Ein hundert!

It's 100th post on this blog. So I'm just going to dedicate it to Punky cuteness instead of ruining it with my sarcasm and cynicism. No, I shall save that for post #101.

Late night confessions.

I couldn't sleep last night. It's probably because it was the first night in about a week that I had bypassed the melatonin chased with wine, or it could've been the 6-8 cans of Mountain Dew I consume daily to keep functioning. Or a combination of both. Probably both. Probably not healthy but whatever. At any rate, I couldn't sleep, and as A and Punky both slumbered peacefully (and, in Punky's case, flailingly and kickingly), I started overanalyzing everything in my life.

You ever get like that? Where the night just gets into your head? I do all the time and I start worrying about stupid shit that needs no more than a second thought. Last night my attention and paranoia shifted to the job interview of the job I really really want, and I started wondering if everything on my background check would come out okay. In all reality, I have no doubt it would, but what if those parking tickets I ignored in college and to this day haven't paid -- when I decided "FUCK the establishment, man!" and parked in designated professor spots right next to the building like every day -- stood between me and this dream job? Seriously, man, just what if?

And then, for some reason, I was just reminded of other times in the past, when I'd be 100% awake worrying about the totally mundane and pointless and inconsequential. Particularly in grade school, and then I remembered something I'd never told ANYONE. I stayed up for many a night terrified the school was going to call and tell my mother this, and after a good 15 years, I think it's time I came clean.

I went to the principal's office.

I was a good kid. I was your stereotypical teacher's pet/brown noser, it was obnoxious and it was an irritating personality trait of mine til I hit high school and decided to rebel. But in the meantime, in third grade, I was NOT the kind of kid that went to the principal's office. That
was for THOSE kids, but certainly not me.

Until one day, Tim Somethingorother (damned if I can remember his last name) and I got into a spit fight on the playground. It was all fun and games until he hocked a big, nasty, green, phlegmy loogie that, by a stroke of luck and a brush of fate, wound up in my mouth and across the side of my face. I was completely and utterly disgusted and ran to the playground monitor. I told her Tim had spit on me. End of story. No back story that may or may not have involved me spitting on him, too. Tim was promptly sent -- nay, escorted -- to the principal's office and one of the playground monitor's cronies (the "mentally challenged" kids from the high school) took me to get cleaned up.

An hour or two later I was summoned to the principal's office, where Big Scary Intimidating Principal With A Mustache (BSIPWAM) told me that Tim said I'd spit on him first. I think this is what BSIPWAM said. I don't really know, because I was in the midst of a total, complete meltdown. I was NOT a kid that went to the principal's office, and holy SHIT, was he going to call my mom? He's going to call my mom, I bet. And then... oh then. Ever see Mommy Dearest? That's what would be waiting for me at home. So I was a shaking, sobbing, snotting, hysterical hot mess.

Nothing more came from it, and looking back, I'm sure BSIPWAM recognized the ultimate effect just the summons would have on Goody Two-Shoes 9-Year-Old Prego. But I went home and was absolutely terrified the school was going to call my mom. Damned if I was going to tell her. Nuh-uh, no sir, I wasn't even going to poke that bear. So for nights, who even knows how many nights, I laid in bed (before I had a TV in my room to distract my thoughts), wondering if/when the school would call my mom and tell her what a wicked, horrible child I was, and then my mom would send me to the Christian school. And even at that age I thought religion was a horrible idea that was best to be avoided. Whenever the phone rang, I'd tense up and wait for my mom to come raging down the hall to my bedroom to punish me for my spitting indiscretions. (For some reason I thought that surely the school must be calling at 11 p.m.)

So there it is. I spit on Tim Whatshisname first. That still totally didn't warrant a huge freakin' LOOG in my mouth, but whatever. I have it off my chest now. If this were a movie, some transparent ghost-looking 9-Year-Old-Prego would be standing across from me with a smile on her face because I set her free. Be free, little one, your loogie secret is no longer standing between you and greatness.

I'll take you down with me.

This is currently the only, ONLY thing that soothes the screaming Punky. It must be sung to her, while making funny faces and playing with her toes. If you can accomplish this, then you have tamed the Punky.

But for the LOVE OF CHRIST I can't get it out of my head, and it is slowly, but ever so surely, driving me insane.

My, how things change.

My biggest interview concern one year ago:
"I hope I don't have a booger showing."

My biggest interview concern today:
"CRAP. Righty just sprung a leak."

Once upon a bulletin point...

