Happy 2009, one and all! You know, it's crazy how things change. Two New Year's Eves ago, A. and I were at a dive bar and I got so blitzed on shots of Rumple Mintz (and hell, whatever the waitress, who went to high school with A. and decided she liked me, was handing to me for free) that I wound up locking myself in the bathroom and passing out on the floor. Last year, I was obnoxiously pregnant, had worked at the restaurant until 11:30 p.m., and watched the ball drop sitting by myself on the couch eating leftovers from work because A. was deathly ill and passed out on a cocktail of cold and flu medications.

This year we watched the ball drop, kiss with tongue at midnight, then watched MTV Cribs til we decided to go to our respective computers and we'll probably go to bed soon. My, how things change.

So to celebrate the new year, I'm stealing a survey from All & Sundry as I reminisce on the insane ride that was 2008. Because clearly the countless surveys I fill out on MySpace aren't enough for me.

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?
A.) I became a parent.
B.) I actually liked it.
C.) I didn't screw up too badly doing it.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't believe in them. I know myself well enough to know that if I have some sort of stipulation put on me, I'll inevitably grow to resent it and quit.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not anyone really close. A few old friends and acquaintances.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Nope. I got pretty lucky on that one.

5. What countries did you visit?
Next...

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
The discipline and motivation to finally run, at the very least, a mini-marathon.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Giving birth to my daughter on 2-15-08, and holding her for the first time, looking at my husband, and thinking, "Holy shit, what are we getting ourselves into?" And knowing in that moment that the little girl in my arms was the greatest love of my life.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
See above.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I don't think I had any real failures. I fell short in communicating sometimes, I fell short in containing my temper and frustration. But I don't consider any of that failure by any means.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nothing major. Sliced a finger open. Scalded my legs. But I'm okay with that.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My husband's grill I got him for Father's Day, because holy shit that kid's amazing on the grill.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Seconding A&S -- Barack Obama.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Pretty much the federal government in general. Our piss-ass excuse of a President. (Sorry, you won't see me get political on here much, I promise, it's okay, come back, come back.)

14. Where did most of your money go?
Um, how about the $4,000 we dumped on a new boiler? Suck.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Watching the world through my daughter's eyes.

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?
"Yes We Can" by Will.I.Am.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder?
b) thinner or fatter?
c) richer or poorer?

I am immeasurably happier. Definitely skinnier since I'm not 7.5 months pregnant. And I guess we're a little poorer, but we get the bills paid and we love each other.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Relaxed and taken a little time for me.



19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Quit stressing out about things or getting frustrated with Punky, because as much as I hate admitting that others are right -- damn they grow up fast.

20. How did you spend Christmas?
Surrounded by family and friends and having a grand old time.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008?
With my daughter, more and more every day. And I fall in love with my husband over and over again. *Puke.*

22. What was your favorite TV program?
The Office.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
I hate our President more.

24. What was the best book you read?
Anything in the Twilight series. Yeah, I'm a nerd.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
The Bird and The Bee

26. What did you want and get?
A new laptop -- I love my husband.

27. What did you want and not get?
Sanity. But I don't miss it much anymore.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Forgetting Sarah Marshall was pretty good.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 23, and A. took me out to dinner while we left Punk with his parents.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I don't really know. I was actually very satisfied with the year, besides a few minor meltdowns.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
Sweatpants chic.

32. What kept you sane?
Alcohol and writing.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Barack Obama. I'm in love with him.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Gay marriage (SOOOO for) and reproductive rights (fiercely pro-choice).

35. Who did you miss?
I miss a lot of my friends from college, who have moved away to pursue fabulous and glamorous careers. Le sigh.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Punky

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
Don't try to carry a scalding hot pot of water down icy steps.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"They're all WASTED!!!!" -- this doesn't really sum up my year for any reason, I just love "Baba O'Reilly."

