The End is Near.

They're collaborating. It's really just a matter of time til the Baby-Bodhi Takeover begins. All hail our incontinent overlords.

At least someone got a cheap thrill.

After mulling the idea over for awhile, I finally decided to try the whole "Site 2 Store" shindig that Wal-Mart's rocking out. I hate Wal-Mart. I hate the parking lot. I hate the aisles. I hate being there. It ruins my entire day, and I actually arrange my entire week's schedule to arrange for a Wal-Mart visit at the lowest traffic time possible. (Which is now impossible thanks to Christmas.) So hey, if I can shop for shit online, pay for it, and make one quick in-and-out deal out of it, I'm game.

It's confusing. And embarrassing. And I think I gave the sad, lonely Wal-Mart worker a hard-on.

Okay, so those of you who have dogs understand that panty crotches are like a magnet to dogs. Bodhi somehow finds ways, ways that defy physics and logic, into the hamper, where he proceeds to violate my dirty underwear and chew out the crotch. Earlier this week he got into the hamper YET AGAIN and destroyed the last of my non-granny panty underwear. So I took a chance and I ordered Wal-Mart lace hipsters and thongs. Because hey, Mommy needs laid, kiddo.

It was later in the evening (read: empty) when I went to pick up the order. First, there was nobody at the counter. I rang the doorbell, and I waited. And waited. And waited. About the point I nearly decided, "Fuck this shit," a hefty, red-faced, and obviously overstressed and overworked assistant manager came shuffling to the counter. It's Christmas time, at Wal-Mart. Poor guy was probably damn near at his wit's end. I can jive, turkey. I told him the name on my order. He took forever to find it -- but I'm sure probably a ton of people took the route I have. So I can't get mad.

My frustration is not at the process at all. It's really a sanity saver as long as you don't order panties. And here's why.

He found the package. Which, despite the 12 items on the order slip, it was a really small package. (Obviously.) Note: in the time I was waiting for him to find my package, a kindly little old couple got in line behind me to pick up their own package. Cute as hell. So he comes out with the package, looking a little confused, and says, "I'm not sure it's all in there."

I was sure it was all in there because lace panties, thongs, and hipsters don't take up much space. But I didn't exactly want to blurt out, "It's my sexy time panties!" So I smiled tersely and despite feeling my face get red, muttered something along the lines of, "I'm sure everything is there. Really, it's okay. I trust you guys. (I don't.)"

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. In the name of quality assurance and thoroughness, and much to my horror, he proceeded to cut the opaque shipping bag open. Out came the panties tumbling onto the counter. He then went on to pick them up one by one and shake them out, so as to separate them, and lay them out to count and make sure every. single. lace thong and panty was accounted for. I could hear the old lady behind me gasp and I felt every blood vessel on my face popping wide open as I sunk further and further into mortification.

Sure, it's just underwear. And hell, with my low-cut jeans that I still insist on waiting despite the fact that it is no longer 2002 (and yes, I still wear my jeans from high school, BOOYAH bitches!), my underwear is usually hanging an inch or two out the back anyway. But still. My sexy britches are not to be on wide display on the counter to the giddy glee of the Wal-Mart clientele.

I hope he enjoyed it, though. Maybe the little old guy did, too. I do what I can. Community service and such.

Thankful

Or, "The Story of How2 and A."

I feel like, being Thanksgiving, I should post the obligatory "What I'm thankful for" post. I was thankful for the little jelly bean growing inside of me last year, and I'm thankful for the incredible little person she became and is becoming. I'm thankful for the person she made me grow up and become. That's probably what I'm most thankful for. But you know I love my kid. So I'm going to discuss someone to whom I've promised I would keep his exposure in this blog to a minimum -- I'm thankful for the love of my life, my best friend, my baby daddy. I'm thankful for my husband, A.

It's been years since we first met, working together at Old Navy. He was a supervisor for the shipment/stocking team. I was a cash register peon. I wouldn't call it love at first sight. Like I've discussed before, I kind of thought he was an asshole. He was cocky, arrogant, and because he was pretty much the only desirable guy on staff, had full pick of the Old Navy litter. And he knew it. It was only a half-joke when people would joke about which member of staff was his flavor of the week. I was warned about him, and I knew his type. I wasn't amused by it and despite his flirting (and despite my huge crush on him, which developed pretty quickly), I refused to be another notch in the Old Navy belt. We could be friends, but I would never let it go beyond that.

One day we were having a discussion about hugging. I'm not a hugger. I come from a long line of non-huggers. I told him this, and he found it bizarre. And knowing him, I kept talking about how much I hated it, just hoping he would hug me because he's an asshole like that. He hugged me. I swooned inside, but put on an incredible act of "Oh my God, you're such a dick! Get off of me, GROSS!"

A. and I could have bypassed over a year of pained concealed crushing if he would have gathered the balls to ask me out two days before he first tried. I was sitting in the breakroom one day and he came up to start conversation. He asked, "So what are you doing this weekend?" We were friends, good friends, and so I told him about this date I had with a guy from school who'd asked me out. "I don't really know where it's going, or if I like him," I told A.

Truth be told, had I answered that question differently, A. was going to ask me out on a date to a concert. And truth be told, if he had asked, I would have said yes and bailed on the other guy. But he didn't, and I wound up dating the "other guy" for a little over a year, while A. went through a string of girls that I found to be less than what I felt he really deserved. I hated his girlfriends, and I hated that he was wasting his time.

A. eventually quit Old Navy, and I did not too long after he did. We fell out of touch until I ran into him at a strip club a few months later. I was there with the "other guy" and my (female) friend J., and we were drunkenly stumbling to a bathroom when I ran into him and a bunch of his friends. According to A., we hugged, and his date for the evening flipped out on him later that night, telling him, "Well, it's obvious you're in love with her." I unfortunately don't remember any of this, I only remember trying to keep track of J. in the crowd because she's a whole 4'11.

Our first date, we went to see Borat and had dinner at IHOP. At the end of the date, he awkwardly asked me out on another date, to be his +1 at his cousin's wedding, and I happily obliged. We kissed in the front seat of his car. A. is the only guy I have ever kissed on the first date.

We'd been officially dating six months when I got pregnant with Punky. By then he'd already drunkenly proposed to me several times, but no ring and no sober proposal meant that it wasn't official. But while I was scared shitless when I saw that positive pregnancy test on the bathroom counter, I was never worried about us. When we were friends, I never considered A. to be anything but. But when we began dating, I knew it was something big. I don't know if I knew this to be "IT", but I knew it was bigger than anything I could comprehend. And it has been.