I had some sort of plan mapped out for this blog post, but got sidetracked when A and I started playing "Baby Balooga" and singing along in hopes that it would bring Punky out of her animalistic rage (thanks Shaken Mama for reintroducing the phrase to me). Here's me and A, two people who a year ago were going to punk rock shows, where mass quantities of alcohol were the most innocent of our imbibings, and now we're dancing around the house with a baby -- one that The State actually let us keep -- and singing children's songs.

What the hell, man?

Anyway, surreality of my life aside, on with the bulletin points!

• I still have a scab from my epidural on my back. Yeah, it's been 14 weeks and it's still there. This is actually a pretty big deal considering the fact that I'm OCD about picking things on my body and the bodies of others (baby acne, hello?). I'm terrified of it, though. I won't even let A touch it. I have this irrational and unfounded fear that if the scab is picked, then my spine, or spinal fluid, or lots of blood, or something -- will come out. And that, quite frankly, scares the bejeezus out of me. No thank you. Plus, if it's a flesh wound that creates a scab that sticks around for over three months, do you really WANT to see what would happen if you picked it? Really?

• It genuinely pains me to say this knowing the trouble my kindred blogger is going through, but the Punky is sleeping pretty close to entirely through the night except a feeding around 4 am, after which she goes right back to sleep. Sounds great, BUT... she's still sleeping with me and A at night. The child has not spent a night away from my bosom since her first night out of the womb. I really need to start transitioning her into a crib. I know I need to. I haven't had sex in who knows how long, since we concluded having sex with the baby in the bed is weird. Plus, can I tell you how much I L-O-V-E love sharing a full-size bed with a grown man and an infant? Personal space -- I can haz none.

• The battle with Kidney Boy and his girlfriend has been won. The Girlfriend now parks in front of their house, or in their driveway. Victory is mine! Hahaha, heehee, haha, HEEEEEEE!!!
  

• I've been dabbling in the job search. I have two second-round interviews next week, both for PR positions with nonprofits, which is what I always wanted to do, but then as soon as I start seriously considering a career, I think about Punky in daycare or with a babysitter and then I get panic attacks. The Grandparents are too far away, so we're forced to consider complete strangers to care for our child. It scares the hell out of me. One minute I think I can be a modern supermom, then about three minutes later I'm clutching my adorable, beautiful daughter and blubbering that I can't do it. Whenever I thought about the consequences of unplanned pregnancy, I always thought life would be hindered because having a baby sucks. Instead, things I once thought I wanted are now hindered because I'm so incredibly in love with my child. I'm holding myself back, not her.
  
  I guess if nothing else, going on job interviews gives me the opportunity to change out of my sweatpants and clean the puke out of my hair for a couple hours.
  

• A and I decided this evening was too beautiful to sit inside so we went to the back yard with Punky and Bodhi. Kidney Boy (or his mom, or his grandma, or someone) then let their dogs out, and they came out and started barking at us. The Girlfriend came outside to bring the dogs in, and, feeling a little guilty about my passive-aggressive battle with her and her parking abilities, A and I went inside. (After smiling politely at her.) Then we peered ominously out the window at them. Our antisocial tendencies could only have been more obvious if we'd hissed at her and then scurried into the house.

Time for another good ol' fashioned grudge.

Since I've been isolated with the Punky for so long and have been totally deprived of social interaction, my bitch juices are backlogged like milk in the boobs in the morning. I feel like I'm going to burst. I can't stand the niceness for this long. I have no reason to bitch at A, and there really is no point in being a bitch to Punky (plus she is just far too cute). I need -- NEED!!!! -- to be a bitch to somebody or I'm going to explode. Entrails on the wall, blood you still see with a black light years later, explode.

So I've decided to turn my sights on the neighbors. Again. Not just because I figure it might light a fire up under A's ass in the house hunting (I'm not allowed to do the primary online house hunting because I just pick out expensive houses I think are pretty), but because they genuinely piss me off. We won't even get into the ongoing battle with Crazy Cat Guy across the street. That one's reaching a fevered pitch, but that's more A's battle than mine. No, today I focused on Kidney Boy next door. Again.

On top of listening to his death metal music loud enough to wake up Punky from her deepest naptimes, Kidney Boy's girlfriend is home from college, which means she's over at his house all the time. Hey, whatever, that's cool, I was a crazy kid once, too. What pisses the SHIT out of me though is the fact that she parks in front of our house. Our driveway is only wide enough for one car, and unless the timing is just right, and I'm home before A and can park my car in front of his, I have to park out in front of the house. Otherwise I have to drag myself out of bed in the morning to move my car when he leaves for work and...yeah...no.