Redux

So I may or may not be writing this from somewhere in the depths of a diabetic coma, but Christmas was of the utmost awesomeness. Punky got spoiled rotten by her grandparents, aunts and uncles (not us yet -- me, A. and Punky will quietly celebrate tonight) and my living room is now filled with the most obnoxiously loud and huge of toddler toys. There was a point in my life where I decorated our living room, carefully choosing the perfect combinations of sages and plums and burgundies and tans in the color coordination process. Now our main color scheme is PRIMARY. And SHINY. And LOUD.

But here is our Christmas (thus far) in photographic highlights:

Chatted with cousins...


A., his brother "Otto" and I got really drunk waiting for Santa.
Brother-in-law had a drunk Hasselhoff moment with the Christmas ham.


God, my kid's cute.


The annual running of the Naked Christmas Baby.


The cousins... Punky's hand is bordering on inappropriate touching.

We spent the night at A's parents' house over Christmas Eve, despite my wariness due to Punky's inability to sleep anywhere but her crib and in the car. And hey, guess what, I was right. I netted maybe two hours of sleep that night as Punk thrashed in the pack and play screaming, then thrashed and punched and kicked when I tried to keep her in bed with us. Somehow the gigantic black circles under A's eyes the next morning spoke far louder volumes than me saying, "I told you so."

But I so fucking told him so.

But anyway. Christmas was good and we still have my parents' this weekend. I can't wait to see what obnoxiously huge, loud toys we'll be Tetrissing into the car after that.

Merry Christmas

From my godless house to yours, have a wonderful holiday...

Love,
How2in6, A., and Punky

It was a leg-scalding kind of day.

Punky met Santa today. I wish I could provide you pictures to show the sheer cuteness of the moment (rather than being terrified, she was baffled by Santa's [real] beard), unfortunately, we presently don't have any.

It was a bad trip.

Here, I'll tell you.

After much debate, A. and I finally came to the conclusion that we really should take Punky to see Santa, being her first Christmas. She's generally pretty sunny with strangers, rather than pictures like the one I google-searched and posted (again -- not my kid in that picture), so what the heck. Let's do it.

We agreed to take her on Sunday, A.'s day off, first thing as soon as the mall opened to beat the lines. All was well until Sunday morning rolled around. First, someone at A.'s record store no-call-no-showed (apparently such thing is wont to happen when you hire 17-year-old stoners, whose integrity and basic work morale is surprisingly low). Being Christmastime, it is not a time to be short an employee, so A. realized he was going to have to go in and work.

I was not doing this bullshit without him. Oh hell no.

So I was already pissed, disappointed, sad, whatever. But alas! A. said we could go now before the line got long, get it over with, and he would go to work. Okay, that's great. Unfortunately, there's been a fabulous accumulation of ice here in the middle of BFE, and my car was coated in about a solid foot of ice. Try as I did to scrape it, defrost it, etc. -- it wasn't moving. It would take a good half hour of scraping and defrosting in the subzero windchill to get this car road-safe. And we didn't have half an hour. So A. had to go to work, and Santa was put on hold.

I was so frustrated by this that what ensued was me going completely PRIMAL, sheer rage on the windshield with my little $1 scraper, and I ultimately broke the scraper and slashed my hand in my fit of rage. Sometimes Mommy just needs a release, kids.

Then after he left, I decided I was sick of all the ice, and in my sheer brilliance, decided to boil a pot of water to dump on the windshield. THAT will melt the ice! God, I am SO FREAKING SMART! So I boiled a huge pot of water. I carried it carefully to the porch. I carefully, so carefully started down the porch steps, and...

WHOOSH!

My feet go flying out from under me, and in a strange singular motion, I dumped the pot of scalding water on my legs and slid down the steps flat on my ass with my feet over my head... all the while SCREAMING at the scalding hot water on my legs, and the only thing I could think to do was throw myself into the snow and thrash violently to make my legs stop burning.

Yeah. It was THAT kind of day.