We got married after dating 11 months in a quickie Vegas wedding, and I've never looked back. I have my match in A. He can be an asshole -- I have no qualms admitting it, and he knows he is, too. He's an asshole. But I'm no shrinking violet, either, and somehow it works for us. All our individual bullshit that people couldn't stand, somehow we have inherent immunity to it from the other. It's like two piranhas in a tank. We don't go after each other with our "assholishness" -- we somehow cancel each other out. But put us in a united front against or toward something, and we're unstoppable.

He's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him hugging me at the end of a really rough day (now he hugs me just because, not because I challenge him), or patiently waiting through my OCD spasms of list-making, late-night bathroom scrubbings and constant rituals. He lets me be me. I let him be him. And somewhere in this process, we find each other in this strange chemistry that would probably destroy other couples, but somehow we thrive on.

He's an incredible father and I couldn't imagine raising Punky without him. He adores her. I see him every minute I look at her. His eyes, his smile, his attitude, his laugh. She is him. Being Punky's parents has been the greatest collaboration we've ever had, and she is such an awesome little person. I have had a hand in it, but so much of it is A. I see so much of him in her.

So that's what I'm thankful for. I'm thankful that despite my age, I managed to find my match. I'm thankful I have someone to curl up with in bed, someone to push out of bed and who doesn't complain that I steal covers. Someone to make fun of my driving, to bring me cookie dough and Mountain Dew, and someone who gets me. I get him, too. And I will always be thankful for that.

Black Friday

I read, reread and re-reread my shopping list this morning as I went out to Wal-Mart. Water, batteries, jigsaw puzzles, fabric for my next quilting project, flares, Kevlar vest... okay, I'm kidding about most of that. But I did go to Wal-Mart getting last minute things to prepare myself to barricade myself in the house from Friday through next week.

Because there is no way in HELL I'm going out in the Black Friday post-Thanksgiving madness. No fucking way.

Call it one of the perks of being a stay-at-home mom. I don't have to work and endure the insanity. I can just kiss A. goodbye as he leaves for work, lock the door, and wait for the madness to subside. While toting around a shamelessly adorable baby could hypothetically work in my favor in battling through the crowds -- really, who will challenge a mother with a wailing child? -- I really have nothing I need to get. Hate me now, but most of our Christmas shopping is finished. (I'm home all day. I have nothing better to than abuse my husband's credit card as I eBay and wait for the gifts to come to me.)

My aversion to Black Friday began at a young age. I believe I was a genetic experiment bred to be my mother's supreme Black Friday weapon -- tall and lanky with long legs to hurdle over slow moving obstacles and still see above most of the crowd, with blinding puma-like speed. My mom would map out the battle plan of Wal-Mart, Sears, and Best Buy, and tell me where to be and when -- then would unleash me at the doors and pray for my safety in the field of battle. I fought for Furby. I tussled for Tickle Me Elmo. By 12, I was a decorated Black Friday veteran. If there was a bronze star for Black Friday wars, I would have earned it tenfold.

But I really fully realized my hatred of Black Friday when I had to work retail -- Old Navy, no less -- on Black Friday. Holy shit. You go into those stores and you shoot brief looks of pity at the tired, weary cashiers' faces -- trust me, the look of exhaustion does the bearer no justice. I still remember the end of Black Friday, when the doors were finally locked, and the employees all stared at each other, then slowly turned our heads to face the chaos that remained for us to clean up. It was like the ending of Apocalypse Now. We lost some good cashiers that day.

No, really. It was like something straight out of Dante's Inferno. We're not talking about a few shuffled piles of sweaters. I'm talking, there was a gaping, fiery entrance to hell in the middle of the women's department. We started separate piles for "Sweaters Without Tags," "Trampled/Damaged Goods," and "Unclaimed Children."

And none of this is even touching on the behavior of Black Friday shoppers. It's like complete fucking anarchy. All rules of courtesy are out the door -- to fellow shoppers, and especially to employees. I don't care if the sign said 80% off -- first, this place has been such chaos that I'm pretty sure that coat was in the wrong pile. And second, look, lady, I've been up since 5 a.m. and it's now 2 p.m. -- and in the seven hours I've been working, I have had countless bitches just like you ripping me a new asshole over a matter of pennies for cheaply made shit made by sweatshop children. And trust me, nobody actually wants this shit anyway. I'm just doing my job, and I'm not even paid enough to deal with your tirade. Take your fleece pullover, which you're buying for your niece that you hardly know, let alone know what she likes, because if you did, you'd know that it isn't this cop-out of a gift, and shove it up. your. ass.

And in the madness of all the shopping steals and deals, would you really expect people to be trying things on? Yes. Yes they do. And apparently in the rush of shopping, many are unable to be troubled to find a bathroom, because working on Black Friday, I found human dookie -- grown man-sized dookie, not even small enough to maybe be pardonable as child-sized dookie -- in a fitting room. Black Friday was also the day of the year we were most likely to find urine- and feces-stained pants stuffed in random crevices throughout the store. I unhappily happened upon FAR too much human waste on Black Friday.

I lost what little faith I had in the human race on Black Friday, bit by bit, year by year. So when Thanksgiving wraps up, the leftovers are stuffed into the fridge like a tetris puzzle, and I pass out soundly in bed, visions of night terrors and angry mobs dance through my head. And because of that, I embrace my not-so-inner-anymore hermit, and barricade myself in the safety of my own home as I wait for A. to make his way home from the front lines of his record store...

... at which point we will sob over the destruction of the human race together, drink heavily, and watch some porn. Maybe. Who knows. The world is my oyster, because I don't have anywhere to be on Friday.

Baby shower shopping shenanigans.

I had to swing by Babies 'R Us today to pick up some last minute stuffers for a baby shower gift, and couldn't help but notice some auspiciously childless, far-too-fit women circling the store with the obvious baby registry gifts. And they all looked lost, bewildered, and confused. I just wanted to walk over, pat them on their backs and look them in their eyes, which don't have dark circles under them from waking up multiple times in the night, and tell them, "Here. Let me help."

I didn't have to shop for baby-related items much before I had Punky because at 23, I'm the frontrunner in my group of friends in the Great Spawning Race. But I think there's so much people don't know about giving gifts to an expectant mother -- especially a first-time mom -- that I feel like I need to intervene. (Mostly because I'm a pro at offering unsolicited advice.)