So it's just a little annoying to have to park a couple houses down when she decides to park in front of our house. It means I have to walk a couple hundred feet to my car with Punky in a carrier (and that's a good 20 lbs. at this point, by the time you add up baby and carrier weight) if/when I come and go. And this chick NEVER. FREAKING. LEAVES. I don't know how she can stand to be there. It's a little house -- smaller than ours, and I get claustrophobic with it just being me and A here -- and Kidney Boy lives there with his mom and grandmother. I'd be wanting to get out of there as much as possible. Not bringing in girlfriend to crash all the time, and oh yeah, PISS THE SHIT OUT OF THE NEIGHBORS BY PARKING IN FRONT OF THEIR HOUSE!!!

So the set-up today was as follows: A is parked in the driveway. Kidney Boy's mom is parked in their driveway. Kidney Boy is parking on the street in front of their house. Girlfriend's piece of shit car is parking in front of our house. I was parked down the street a little more. When I left to run an errand, I saw Kidney Boy leaving in his car as well (with Girlfriend with him). So I actually went out of my way on my errand to get home as soon as possible, just so I could park in front of Kidney Boy's house.

Why? Because fuck him, that's why.

I am totally aware of how petty it is. Trust me, that little voice of reason that I usually ignore is screaming at me that this is petty and I should focus my attention on the Crazy Cat Guy war (and that's a WHOLE 'nother post). But at the same time... it feels good to just be an asshole sometimes.

Just an FYI....

Yep. I'm the big 2-3 today, May 18. (Yeah, I'm really only 23, surprise!) No idea what the plans are, but as I write this, I am deliciously drunk on wine and will probably start the day with a headache tomorrow. But whatever. It's my birthday, and every Mommy needs some time to enjoy her happy juice.

(And oh yeah, Happy Conception Day, Punky!)

Never again.

I frequently joke that my indefinite maternity leave is the first time I've had anything close to a vacation since the fifth grade. That actually is pretty close to the truth. You name the job, I've worked it. Usually half-assed, with a cynical approach and frequently bad attitude, but a lot of that is just because I don't like people. But I'm even more cynical toward the human race now, and I can't help but wonder if it is due largely in part to my work with the general public.

I've done retail. I've done fast food. I've done food service. And with the exception of my last serving job (I actually really liked that place and the people I worked with), each new employment made me hate the human race more and more. I am not meant to work with the general public. I'm just not. I fail miserably at it.

Of all the jobs I've had though, the worst was in clothing retail. I worked at Old Navy for almost nine months during college. It's where I met A., when we were both sadly employed, but other than that little positive came from those nine months. Not only did I work during back to school season, but I also worked through Black Friday and the Christmas season. I no longer fear hell because I worked Black Friday in cheap retail.

When I first started, I was promptly placed where all ON rookies are stuck -- in the fitting room. It's like they put the newbies there just to see if they can hang. I have seen some horrible, horrible things in fitting rooms. I've picked up dirty diapers. I have seen puddles of human waste (puke, poop, pee -- you name it, I've seen it). I've seen tampons on the floor. It's seriously disgusting the kinds of things that people do in a public fitting room when the restrooms were literally AROUND THE CORNER. Working the fitting room was a miserable experience on so many levels, but one of my most embarrassing moments came on my second day on the job.

I started in early August, in the middle of back to school shopping season. The fitting room was always packed to the gills with overzealous mothers forcing their children to try on dozens of garments against their will. So many people came and went, it was hard to keep track of what fitting rooms were occupied and which weren't. Since I had to unlock the rooms for customers, I'd knock on the door, wait for a response, and if there wasn't a response, I'd unlock the door. Pretty simple, right?

So a young guy (probably college age) comes in wanting to try on clothes. I take him back to a fitting room and knock on the door. No response. I unlock the door and the knob won't turn at first (it wasn't unusual for the locks to get stuck). After jiggling the knob a bit, with this guy standing right behind me, I open the door. And there's a little girl, probably about 6 or so, standing there stark naked. BUCK. FREAKING. NAKED. And she screamed.

Not just a little scream of surprise, or embarrassment. No, that I could have understood. No, you could hear it from all over the store. It sounded like a child was being murdered with a dull knife in the fitting room. It continued AFTER I shut the door and didn't stop until her whale of a mother came stampeding into the fitting room demanding to know how dare I open the door on her daughter for some pervert to witness. (All the while, the poor jeans guy was just standing there.)

