this week). But that damned umbilical stump is/was freaking disgusting. I wanted nothing, NOTHING I tell you, to do with it.

So I was holding the baby while sitting on the couch and she nodded off, as babies tend to do. I stood up to go put her in her bassinet when I heard a small *thud* on the hardwood floor. **NOTE: This is another situation where my world suddenly goes into slow motion. For effect, imagine the following turn of events in slow motion.** I looked down and there it was. It took a second to click in my head what I was looking at, but suddenly the lights came on in the recollective part of my brain and I realized what it was: the stump.

Before I had a chance to register what it was and, in turn, DO something about it (ie, picking it up), Bodhi came from out of nowhere and snatched it away. The dog is the worst scavenger I've ever seen. The second something drops on the floor, no matter where you are in the house and no matter where he is when you drop it, it WILL go in his mouth. I can't even tell you how many prenatal vitamins he's snatched away.

Bodhi ran away with his new treasure to places dark and unaccessible to anyone bigger than six pounds. In that time, I put down the baby, hollered at A that Bodhi had taken her umbilical stump (oh yeah, by the way, dear, her stump fell off) and what ensued was nothing short of a scene from Benny Hill. We are both chasing this tiny little dog around our house, yelling at him, yelling at each other, hunched over, crawling under tables and chairs, trying to get to this dog before he consumes our baby's umbilical stump. I don't know what we would have done with it had we salvaged it... I know some people save them, but that's really frikkin' gross. I don't know but I DO know I didn't want my dog eating it.

Well... you can't always get what you want.

I finally got to Bodhi and in the split second of me trying to pick him up, I saw it in his mouth, then heard his little dog swallow. It was gone. The dog had just eaten the baby's umbilical stump.
I guess there's really no harm in it. I mean, it's like a scab, right? It's not like he'll die or anything. Maybe it's rich in protein... though I doubt the dog has any vitamin deficiency right now after, as I mentioned, all the prenatal vitamins I've dropped and he's snatched away. Shit, I'm pretty sure he'll live to like, 30 at this rate, as chocked full as he is with vitamins and minerals and stuff.

And you can believe I'm not going to be searching CSI-style through his poop to find it.

(Thankfully, though, Baby E didn't seem to mind too much through all these shenanigans:)