1.) Don't buy clothes. Seriously. I know they're cute and teeny teeny tiny, but trust me on this, don't get clothes. I kind of lost count how many gift boxes of shamelessly adorable baby clothes I got for Punky, and after nine months, I can think of maybe two or three instances that I bought her clothes. That's what grandma's are for. Trust me. When it comes to baby showering for the first time mom, it's all about the necessities, most of which first-time moms (or FTM's, if you wlil) never even think about. They're too distracted by cute clothes. I know the registry has a shitton of clothes on it, but trust me. Save that FTM from herself and just steer clear.

1a.) If you insist on buying something clothing related, get onesies in multiple sizes (at 9 months, we have like no onesies that fit Punky anymore, but we had an assload at 3 months), or socks. Those are two things a mom can never have enough of, and they're cheap.

1b.) And if you're still going to bypass my warning to not buy clothes, don't buy the itty-bitty sizes, like "Preemie" (what the fuck is that about? Punky might have fit those when she was an embryo. Cute, yes, practical, no.) Even 0-3 months is a stretch. 3-6 months are usually a safe size. I had to pack a lot of Punky's 0-3 month clothes before they'd even been worn because she'd outgrown them approximately 3 minutes after she was born.

1c.) And if for some reason after all this you really think you want to get clothes, consider seasons. Punky was born in February in the midwest, and yet she got 0-3 month sunsuits. I know, they're cute, but somehow I think CPS would have gotten called on me if I took her outside in that.

2.) Diapers, diapers, diapers. I know it's boring, but it's one gift you know will get tons of use. Diapers in multiple sizes. Go crazy. Instead of dumping cash on clothes and stuffed animals, just buy tons of jumbo packs of diapers and wipes.

3.) NEVER EVER EVER GIVE STUFFED ANIMALS. I know, they're cute, and they're right by the register begging for you to buy them, and wouldn't it be cute to see a baby with a teddy bear? Yeah, probably, but everyone who has never had a kid gives FTM stuffed animals. I have two garbage bags of stuffed animals for Punk that I'm just keeping to use as incentives and gifts between now and when she's like, 8. For awhile, though, I had no idea what to do with them, and since she was co-sleeping with us anyway, her stuffed animals wound up here:


(God, I can't believe she was that small once...what? I was writing a blog post? Oh yeah, anyway...)

4.) If you want a cute idea, get a baby bathtub (if it's on the registry) and fill it with the bath essentials, which are usually also on the registry. Baby body wash, lotion, wash cloths, towels, etc. And PS, babies don't need bath robes. Don't buy a baby a bath robe. That's just retarded.

5.) Desitin. Baby Tylenol. Mylecon. First aid kits. Did I mention Desitin? Buy these. They're not cute frilly outfits and they're not stuffed animals, but I can tell you exactly who bought me all of the above for my baby shower, because I owe them my soul. Along with people who bought diapers, who also read this blog, who are awesome photographers.

6.) Go in with a few friends and get something bigger, like a stroller, or a car seat, or something like that.

7.) If all else fails, just get a gift card to wherever the mom's registered. I know some people are really opposed to the idea of gift cards, but they helped me survive the first six months when A. and I were more or less broke, but still needed diapers, or random baby things we never thought about. I still have a little bit left of the gift cards. They're a life saver and they are way better for the clueless gift-giver than a teddy bear that will wind up in a garbage bag in the basement.

I'm sure I'll think of more. But these'll at least help you look a little less lost. And don't mind me staring daggers at you from across the store. I'm just really, really tired.

Hamster moments.

When I was a kid, I had a hamster named Izzy. I bought her from Wal-Mart with money I'd earned from winning a coloring contest. Surprises lay in store for me, as unbeknownst to us, we had purchased a pregnant hamster. A couple weeks after buying the hamster, she inevitably had babies. The babies didn't last long, as I came home from school one day filled with glee and excitement to see the babies again and realized they were gone.

In their place was a scene of carnage that no 8-year-old can quite process.

I understand now. Parenthood brings a lot of insight with it, and now I understand why Izzy ate her young.

Because they drive you batshit crazy with rage and sheer exhaustion sometimes.

Punky is cutting teeth --again -- and yet again, is making the entire process unbearable. On top of cutting teeth, she also currently has a cold bug that A. brought home from work with him. She won't eat because her mouth hurts. She won't sleep because... I don't even know why, she just won't, she just lays in bed and thrashes and screams and stands and screams and kicks the wall and screams. Man, I miss the pillbug days when I could wrap her up in her swaddling blankets and let her rock back and forth screaming until she tuckered herself out. But anyway... yeah. So my list of awesome now consists of:

1.) Teething
2.) Cold
3.) Hungry
4.) Tired

And there's nothing I can do about it except stare wistfully at the bottle of rum on the fridge and wonder if anyone would really judge me if I just gave her a tiny bit, just enough to knock her out... then throw back a couple shots of my own and we could both just pass out.

I mean, I'd never do that. Ha ha ha, that's only what the bad moms do, not me, nosiree!

In those brief moments of sleep-deprived insanity, I start wondering if it would really hurt so bad just to cut my vajayjay open a little bit and stuff her back in to cook a little longer til she can be civil again. And upon realizing that, and realizing A. won't be home for another FIVE HOURS... eating your young sounds like a viable, logical solution sometimes.

And people look at me like I'm crazy when I say I only want one baby...

Body bag.

I am so filled with relief and joy that I could probably plunk down and sob.

Our mission this weekend was for A. to finally, FINALLY install our new shower in the bathroom. And now, after weeks of waiting, showering in the body bag shower of death (and incidentally, showering about twice a week because I hated showering in it that much) and tolerating the temporary nature of the situation, I have a mostly-done shower.

Okay. So. The story goes like this: a few months ago we discovered a leak from the shower/tub, which was going directly down into the basement. Realizing this situation needed a remedy, A. promptly resolved it -- by "resolved," I mean he opened up a cooler directly beneath the leak and let it fill to the brim, then would empty it out, rinse, repeat.

So finally, after nagging and withholding incentives of the "business time" variety ("Flight of the Conchords," FTW), he finally agreed to hack into the plumbing behind the shower and fix the leak. This is where we get into my original beef with the shower. The old man who owned the house prior to A. (A. lived here for a couple years before I was in the picture) basically took every half-ass, cheap way out in terms of home improvements. The shower was no exception. The external plumbing was falling off, the "walls" were made of dry-erase board, and it was all in horrible disrepair. So I won't lie -- I wholeheartedly encouraged A. to hack into the wall, knowing a beautiful new shower awaited me as a reward for showering in the gross shower for two years.