Eventually, A. was able to get out of work, and came home. It was then we decided to resume our plan to see Santa at the mall. We arrived just in time to realize Santa had left to go on his hour lunch. So we wandered the mall... on the weekend before Christmas... for an hour. Did I mention that we hate crowds, people, and generally being outside the house? We're not social animals, my husband and I. Finally we made it in time to get in a half hour wait line to see Santa. And we waited.

We humored the baby, we juggled her, we danced with her, I got into a passive-aggressive fight with people who thought that if you put your THINGS in line, that counts as BEING in line (it doesn't, and you're a bitch, and your punishment is looking the way you do after three kids because if my ass was that big, DAMN, I'd kill myself). Finally we got to the front of the line and were met with a poster advertising picture packages.

"Hold up," I said, remembering the dozens of Santa's lap polaroids in my parents' photo albums. "You have to actually pay for pictures?"

You do, it turns out. An insane amount. Like, $15 for a 5x7 and that's the cheapest one.

Fuck that noise.

That's when I noticed parents taking pictures with their digital camera.

"Did you bring your camera?" A. asked.

"No. I thought we'd get a free polaroid or something. That's how they always did it." (Apparently they don't even make polaroids anymore. Whatever, I never leave the house, how the hell am I supposed to know this?)

I wasn't going to spend $15 on a goddamn picture. No. I'm not.

So after 1 hour and 45 minutes of waiting, Punky met Santa for the first time, gazed in wonder at his beard and then smiled and giggled happily, and this is the best I have to document the entire debacle, courtesy of A.'s cell phone (yeah, we were THOSE people):


Fuck it. I'll dress her in the same outfit and go back tomorrow with my camera.

Crossing enemy lines.

Well... after ten months, it's been a good fight. My beautiful 36C's have served faithfully, and have surrendered themselves to a lifetime of floppy pancakes (unless A. decides he really loves me and gives me a new set). And now, it's time to raise the white flag.

I'm drying up. Fast.

And because Punky still likes her morning and nighttime boobing (and occasionally middle of the night boob when she absolutely won't go back to sleep), it looks like I'm going to have to cross enemy lines into Formula Territory. The enemy has been identified, and unfortunately, we're going to have to join forces:


Yep. Punky's jumping on the Formula Wagon.

My right boob is completely dried up. Nothing but Sahara Desert happening in ol' righty, who never could keep up with her assymetrically talented Lefty sister, but even Lefty's failing us now. I thought maybe I could gimp along on one boob til Punky hit the one year mark in February (and ultimately by-passed cold and flu season with Mommy Immunities), but I don't think it's going to happen. So I'm going to jump on formula while I can still transition her.

Hard to believe I'm as disappointed with this as I am, considering nine months ago, I fucking hated breastfeeding. I was constantly leaking, my nipples were chapped and sore, and I just had this whiny little THING constantly demanding I rip my shirt open. I had to wear a bra to bed, I couldn't wear a normal bra (since in about an hour, whatever bra I was wearing would no longer fit), and did I mention leaking?

But after a while, I realized the practicality of it all. Punky was tired? Boob. Hungry? Boob. Pissed off? Hurt? Scared? Boob, boob, boob. And I'll even give into the Boob Nazi ridiculousness of mother-child bonding... because in those quiet moments of me and Punky (okay, not all were quiet and peaceful, occasionally I was popping a squat in a Wal-Mart bathroom stall, whatever), I realized that GOD, I loved this little kiddo attached to the teet. Sometimes I felt like just an object for food and nothing more, "BOOB" rather than "Mommy", but eventually... shit, I'll say it, I really enjoyed it.

So there's the end of that. Within another month or so, Punky'll be fully on formula (not for long, thankfully, before we're moving on to regular milk), my boobs will return back to their rightful owner, and A. can enjoy them as he pleases without getting splashed in the face.

Which is far creepier and weirder than you'd initially think. I'm just sayin'.