Somehow I survived that incident but I always did two series of knocking after that. (The doors to the fitting room went all the way to the floor so you couldn't just check under the door.)

There are a lot of things I could bitch about my Old Navy days. Folding pile, upon pile, upon pile of sweaters, only to turn around and they'd be completely unkempt again. There was the day I was exhausted and trying to fold the mess of t-shirts and a lady came, picked up a shirt like it was drenched in urine, sneered, "This is a disaster" and threw the shirt on the pile again. But hands down, my worst moment came during the poop in women's section 2.

It was near the end of the night, and I was cleaning up my designated section, women's section 2. There were a few customers milling around the store, including a woman and her approximately 9-year-old son in my section. I'd asked if they needed help, and she politely said no. So I was just cleaning up and doing my best to make it out the door at a decent hour. Then I saw her son. He was squatting down, and at first I thought he was hiding from his mom -- which couldn't have been possible because he was in direct eyeline of her. She'd glanced at him, so I know she was watching him.

Then I turned the corner and I saw what he was doing. This child -- CLEARLY old enough to know what he was doing, and in direct view of his mother -- was popping a squat and pushing a log out on the floor. I don't remember what I said exactly because it's one of those moments that just completely defies logic or rational thinking. But I remember seeing that turd hit the floor, seeing the kid stand up and pull his pants up (never mind wiping, but there was already so much wrong with this situation that I can't even begin to process that), and ran over to another section. The mother looked at me, looked at the turd, and walked away without saying a word.

I quit that night.

I know.

My kid is ridiculously adorable. What she lacks in hair, she makes up for in moxy...


That's all I got. Maybe I'll be funny tomorrow.

Happy Mother's Day!

This was my first Mother's Day. It made me happy. So to all you mom's out there who read this -- especially my favorite blogger moms like Shaken Mama, All & Sundry Mourning, and Emily the Good -- Happy Mother's Day!

I make a lot of jokes because my divine wisdom in parenthood (after three long and arduous months) is that a sense of humor is necessary to make it through alive. That's pretty much my take on everything in life. But I just wanted to take a minute to talk semi-seriously about how much I love being a mom. I never thought I'd be this happy having a kid. For a long time, I'd joke with people that I hoped for sterility. I had goals, and dreams, and ambitions. I graduated college with what seemed like a promising career ahead. And then nine days later, The Punky was conceived. A month after that, I was aware of it.

I remember after I saw the positive read on the pregnancy test. On all five pregnancy tests. The first thing I did was take a shower, carefully scrubbing my still-flat, still-skin-taut belly, like that would help me come to grips with the whole thing. (Which, interestingly enough, was the first thing I did in the shower after I gave birth to her.) It was such a weird collision of feelings -- I loved A, of course, but we weren't married and while we'd been discussing it, it wasn't a reality quite yet. I had always been so career-driven and now that train was coming to a grinding, crashing halt. And my parents. Shit, what were my parents going to say?

And yet...

I felt a little excited. And I felt a lot better about it when I could hear A smiling through the phone when I told him. I didn't want to tell him over the phone. I had just texted him asking him to come home early, and he thought something was wrong and called and pried until I told him. I still remember how happy he sounded, even though he was trying to hide it. I remember when he came home that day. We just stood there, in the dining room, looking at each other with these sheepish, shit-eating grins because we had both suddenly realized it wasn't just "us" anymore. It was "us" and this entity, this little collection of cells hanging out in my uterus, and soon it would be us and a bump, and then us and a baby. We were scared shitless, but as cheesy as it sounds, we had each other. While I can't speak for him, I knew that was enough for me.

Almost a year since and our 3-month-old daughter is currently asleep on my lap, spread eagle with her little legs dangling on my sides, her little fists clutching my t-shirt and her head smashed in my armpit, a favorite sleeping position of hers I don't think I will ever understand. This perfect, beautiful little person. What a crazy year it's been, but she made it here and it seems like she can hang. In three short months she's morphed from this squirmy pink gummy bear into a little person. She makes eye contact, and as soon as her gaze catches mine she smiles. Sometimes it's accompanied by chattering. We make eye contact and it's just this unspoken understanding that we are each other's world.