The leak was fixed, and we ordered shower walls from Menard's. Special ordered. We were told they would arrive the following Thursday. That Thursday rolled around, and we ripped all of the old paneling (all three layers of it) and went to Menard's to pick up our shower walls that surely had arrived that day.

This is where it all gets sticky.

The shower walls weren't in at Menard's. The shower walls were completely torn apart at our house. We were told by an entirely too perky sales manager at Menard's that they were so so sorry, that our shower walls were going to be on the next truck, which would be arriving Sunday. Okay. So we did a quick fix, irritated as hell, and taped up black garbage bags over the walls in the shower to last us til Sunday.

Sunday came. The shower walls didn't. This Thursday, they promised us. This Thursday.

That next Thursday came, and the walls didn't. This is when I discovered that they were completely out of stock. The walls didn't exist. The order had been cancelled by Menard's and they failed to notify us -- and apparently didn't update their computer, or they flat-out lied to us. So we had to special-order another set of shower walls, and would have to wait two weeks for them to arrive.

By the time they arrived, we'd been showering in the black garbage bag shower -- which, if you have ever wondered what it would be like to hang out in a body bag, you should've given me a call and we could've hung out in the shower of death -- for a month. A MONTH, PEOPLE. Then A. ordered new fixtures (is that the correct word for it?) over eBay after finding the set we'd originally bought for about $80 cheaper.

We had the walls. That coming weekend we were going to install it, because surely the fixtures would arrive.

The fixtures didn't arrive.

So we had to wait ANOTHER week after A. eBay-battled to figure out where the hell the fixtures were. Five weeks in the body bag shower.

Finally the fixtures arrived, the shower walls were in our house and in our possession, and A. and his dad proceeded to spend two full days completely re-doing the internal plumbing (which, unsurprisingly was a complete fucking disaster, thanks Former Owner!) and installing the walls, and I now finally have my beautiful shower.

Til this evening when we discovered another leak behind the shower walls.

*eye twitch* *eye twitch*

Hobby.

Recently, I realized that I really missed being mentally stimulated. I've been out of school for almost two years now, and since I don't have a "real job," my days usually consist of chasing after a now freakishly-quick and far-too-mobile Punky and rotting my mind out watching daytime TV.

I picked up a few remedies. Thanks to a friend sending me the first in the series, I've now become hopelessly absorbed in the Twilight series (if you're following my book list on the sidebar -- I just finished the third of the four books in the series). I'm waiting on the next in the series to arrive at the library, but I'm miserably low on the wait list right now as I wait for the other avid readers to finish up with it... all of whom are probably like, 15. Whatever.

And next to that, after the incredibly talented Anna made this quilt for Punky a few months ago:


... I've been obsessed with learning the ancient art of quilting. I miss being mentally engaged, and I miss having a valid reason to scream obscenities and throw fits of rage. So I taught myself to quilt, with the frequent instant messaging help of Anna, whose knowledge knows no bounds.

And so I made this.

It was made with the intent of being a baby shower gift for an acquaintance/former co-worker in a couple weeks (she's having a girl, obviously)... but now I'm not sure if I'll gift it or not. 1.) Because I'm a little sentimental about it, being my first quilt and all, 2.) because she was kind of a bitch to me when we worked together and I don't know if she's deserving of such intense labor, and 3.) I screwed up in a few places.

Hard telling, but there's my new skill.

Social graces.

While the negatives are few, the biggest drawback to having a shamelessly adorable baby is that everyone wants to talk to you and/or Baby, no matter where you go. I feel like such an asshole, whining about all the people who compliment me about my gorgeous child, but seriously, it sucks when the majority of your social interactions are either with A.) a nine-month-old infant whose political and social commentary all revolve around the "Da-da-da-da" and "Pffffffft!" platforms, or B.) a grown-man who still thinks dutch-ovening you in bed is hilarious.

So I never know how to talk to people. I am one step up from Gollum from Lord of the Rings, hissing at daylight and scuttling back into my hut. And I only get that one step up because I put on a bra before I leave the house. And if you're really lucky, deodorant.

I mean, what do you say exactly, when you hear, "What a beautiful baby!" I get the whole "Thank you" part, I'm good at that, but after that, I'm a one-trick pony. I'm limited to polite smiling and jostling Punky, trying to make her smile so it's not so awkward while she stares blank-faced at the strangers she encounters throughout the day who apparently know her, since after all, they're all talking to her.

It stemmed from when I was pregnant and would have every random stranger, old lady, and creepy prego-fetish guy rubbing my stomach and talking to me about being pregnant. This is just the natural evolution of that. My ventures to Wal-Mart *shudder* usually involve old ladies and/or cashiers telling me parenting tips, one or two people giving me disapproving looks while I use Punky as an accomplice in my passive-aggressive attacks ("See? THAT is why Mommy got an IUD!"), and two or three fleeting check-outs from guys who weigh their options with a moderately hot chick who, unfortunately, has 25 lbs. of baggage sitting in the cart, and I'm not talking about the sack of potatoes.

I suck at small talk. And I'm barely socially acceptable when I do talk to people, so I never know what to say. And when I do talk, most people don't understand my sarcasm and they just get weirded out and stop talking to me. Which really, isn't all that bad, but then I start feeling guilty for alienating people unintentionally.

("Awww, someone looks tired!" "I knew I should've grabbed concealer when we were in cosmetics.")

It's a good thing I don't have an ugly kid, though, because then I probably wouldn't be able to get away with 99% of the shit I say in public. Because it's cute when it's spouting from the crazy bitch who made such a cute widdle baaaaayyyy-bee.

Defiance.

We've turned to a new chapter in parenthood, and it is called "Defiance."



Well, it's either defiance, or a petite mal seizure. But hey, as long as we're entertained, right?

Bandwagon Drop-Out.

Okay, so I fell off the whole "National Blog Posting Month" bandwagon. Oops. Clearly the geniuses behind NaBloPoMo didn't take into account that it's November, and some of us have infants, and there are colds and flus running rampant and when you combine a small household with a husband who works extensively with the infested public, you get, ta-daaaaaa, a whole house of sick people. So I've been busy dealing with Punky, who has made it a point to be a complete asshole to convey how shitty she feels, and A., who... well, if you're unfamiliar with the misery of the Man Cold, you'd better go watch this. I think the creators meant for it to be satirical, but it's shockingly accurate.