And now, an open letter

Dear Motorists in the God-Forsaken City I Regretably Still Live In,

It's snow. We saw it last year. We saw it the year before that. Roughly 95% of us have spent every single year of our lives from November through March seeing, playing in, being exposed to, and driving in this mysterious white stuff called snow. So please, I'm begging you, consider driving more than FIVE GODDAMN MILES AN HOUR the minute it falls from the sky. I swear, you will not swerve off the road and die a horrible fiery death if you get dangerous and up it to say, of, 15 mph.

With Love,
The Crazy Bitch in the Lumina

I'm a real classy broad.

So maybe you've noticed, maybe you haven't, but I added a little sidebar doodiebopper that features what book I'm presently reading. And considering my reading list in the past three months has included the entire Twilight series, Chasing Harry Winston, and now, presently, He's Just Not That Into You, I'd just like to tell you now: I'm embarrassed by my reading list. I swear I'm deeper than this.

I swear there was a time pre-child that I used to have philosophy study sessions with people while we waxed Nietsche and Kant. I drank chai and I read things like Steinbeck and Tolstoy. I used big words and my deepest question of the day was significantly more insightful than, "Jesus, kid, WHAT did you eat to produce THAT?"

Unfortunately, I only get time for myself in increments of about an hour at a time and damnit, I just don't have the time or emotional involvement to wrap myself around real books. But I swear I used to be classy and real sophisticated like. And I swear that I have Of Mice and Men and Atlas Shrugged on my reading list. No. Really. I do.

Right after I finish reading this book and this week's Star magazine and perusing Perez Hilton for the umpteenth time today.

Why I don't like metal detectors.

I've been having this strange itch to write -- maybe some post-NaBloPoMo effect -- but since my life has been mostly depressing and/or horribly mundane, I'm pulling out classic hits from the volumes of "Embarrassing and Humiliating But At Least I Can Sort of Laugh About It All Now" stories that have riddled my life.

So I'm going to tell you the story about why I have a strong dislike for metal detectors, the Transportation Security Administration, and sadistic airport security officers.

I'm not sure if you've quite picked up on this yet, but I was a bit of a wild child in college. I was sort of notorious for my drinking binges, and for doing insane things that would become stories of legend that I would have absolutely no recollection of. One thing that always vexed me about living in a college town was the fact that directly next to my favorite bar was a tattoo/piercing studio. I know most studios have signs (and laws) about refusing service to the intoxicated. This particular studio, however, apparently had a really lax policy on these things, because I have photos of people quite literally carrying me into this place, and waking up the next morning with metal shoved into places that I really had best not say.

Basically... you name it, I've had it pierced. This includes -- especially includes -- places that would be covered up by a bathing suit.

Going hand-in-hand with my four-year stint of alcoholism was my sorority membership. A year after I was initiated, my charm, charisma and ability to drink loads of alcohol without dying led to me being elected chapter president, and along with the title came various necessary cross-country trips to the international headquarters, to conventions, and to weekend leadership retreats.

It was a muggy summer when it was time for the international convention. Along with the chapter president of a nearby chapter, I was traveling along with my sorority advisor and several women of the alumni chapter. These older "sisters" were old school -- we're talking, classy and shit. Would get uppity if I said the Lord's name in vain, would lightly dab their foreheads with their kerchiefs, and would declare things in Southern drawls like, "Why I do declare!" They were uppity. And it was important, for my chapter's sake, to stay on good terms with them, so I arrived at the airport to meet them in a nice, crisp pressed cotton skirt and a cardigan set, kitten heels, and pearls. Shit you not. I don't even believe I did it. But relations and good-standing were important, so I had to dress -- and act -- to impress.

It came time to go through security, and I didn't even think twice as I put my adorable carry-on bag, shoes, purse and earrings through the scanner. And I passed through the metal detector without even a bead of sweat of concern.

EENH! EENH! EENH!

Oh. It might have been my necklace. Here, let me take that off. Back through the gate.

EENH! EENH! EENH!

That's when I realized what it must be. I thought it wouldn't set detectors off? Seriously? Is this happening? By this point, the stuffy old ladies are looking curiously behind me in line as I giggle nervously about what on earth could possibly be setting it off. I tried one more time in vain...