I wake up every day next to the two loves of my life, and more often than not, she is already awake, smiling and staring up at the bouquet of silk flowers that hang above our bed, or the ceiling fan. Smiling, kicking, cooing... just happy to start the day. She has reminded me that every day is a gift. Every day there is something new to see, new to discover, new to feel and another day that we get to experience love. Another day to feel. Another day to just BE. I can't wake up in a bad mood when I wake up to such a happy little person. Every day I wake up to my husband kissing his girls good morning, and I then roll over and coo, "Good morning, Sunny Bunny!" And I'm met with happy marching and a big, gummy, toothless grin.

Every day waking up to her is like the third date. When you realize that you are absolutely crazy about the person you're seeing, and that you're excited for the relationship, excited to talk to them, waiting for the phone call and counting the minutes til you can see them again. It's like that every single day with her. It's amazing to watch all the little things in life blow her mind -- watching her figure things out. The tiny things we never think about. It's all new to her and to watch her figure it out and make the mental connections is just the coolest thing. It's the best thing in the world to watch her becoming this really cool little person, and to know that it's because of me. And A. And fate and whatever god is out there.

I have done a lot of really cool things in my life. I've traveled to neat places, seen some things that would rock your face off, accomplished a lot, won trophies and plaques, been published in newspapers and magazines. Until last June, I thought I was the shit. But now I look at her and can say without a doubt, this little person is the best thing I have ever done, or ever will done. I love her in ways I never knew it was possible to love someone. She. Is. My. Life.

It's amazing, the things you can learn from someone who's only been around three months, but sometimes things in the simplest of terms are the most important to learn.

Can't...take...the stupidity.

Through high school, one of my life's dreams was to be on MTV's "The Real World." Now as I watch it, I'm realizing that it's probably for the best that I abandoned that goal because I'd be the show's way-too-honest bitch, and let's face it, I've already got a blog to do that on in sweet anonymity.

Okay. So this season's beefcake is a greasy 'roid-head named Joey. I hate Joey. Sure, he's pretty hot, if you're into that sort of thing, but besides being vain and arrogant and just all around stupid, Joey has a supposed "drinking problem." He claims he was an alcoholic, got things under control, and is trying to abstain from drinking. But of course, this is "The Real World", and everyone knows in the real world all you do is drink, not work, clean up puke, and have a lot of sex with people you live with.

Actually, that is sort of what my life now is like. Minus the alcohol. Okay, most of the alcohol.

But it totally pisses me off how Joey talks about his "alcoholism." DUDE, you weren't an alcoholic. So you spent four or five years drinking a lot and you happened to be a total douche when you drank. Guess what, it happens to a lot of us. It's called college. We all do stupid stuff in that wonderful alcohol-hazed window -- I might've pierced a few body parts normally covered by clothing, I might've flashed those parts to complete strangers. I might've called up exes and reminded them what miserable human beings they were. I might've called my mom at 3 a.m. and asked how to make Easy Mac. I might've, but I'll never tell. But whatever, you grow out of it.

I totally saw and dealt with Joey's type in ye olden college days. The type that get drunk, makes a general asshole of himself, breaks some things, pees on the couch, and steals some DVDs. And then in the days that ensue, when everyone's pissed, claims to have an alcohol problem to excuse the fact that he was just a big fat asshole. Yeah. That's not alcoholism. That's called being a douche that nobody likes.

So the most recent development on "The Real World" is that Joey has decided to go to rehab, the cure-all for everything that goes wrong in life where you can put your asshole issues on hold, they dissolve and you never have to say you're sorry. But what really burns me up is the fact that Joey sat and with tears glistening in his glazed-over eyes, tells the producers that it's "this place" that makes him drink. Okay, nobody held a gun to your head and told you to take shot after shot, dude. Guess what, you did that all on your own. And -- even better -- he tells his roommates, "I didn't drink for FOUR MONTHS!"

FOUR MONTHS? REALLY?!?! Holy crap, get this guy a damn medal!

I hate people my age. Maybe this is why I married someone six years older than me. That, and because he knocked me up. But mostly we married because of love and stuff.

Vanity, Thy Name is Baby.

As I typed the title of this post, I realized that a while back I posted an entry called "Vanity, Thy Name is Pregnancy." So I guess this is just the natural progression of things.

The latest contraption that keeps the Punky placated for 15 minutes is her beloved Grandma swing. She hated the swing we presently had. I don't know what it was but she could be in a coma and we'd put her in it, and she'd instantly wake up in a rage. She hates our swing. But she seems to love the swing A's mom has at her place, so Grandma A has been so very kind as to let us borrow her swing so Mommy can FOR THE LOVE OF GOD put the baby down for 10 minutes.