So yeah. Daily blog posting wasn't happening.

While I was at Wal-Mart loading up on Nyquil, Dayquil, cough drops, Vix vapor rub, tea leaf oil, and 80 proof vodka (that last one was for me), I realized the entire store was already Christmas themed. Holy fucking Christ, people. I'm not even prepared to deal with Christmas yet. Hell, I'm still trying to simmer my rage towards A. for volunteering me to cook Thanksgiving dinner -- he thought he was being funny and that people would think he was joking. They missed the joke. I hope they like ramen noodles and hamburger helper because that's the extent of my fine cuisine. Or perhaps I could heat up some baby food cubes... after all, they're pretty all-encompassing. And easy on the digestive tract.

Anyway. Christmas. After nearly going on a homicidal mass-murder rampage through the city last year, since I was 7 months pregnant and moody and huge and I lack social grace to begin with, I've declared that we are going to map out our strategy and knock it all out as efficiently as possible... preferably with as much online shopping and home do-it-yourself projects as possible. And Punky... hell, I don't even know what to do there. It's her first Christmas so we have to make it memorable, but it's hard to happily shop for toys when regardless of what toy you put in front of her, she will go around it and happily chomp on the nearest power cord.

We've resolved not to get each other anything aside from getting new coats (Anne Klein wool pea coat, here I come, my love). We each drew a name for his family's gift exchange. My family... if I could just stick them all in therapy I'd call it a successful Christmas gift, but that's a gripe for another day.

Moral of the story: fuck the NaBloPoMo bandwagon, fuck Christmas, and fuck cold season.

So sayeth the How2.

The Ballad of Sophie Bear.

At Christmastime last year, A and I were celebrating our last holiday season without child (besides the 7-months-along bump in my gut), and were excited to share our excitement with our family about the impending arrival of the baby then known as Sophia. To celebrate, A's sister bought us a blanket like this (but pink), and had it embroidered with the name "Sophia." It was adorable, well-received, and appropriately named.

Then A and I freaked out over how popular the name was, decided to go back to the drawing board and eventually came to the final decision of Punky's actual name -- and it wasn't Sophia. A's sister was openly miffed that we'd changed the name after she'd gone to such trouble to get it embroidered.


Eventually I gave it to Punky and it has since become her favorite lovie, and it is now known as her Sophie Bear. Sophia is the bear's name. Of course it would be embroidered on the blankie, right? Sophie Bear is the ultimate sign of bedtime for Punky. The instant her tiny little fingers wrap around it, her thumb goes into her mouth and her eyelids get heavy. Sophie Bear comes along on all car trips, all overnight trips, and is a staple of every nap and bedtime.

So basically, Sophie Bear gets the shit beat out of her.

Today I realized one of the satin "pads" of Sophie Bear's paws had come undone and the stuffing was coming out. So I did what any mother would do -- I performed emergency surgery. In an act of sheer mommy genius, I took a 1" thick satin ribbon and first hot-glue-gunned it around the "wound," then wrapped it around and stitched it in place all the way around. Easy enough fix, except for the fact that I had a screaming, SCREAMING Punky sitting at my feet grappling for her beloved Sophie Bear.


I mean, I knew she loved Sophie, but I didn't realize that at nearly nine months, she'd created such a strong bond that she was genuinely concerned for Sophie as she underwent a pink satin graft. I wound up going to our bedroom and shutting myself in so I could quickly finish up. Punky proceeded to CHASE ME DOWN and sit at the bedroom door wailing as A tried to console her.

I finished up, handed Sophie Bear back to her rightful owner, and Punky's tiny little death grip wouldn't let up even through dinner. And I didn't have the heart to take it away after the trauma we'd all just experienced.

Back-up Sophie Bears have since been added to Punky's growing Christmas list.

Love and a ladder

I was wandering around Old Navy, mesh shopping bags slung over my shoulder and a stack of Old Navy credit card applications in my other hand. My walkie-talkie headset was awkwardly positioned in my ear and I self-consciously wandered the store, looking for customers to offer the store credit card to -- something I entirely did NOT want to do. (An FYI -- retail employees want to ask you about signing up for their credit cards as much as you want to be asked. Please don't be an asshole to them, as most of the time when they're asking you, it's because their manager is hanging over their shoulder demanding they ask.)

It was my first day on the job. I was wondering if this was really a good idea, but it was a job, and it was a job willing to work around my school schedule. And the discount wasn't bad. So I opted to suck it up. If I had known then what I would later know -- the tales of horror I have from working at Old Navy would make you physically ill -- maybe I would have dropped all my Old Navy trappings and run, but thankfully, I stuck it out a little bit.

While I was meandering the store hoping to not be noticed, a soccer mom stopped me in the men's department looking for a specific size in jeans. Running through the "points of customer service" drilled into my head in training, I looked up the size on the computer and saw that we had that size in "upstock" -- that is, in the compartments above the racks. I went to hunt down one of the gigantic rolling ladders, and upon spotting one, I tried to move it. It went nowhere.

Trying to not embarrass myself too much in front of the soccer mom, I pulled again. The ladder scree-d in protest across the floor. That's when I spotted him.

He was hiding behind a rack of clothes, watching me and snickering. His headset and name tag gave him away as an employee, but he was trying to go unnoticed, clearly entertained by the new girl's inability to hit a brake lever. I looked at him in desperation, my eyes meeting his as I silently pleaded him to get me out of the situation. Still laughing at me, he came around, kicked the brake lever, and said to me (in front of the customer), "Yeah, the brake gets stuck sometimes. You gotta get a little violent!"

I quickly thanked him and took care of the task at hand. I hunted him down a little later and extended my hand. "I'm How2," I said. "I hope you don't remember me as the chick too retarded to operate a ladder."

He smiled and introduced himself as A. His big brown eyes were still laughing at me as he said, "I don't know, I will probably know you as the retarded chick now."

"So the lever gets stuck a lot?"

"No. It works just fine." He smiled a shit-eating grin and walked away.

At the time, I thought he was kind of an asshole. A few years later, he'd become my husband.

I just don't want any Mary Kay!