EENH! EENH! EENH!

It was at this point, in front of the sorority elders, that I had to quietly explain to the officer -- who looked quite unamused -- that I had some piercings that I wouldn't be able to take out right here and now. I still remember the completely unchanged expression as he guided me to the side where a female officer was waiting, and he said very loudly, "She has some piercings, she says."

Then, in front of the sorority elders, who were aghast at this point, the female officer patted me down and scanned the magic metal detector wand over me as it BEEPED tellingly as she passed it over my breasts, belly, and yes, my crotch. The elders were making a deliberate effort not to stare, but it was obvious they were looking out of the sides of their eyes, as I fought the urge to just scream, "YES, I got drunk and pierced my nipples and my clit, OKAY?!"

Things were quiet and awkward when we sat on the plane, until the one advisor I would have never expected sat down next to me, as I was fighting back tears, and said, "Well, that was embarrassing, eh?" I nodded solemnly. And then she pulled down her refined, obviously-expensive Neimann Marcus sweater (despite being July), and showed me the rose tattoo right smack on her right breast.

So much for being a martyr.

After our exhilarating experience of going three days without heat, but limping along thanks to space heaters provided by our amazing HVAC company, and with the sheer joy of Christmas-time finances as it is, A. and I have come to the definitive conclusion: we're broke.

Not broke like foreclosure, out on the streets, feeding my baby scraps from the trash and wearing really mismatched sweats. But things are definitely tight, and I have to cut back on my "extra" spending (read: spending $80 to color my hair when I have nobody to impress but a 9 month old, who is more content to rip it out of my scalp than admire the subtle yet amazing face-framing carmel highlights, or my designer purse collection that on its own raises our home equity).

But we have heat. Praise Flying Spaghetti Monster, we have heat and our house is currently 68 degrees without fear of the boiler dying again. So Merry Christmas for that.

Anyway. Because A. is completely incapable of keeping a secret, he accidentally slip that he was getting me a new laptop for Christmas. It's definitely a gift that I need, but I don't NEED need it. The same day we got the estimate for the boiler install, he told me that he was expecting "a package," and was unable to get a refund on it since it shipped before he could cancel it, so to refuse shipment when it arrived. Okay, specifically what he said was, "Just bring it inside, don't look at it, and I'll ship it out when I go to work."

Disheartened and really disappointed, I assumed it was because we are poor and the last thing we need to spend money on is a new laptop when mine works alright, despite being 4 years old, randomly turning off because something needs soldered inside, and the wireless connection blows. I accepted it for what it was, told him I would refuse the shipment, and moved on.

So we fast forward to yesterday afternoon when Fed Ex arrived. I knew that box. I knew the shape. I knew what it was. And the surly Fed Ex delivery woman (understandably surly) was holding out the signature pad to me when I got the genius idea that I would save A. the extra step in taking the package back to Fed Ex, and I would just deny it right here. Business handled. My God, I'm a fucking genius, and such a caring, considerate wife!

It sucked, dude. Turning away my Christmas present, that I know exactly what it is, and I really, really want it, but we're poor now. I can't have it. No thank you, Fed Ex lady, take it away. Take it away before I sob uncontrollably, holding onto your ankle as you drag me, kicking and screaming, to your truck to take my beautiful new laptop...er, I mean, present... away forever. Because we're poor and I can't have nice things.

Immediately after the truck left, I texted A. to tell him I'd just denied it at the door. To which I got this response:

"R U fuckin serious?"

Um... yes?

So basically, to paraphrase the panicked, angry phone calls that ensued -- A. had ordered two of these "things" (okay, laptop, I spoiled Christmas for myself here). One on purpose, but the credit hadn't appeared on his statement so he thought it hadn't gone through. This first one apparently had special discounts and special custom things for me, but he thought he'd lost the transaction. So he bought another "thing", more expensive but without the custom stuff, because he thought the first purchase never happened. Then it turned out the first purchase DID happen, it just didn't turn up on the statement right away. (You still following me here?) So he tried to cancel the second "thing" but it had already shipped. It was too late to refund. HENCE... why he'd told me we'd have to send this "thing" back.