It's been working out splendidly except for one thing. There is a little flower with a mirror on it that hangs above the swing. The Punky will amuse herself for minutes at a time (which when you're three months old, that says a lot for your attention span) staring at the mirror. She smiles. She coos. It's actually adorable. I suppose it's the beginnings of what will probably become an obnoxiously vain teenager, but she is very cute, so I suppose it's warranted.

But after about 15 minutes of Mirror Baby, the Punky wants no more. No more, she says! She goes from gurgling and cooing to angrily pawing at the mirror and screaming. FUCK Mirror Baby, man! I hate that baby! Who in the big blue FUCK does she think she is? SHE'S MOCKING ME!!!! GRAAAHHH!!!!

(Apparently in my mind, my daughter has inherited my potty mouth. Meh. Whatever.)

So I think we're looking at the early developments of either vanity, or a self-loathing complex. I'm not sure which yet. Stay tuned on that.

Five months and 14 days...

...That's how long I've got to train.

Anyone who knows me knows if there's one thing I am, it's ambitious. I never had much of a chance to create a "bucket list" after college because, as we all know, nine days after I graduated college I got pregnant with the Punky, and suddenly my whole world was about being pregnant. So I never really got to think about what I wanted to do with my life, what I wanted to accomplish. I mean, sure, get a good job, get married, become a mom... okay, as Meatloaf says, two outta three ain't bad. But the other things -- bungee jump, dive off a cliff in Hawaii, that kinda thing.

I always wanted to run a marathon. I ran track in high school, and was athletic through high school and college. It crossed my mind a few times in the past, but I never set an actual goal. Then this weekend we hung out with A's brother and his girlfriend, and she just casually mentioned, "Oh, I ran a half-marathon today." Like, Homegirl just got up and decided to run 13.1 miles yesterday. Like, what the hell, man?

So I have decided, you know what, why not me? And so my goal is set. On October 18, 2008 -- eight months and three days after giving birth to the Punky -- I am going to run in the Indianapolis Half Marathon. (Yeah, half, give me a break, baby steps, folks.) Now that I've said it on my blog, it must be done. Yep. Gonna do it. Watch me.



That being said, anyone got any good running music to suggest for the ol' iPod?

And our newest Googling winner is...

Perusing through the newest round of Google searches that bring people here, I found this little gem from someone in Australia:

"dog shitting on baby"

Seriously? You just Google searched this? Seriously?

Dude, I thought I was the least likely candidate for parent of the year for not freaking out when Bo licks Punky's hands. Apparently I was wrong. Leave it to the fine searchers of Google to make me feel exponentially better about my parenting skills.

(Fat) Fish Out of Water

Do you ever have those occasional epiphanies in life where you're slapped with the realization that things as you previously knew them are never, ever going to be the same?

I had one after my first kiss with A -- the only time in my life I've ever kissed on the first date. I had one as I stared at the digital "positive" read on the pregnancy test last June. I had one shortly after pushing a child out of my vadge (yeah, I spell it with a D, whatever). And I just had one today as I was stubbornly trying to push a baby stroller through Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yeah, okay, I'll admit it, I was one of THOSE girls -- the type whose closet consisted primarily of A&F deconstructed t-shirts and torn up jeans, all of which I paid entirely too much for. I was never QUITE in the club, though. I still remember feeling horribly dejected on a shopping trip in college when I was looking at Abercrombie for a pair of jeans in a size 10, asked the sales girl for help, and she responded by eyeballing me up and down and sneering, "You're probably going to have to check online for YOUR size."

(In the same breath she probably was thinking if she ever got as fat as me, she'd go kill herself.)

So today I finally decided that I'd mastered the "Mommy out in public" routine that I could tackle the mall. I pumped The Punky full of milk. I layered my shirts just "so", so you wouldn't be able to tell if I spurt a leak, I went to the mall just as naptime was in effect. I thought I could do my usual loop through the mall and then I approached Abercrombie.

Okay, I never noticed this before, but the entire store is set up to deter and keep fat people out. Those racks are way, WAY too close together. My size 10 ass could hardly squeeze through the store, much less with a stroller. The wheels of the stroller kept catching on the feet of the rack, The Punky was being extremely cooperative as I kept accidentally slamming her into tables, and salespeople were looking at me and I know they were wondering if I had just gotten horribly lost on my way to Fashion Bug or Lane Bryant or something.

So I made my way out of the store and sulked as I pushed on down to Sears, where the aisles are wider, the salespeople are less anorexic, and moms are welcome.

*long, sad, dramatic wistful sigh*