Damn my slightly-defective freakish memories for numbers. I have this insane skill for remembering numeric figures -- I can tell you my grandparents' phone number, which I haven't dialed in ten years, I can tell you phone numbers of my best friends growing up, my old dorm room phone numbers, the exact amount of my last cell phone bill, etc. But sometimes I get a little glitchy. Happens to the best of us, right?

Sure, if that mistake doesn't involve your ex thinking you're a freaking psycho.

A few months ago, A and I went to my hometown's county fair. While walking through the merchant's building (scouting for free stuff), I got cornered by the sister of a girl I went to high school with. (The girl and I weren't exactly friendly, actually I made her cry in class, but apparently her sister wasn't aware.) The Sister was selling Mary Kay, and good goddamn, ya'll, I don't want Mary Kay. I hate it, it smells funny, and it makes me break out. But I just couldn't get around talking to this girl despite my attempts to escape. And because I still owed A for the whole Tahiti Village fiasco, he wasn't going along with my hints and subtle cries for help.

Using my acquaintance/rivalry with her sister as her in, the Mary Kay Sister kept talking to me and using her subtle questions from Mary Kay Brainwashing Training to figure out I was a stay-at-home-mom, and have I ever considered selling Mary Kay? You set your own hours and it changed her life, and holy shit, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I just want to leave, I don't care.

So somehow the Mary Kay Sister asked me if I wanted to sign up for her drawing for a free makeover, and damnit, I thought maybe if I did, I could just get the hell out of there finally. I didn't know how to say no, so I filled out the "drawing entry", which let's face it, the Mary Kay Cult just uses it to get ahold of you. There's no drawing. And as I filled it out, I filled out a fake address, fake email, and fake phone number. Well, sort of fake. I wrote down my old cell phone number. I thought.

To understand what was about to happen, you have to go back a few years to when I was dating The Notorious B -- my first love, first heartbreak. It was time for me to move away to college and I didn't have a cell phone, but I didn't have enough credit to get my own. So he signed me up on his plan, and as such, because I was young and stupid and thought it'd be cute, our phone numbers were one digit apart. We broke up, I got rid of the phone, life moves on.

Until you try to write your old cell phone number, and your memory takes a shit on you, and you write your ex-boyfriend's phone number.

I didn't even realize I'd done it until I got a Facebook message from him recently telling me that someone from Mary Kay had called for me. Then I realized what had happened. B and I aren't on bad terms, really -- we're both married now, and talk once in a while, and every time we do it's cordial and friendly and I remember why the hell I dumped him -- but still. It doesn't really look too swift for your heroine for people to be calling your three-years-past ex-boyfriend asking for you.

I responded to him, apologizing profusely and explained what happened. He was cool about it, but I still felt like a douche.

But not so big of a douche that I felt bad for putting his phone number on all those credit card applications I filled out in college for free t-shirts and foam #1 fingers. Whoops.

Tag

Check it out, a week straight of posting! And to celebrate, instead of throwing my usual tantrum at such things, I'm going to oblige to Tiffany's tag. I'm honored that people actually remember me, especially awesome people who I'd smile politely at from across the horseshoe organization of desks in class while we were forced to talk about our feelings. Ahh, COM class, eh, Tiffany? ANYWAY! On with the tag!


1.) I met my husband by asking, admittedly very embarrassed, for him to help me move a rolling ladder at the large retail clothing store we worked at on my first day. He showed me where to kick a little lever that released the brake, and I introduced myself, saying, "I really hope you don't remember me as the retarded chick that couldn't work a ladder."

2.) I'm obsessive about keeping the bathroom clean. I scour the entire bathroom, tub, sink, toilet, floors... every other day. The smell of bleach and Ajax makes me very high. And happy... probably happy because I'm high. Shut up, don't judge me.

3.) I freak out over wet paper. I think it's disgusting and it gives me the willies, especially wet newspaper. Punky is never allowed to play with paper because it inevitably goes in her mouth, requiring me to retrieve it. And that just isn't happening. My child would probably choke before I summoned up the courage to get it out of her mouth.

4.) Dirty feet gross me out, especially in bed. I scrub my feet in the bathtub (which also must be clean) before I go to bed every night. Even if they're more or less clean anyway. It's part of my nighttime ritual.

5.) In junior high, my gifted English class had a two-month project where each member of the class was a business in a town and we functioned as a small town each class. I wanted to be the fashion store. I was assigned the town newspaper. I was livid, but it quite possibly set things in motion for my future as a writer and my love of journalism.

6.) My husband is nearly incapable of being anywhere on time, so all appointments on our calendar I write 30 minutes earlier than what they actually are. We're still usually late.

7.) I keep a pack of Parliament cigarettes under my driver's seat in my car. I don't smoke regularly, and I've never been a regular smoker, but sometimes you just want to take a long drive and smoke a cigarette. On Sunday nights we order pizza from Pizza Hut and I always offer to go pick it up, and I stand in the Pizza Hut parking lot and smoke a cigarette before I pick up the pizza. It's my moment of Mommy Zen.

I don't know that I even know seven people who'd actually do this. So I'm going to be a dick and not tag anyone. But there ya go.

Breathe.

This pretty much sums up how I feel about the results of today and the last 21 months:

Snapshot: August 15, 2005

I sat on the cool steel beam that night, staring down at the railroad tracks beneath the bridge and down the tracks to the lights of town. It was still muggy out, as Augusts in Ohio tend to be, but the haze had lifted enough that I could see the stars. I looked down at the tracks, followed them back to the lights of town, and looked up into the night sky and sighed.

This was the very same bridge I'd come out to with my friends in high school, drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade and dancing in the moonlight to someone's car stereo. Somewhere on this same bridge were my initials in a simple equation with my high school sweetheart's, like so many other jumbled spray paint letters. And now I sat on the steel beam, rubbing the tips of my fingers along the edge of the beam, rusted and worn, debating whether or not I wanted to die.

It had been the worst summer in my life, and I'd been in the depths of a seemingly-bottomless depression. It was crippling, when I was of sound mind. I'd spent the majority of that summer in a drunken, drugged haze, trying to forget how truly hopeless I felt. I'd been on my way to a successful career, and had everything "going for me," as they say. Then at the end of the past semester, my world came crashing down. Details aren't important, but where they landed me was. I was completely and utterly lost.