I didn't know there were two "things". I didn't know there was the good thing and the unwanted thing. I just knew I had to send my thing away. This was one of those points where A. exasperatedly asks me, "Did you actually listen to me?", to which I exclaim with wounded, huge anime eyes that OF COURSE, I did, I just didn't understand... and in the back of my mind I know all I heard that night was, "Blah blah blah send your pretty new laptop back because we're poor and I don't love you blah blah blah" and oh hey, is that a marathon of America's Next Top Model?

So there have been frantic yet sugary-sweet phone calls to Fed Ex, basically saying, "I'm sorry, I'm dumb and I don't listen to anything my husband says and I didn't mean it, I really swear I didn't mean it, please please please can I have it back, pleeeaaaaassse?" Luckily we caught it in time that we fixed my mistake and they said they'd drop it by the next day. (Today.)

And figures I waited all day (signature was required), and finally ran to the store, came down the street on my way home just as the Fed Ex truck was pulling away. So now I'm waiting for 6 p.m. to roll around so I can go and pick up my mysterious present, and have it safe and sound at home. Where I will stare longingly for it for another two weeks while I sit on this laptop praying for its death.

Cold shit sammich.

It's been one of those weeks where the life in general shits the bed. I have a raging urinary tract infection, which I'm sure you wanted to know all about, and even more irritating, our ancient furnace died in a blaze of glory that has left our house without heat in Indiana December. And we won't have heat again until Thursday, when an HVAC tech will come and install a new boiler and all the trimmings for the princely sum of $4,000.

Merry Christmas, ya'll.

You'd think they'd knock some sort of discount off after the show the tech caught today when he came over to do an appraisal. I'm just putting on a show left and right these days. I mean really, if you haven't figured it out by now, my life is pretty much one woefully embarrassing situation after another.

I knew we were off to a bad start when I showed the HVAC repairman our boiler, which was corroded beyond recognition and obviously dead, and I could just hear the air suck in through his teeth and before he even opened it up, said, "I'm going to bet this is going to need replaced."

Embarrassed by the sad, pathetic state of my basement (still soggy from the boiler's wet, heat-sucking death) and the obvious state of disrepair of the boiler (apparently you're supposed to service them every year? Go figure.), I went upstairs and left him to do his job. I heard him tinkering around downstairs, so I let Bodhi out of the bedroom, where I'd unceremoniously tossed him to keep him from assaulting the repairman via ear-piercing YIP YIP YIP's and frantic laps around the house. That's when my UTI reminded me of it's pleasant presence, and I had to pee. Punky was down for a nap, Bo was content to lay in the sunshine on the dining room floor (pretty much the only warm spot in the house), repairman was busy seeing what a mess A.'s and my neglect had created, so I went to the bathroom and settled down for an agonizing piss.

I've discovered it's always when you think you're in a position to slow down for a minute, that's when life kicks your ass and catches you bare-assed on Life's toilet. Some cases are more literal than others.

The repairman came upstairs from the basement, setting Bodhi, who didn't know he was here, into a maniacal frenzy. Bo will never work as a guard dog, because when he is confronted with strangers in the house, he runs laps, runs up walls, barking and going crazy. He went into one of his crazy lap races around the house as the repairman rounded the corner of the dining room where there's a clear shot down the hall -- where the bathroom is at the end of the hall -- and Bo's lap took him down the hall.

Bo took a running leap into the bathroom door, which has a crap latch anyway, and the door went flying open. And in a split second that took what felt like eons to process, there I was, sitting bare-assed on the toilet, doubled over in pain and scrunch faced as I was trying to piss out the blades of the UTI, and there was the repairman, with a full, albeit very brief, view of me sitting on the toilet.

Somewhere on our quote there's a $200 credit. I wonder if that was for the ass shot. In which case, it's good to know I've still got it.