My roommates didn't know how to handle me. I was the living dead in our house we shared that summer. We'd been so excited to sign our lease just a few months before everything... well, stopped... and now I was a ghost in the house. I slept most of the day, sleeping off the hangover and whatever other chemicals were dancing around my system, and if I wasn't sleeping, I was at work, or at the bar or a party trying to forget it. Then I'd come stumbling home around 4 a.m., collapse on the couch and rock back and forth sobbing to myself until I fell asleep. In the morning, I'd wake up to one of my roommates covering me up. They used to leave me a glass of water and Tylenol beside me, until they eventually gave up. I was hopeless.

"Are you suicidal?" my psychiatrist asked me. She wasn't even a psychiatrist. She was a grad student listening to me, humoring me, for grad school credit. She was a large woman, with a heaping "fat girl" bosom that I often stared at wondering why in the name of Christ she wasn't wearing a bra. She had frizzy blonde hair and wore thick glasses. I imagined she would eventually become a school guidance counselor. Maybe she did. At the time I didn't want to talk to her, and I only talked to her because my parents begged me to go to therapy. All I could think was that she was recording our sessions, and would later go back and hash over them for some thesis paper about how fucked up I was.

"Yes," I answered honestly. Shit, I figured, I may as well give her something good to write about.

"Do you think about it often?"

"Often enough," I said, thinking of times I'd laid in bed wondering how I'd do it. "I don't think I'd ever do it though, I don't think I have the balls. Plus I can never think of a way that wouldn't be messy, but would be effective."

Her lips pursed into a thin line as she nodded in feigned concern. I had already convinced myself she didn't give a shit about me or my problems, as much as I didn't give a shit about talking about them.

And so here I sat on the steel beam of the bridge, staring down at the tracks, maybe a 20 foot drop onto gravel and more steel. I had nothing left. My parents had cut off my funding and demanded I move home, and after a brief period of resistance, I knew they were right. I didn't know what I was doing anymore, but my roommates were sick of my shit, and I was broke. I was 20 years old and felt like I had nothing left. I'd crawled into a deep, dark cave inside myself and had no idea how to get out. It didn't feel like there was a way out anymore. The rock had rolled over the entryway to this cave and I couldn't move it. I didn't even know if I wanted to.

I heard the train coming in the distance. Far down the tracks, I saw the crossing guard go down. The blinking red lights stared back down the tracks at me like some game of visual, mental chicken. I had convinced myself, staring down the tracks, that I was going to jump. It was the only way to make the hurt stop. To stop waking up every morning hung over but still empty, still lost, still sad.

My car was sitting beside me on the bridge. I'd left my purse on the front seat with my wallet open, so that once someone found me, they'd at least know who I was, and tell my parents. My cell phone sat next to my wallet, with "ICE" ("In Case of Emergency") in the phone book next to my parents' home phone number. I wanted to make this as seamless as possible. The windows were still rolled down from the long drive out to the bridge. I wanted to feel the air around me, wanted to feel alive for a little while as I had driven as fast as my Ford Probe could go. If this was my last night alive, I wanted to feel something. But even now, staring down those train tracks, squeezing the beam and feeling the rust crack off in my fingers, I couldn't feel. I wasn't even crying. I was resolute, I was empty. I was already dead.

I was staring down the tracks thinking about that final push off the beam when I heard it. The tinkling, midi version of "Santeria" by Sublime. My cell phone.

For some reason, I felt compelled to at least see who was calling. I picked the phone off my driver's seat and looked at it. It was my boyfriend, M. I couldn't stand to leave without talking to him. I wasn't going to tell him what I was doing. But to just talk to him one more time -- I owed him that, for putting up with me through all of this.

I sat down in the car and answered. His cheerful voice broke through the silence I'd been sitting in, and we started to talk. I heard the train approach. I heard the train go under the bridge. As the bridge rumbled underneath me in my car, I couldn't hear M on the phone anymore.

I put my key in the ignition. I turned it. I drove away, still talking to him. I drove home. I sat in the driveway and talked to him longer. The conversation ended. I went inside, laid in bed, and decided that I had reason to live. That things would get better, eventually. The next day came, as did the next, and the day after that inevitably came, too. Days became weeks, and eventually, the emptiness filled with pain, and pain became scar tissue and scar tissue healed.

To finally release that pain, I got a tattoo to remember that night. It is a phoenix feather, to remind me of the legend of the phoenix -- the bird that consumes itself in flames, then rises better and more beautiful than before. It's behind me now, to remind me never to sit on that cold steel beam again.

Do you have the time to listen to me whine?

Last night I was watching TV when I realized, "Crap, I need to write a blog post for today yet" -- and I was filled with dread. There's a reason I normally only update this thing once or twice a week -- I don't have anything to write about. Or I will find myself sitting, staring at the laptop and trying to think of something to write, only to delete what little I actually do write because I think what I'm writing is stupid, or not funny, or pointless.

I don't know if it's parenthood, or stay-at-home-mom-hood, or just the ebb and flow of the life of a writer, but I feel like I'm stuck in the quagmire of a writer's block. So while I was slumped on the couch watching the same episode of Rock of Love Charm School for the umpteenth time, I glanced at the laptop and wondered, "Why in the blue fuck did I think it was a good idea to do this NaBloPoMo ridiculousness again?"

Because I used to be a writer. I used to be a good writer. Like, I'd get a she-boner from my writing, and was admittedly very full of my self about it. I went to school for journalism and prided myself on my abilities. My writing was going to get me a book deal, or at the very least, get me the hell out of the midwest, and I was going to be famous.

Then some shit hit the fan, life took some strange twists and turns, and by some strange career detour I wound up a stay-at-home mom with a blog. And I'll be honest with you -- 98% of the time I think my blog sucks. I don't know why people read it, and I'm not saying this to fish for compliments. I really don't think I'm funny, and I don't think anything I write is good anymore, I just think the blog looks too good to neglect for weeks on end. My relationship with this blog is like a dysfunctional sex-driven relationship with a guy you're not even sure you like. But when the sex is good, it's amazing, so that's why you keep coming over to watch boring kung fu movies and have pointless conversations. It's why you suffer through awkward attempts at oral sex, experimentation, fake most of your orgasms, and try not to think too much about how bad it sucks -- because when the sex is good, it's ri-goddamn-diculously amazing.

That's how I feel about this blog, and more importantly, about my writing.

There was a point in time not too horribly long ago that someone very important told me to reconsider my career direction, and insinuated I shouldn't write anymore. The details are unimportant, but I always hear that nagging voice and see her smug smile when I start to write. Sometimes I can ignore it, most of the time I can't. It's why I sit and think, "Maybe I shouldn't write" -- and then in true form, I get pissed at the notion of being told what to do (and, more appropriately, what not to do) and deliberately go against it. But sometimes -- okay, a lot of times -- I feel like I'm only writing to prove others wrong, not for myself. Not to showcase my talent (or what's left of it, I often feel it's withered away into poop jokes and overused curse words), or share real, deep thoughts. Just to show that I can.

Even when I was at the height of my writing "career," I was notoriously insecure about my writing. I'd have tantrums as I tried to hammer out columns and news stories. Notoriously horrible tantrums that anyone who was around me knew when to avoid me. But I was usually able to mask my insecurities by shitting out genius, and convincing others that it's what I thought it was. But now I don't even feel that I have the actual skill to back it up -- I don't even remotely believe it. I think my writing's shit.

I sit and stare at the screen a lot of times when I start writing, wondering if anyone even cares what I think. Sometimes I want to write something prolific and deep, maybe dive into deeper parts of me than discussing my taint scar, tell you about me as a person, and I just clam up. I don't know if I can get that personal on here. If I do -- I'm not ruling it out, I'm really not, it's just a matter of coming to terms with myself -- it will be a pretty big deal. I won't even tell you guys where I live, my name, my husband's name, my daughter's name. I can tell you about my bowel movements and the most disgusting things that can come as a result of parenthood, but I can't even tell you my name or show you a real picture of me. I'm just weird, I guess.

So my point. I had one here when I started. Oh yeah. I really want to get back in "shape" for writing, so in the coming month, please bear with me if my writing gets too pompous, too weird, or too different from the voice you're used to hearing. I think I can do this. Maybe. If not... we'll never speak of this again.

Pervert!

Did you know Netflix has porn? Because they do.

I didn't know such cinematic genius had a place on Netflix. So you can imagine my surprise when, at A's insistence, I popped in Pervert!, one of the movies that had arrived the week. "It's a zombie movie," he said. Considering our most recently watched movies included such classics as Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter, I wasn't surprised by the movie title I'd never heard of. So I popped in the DVD, and lo and behold, porn.

One should be suspicious of any movie that boasts that it stars Mary Carey. Within ten seconds of the starting credits, I'd seen at least, at least, five pairs of boobs. I'm not a prude, kids, I swear. I enjoy myself some skinemax on occasion -- but not when I'm coerced or tricked into it. That was the point that I pushed A over onto his side of the couch, ignoring his wiggling eyebrows as he looked and me suggestively going, "Enh? Enh?" and tossed his throw blanket onto him, snatched mine away, and declared, "You stay over there and keep your splooge off my blanket!"

After he realized I was just going to sit on my end of the couch and roll my eyes -- and while we're married, we're not so married that we'll sit on opposite ends of the couch watching porn -- we switched movie night plans to include my classic favorite, Kill Bill: Volume 1, and I we resolved that he is not allowed anywhere near the Netflix queu from here on out.

FIRST WORD!

You read right. I repeat: We had our first word today! I was standing and holding Punky in the kitchen while I was waiting for her breakfast to heat up in the microwave when A came strolling in. He kissed her cheek from behind and said, "Hey gorgeous". All of a sudden, her face just lit up, she got a big smile, and plain and simply said, "Daddy!"

Daddy.

So sayeth the Punky.

In other, considerably less significant, news, A and I spent Halloween passing out candy with Beelzepunk. We both love Halloween to the point it's sacred for us, and you know, I don't remember so many kids just phoning Halloween in. I can't even tell you how many kids came to the door just wearing normal clothes, maybe smudging a little extra eyeliner under their eyes, and thrusting their Wal-Mart bags at us and calling it a costume. It was disheartening. Not to mention I've always found store-bought costumes to be a total cop-out. My mom always sewed our costumes, and they kicked ass. My mom is a wizard with a sewing machine and a Simplicity pattern.

Halloween costume hunting began in late August, early September, when I would sit on the stools in the fabric section of Wal-Mart, pouring over the pattern books and looking for the perfect costume. After weeks of agonizing, and remembering awesome costumes from the year before, I'd finally make my selection, Mom would buy the pattern, and for the next few weeks, she'd carefully sew my costume, we'd seek out the perfect accessories, and I'd spend the next month in eager anticipation of the greatest holiday of the year.

We'd take part in the town Halloween parade, and both my brother and I won just about every year for our respective age ranges. Even if it meant sacrifice on our part -- like the year I went as Cleopatra and we discovered I was really, REEEAALLY allergic to Maybelline mascara, as by the end of the parade my eyes were swollen nearly-shut -- our costumes kicked ass. People remembered our costumes. My mom lived vicariously through me in a lot of different ways, often in overbearing ways, but damnit, our costumes were incredible, and she took great pride in her sewing and creativity skills.

So it's sad to see so many kids not care, or their parents not care, at least. I told A that I want Punky's favorite childhood memories to be of Halloween. He told me I can't dictate her memories, to which I told him THE HELL I CAN'T. I'll send her into therapy where she'll blame me for everything when she's 30, but damnit, that kid will look back on Halloween with fondness and WIST, damnit. WIST!!!! I yelled, with my fist clenched and directed to the sky.

But even more annoying was the rather geriatric age of the trick-or-treaters. The last year I went trick-or-treating, I was 13. And I was horribly self-conscious about it because I knew I was too old and hated myself every time I got the judgmental stare from the neighbors who hesitantly handed me candy. It was shameful. But we saw mobs of teenagers -- and one grandmother, like that mask is going to hide the limp of your arthritic hip, you stupid old bat -- who seemed to have no problem raping us of our candy.

And so, A and I devised an ongoing list of stipulations for trick-or-treating retirement age. We have decided that you are too old to trick-or-treat:

1.) If part of your costume includes high heels. (Not including high heels that come in a pack from Wal-Mart with a tiarra, clip-on earrings, and Pretty Princess pink lipstick.)
2.) If you have obvious acne problems.
3.) If you are in desperate need of a bra.
4.) If you are going door-to-door drunk.
5.) If you are in the midst of menopause.
6.) If you can drive yourself up to the house, get out of your car, take candy, and walk back to your car.
7.) If you went to high school with the person who is handing out candy... 10 years ago.

That's what we'd devised so far. Our list kinda began to taper off after A suggested the whole "you can't be drunk to trick-or-treat" rule, because I think that girl was um, "mentally handicapped," and even for A, that was a fast-track-to-hell statement. But it's a general statement, too.