Panache.

I've been trying to write my daughter's "Young Citizen" entry for my hometown's newspaper. The weekly paper features a said young citizen, and in a town as small as mine, it's the kid of people you know, or at the very least, you know the grandparents. It's usually a trite, insipid little piece of, "My mommy and daddy are the greatest, and I love spending time with them and playing with my dog!" along with name, location, and who the parents are, whom surely you know, because... well, it's a town of less than 3,000. Surely you know the parents and you probably know both parents' life stories -- whether the parents want you to know them or not.

So anyway. My mother's been nagging at me to get this done because god knows she needs to see her Grandbaby on the front page of the town newspaper, so the whole town can see just where I put out and got knocked up had a small detour in life plans. I just can't stand to write the usual form-letter style Young Citizen intro. I just can't. I moved out of that town to go out into the big world and become a writer, damnit, so I best deliver so everyone will be talking for months about that ol' rascal How2 -- remember her? -- and how her baby's Young Citizen was the most hilarious (or absolutely disgracefully inappropriate) thing they'd ever read.

I need SPARKLE. I need Liza Minelli PIZZAZZ. RAZMATAZZ, folks. JAZZ HANDS. I've just typed entirely too many Z's for one paragraph allowable by any English language rules.

So the question is, what to mention? The typical article goes like this:

Hi! My name is SUSIE ANN WHATSHERNAME, and on Saturday, I will be 2! My daddy is Jim Bob and he works as a machine operator for The Big Factory Here In Town. My mommy is Bobbi Jo and she stays really busy at home taking care of me, my big sister, TAMMY, 8 1/2 months I am really lucky to have grandparents who live in This Godforsaken Town and spoil me. They are Harry and Mary Whoknows and Joe and Peggy Whatshername. All of my aunts and uncles think I'm ornery, but really cute!

So yeah. You see what I've got to work with here.

I've thought of mentioning such things as:

• "My mommy and daddy are exhausted."
• "My mommy drinks a lot, and her happy juice makes my nose feel funny!"
• "Sometimes my mommy and daddy shake me and it makes me giggle."
• "I enjoy eating mandarin oranges whole, and then pooping them out in a mess so foul that people think I am possessed."
• "I enjoy self-mutilation with whatever I can get my hands on, nearly falling to my death off of chairs and couches, chewing on electrical cords, eating fistfulls of dog hair, and attempting to slam my hand in doors and drawers."
• "I am not your monkey."

As you can see, the options are limitless. Though maybe I should try to write this thing when I'm filled with more love and adoration for my daughter and less sheer and utter exhaustion and exasperation. Maybe I'll write it when she's like, 25.

No Tooties.

After three years of driving the car my parents gave me while I was in college, they are finally kicking me off the insurance and cutting ties with the car, gifting it to me and A., and thus requiring me to register and title it -- two grown-up actions that, while pretty mundane, I've never done in my entire life. And hence, today was my initiation into the world of car ownership.

Because I was receiving this car from out-of-state, state law requires that I have a police officer do a Vehicle Identification Number inspection. So I bundled up and lugged along the Punky and we were off to the police station -- which by the way, in our fair city, is in the ghetto. I don't mean, oh hey, a few ramshackle buildings, it's cute and quaint. No, I mean fucking ghet-TO. Like, I seriously am pretty sure I drove past a drug deal going down. And even though my car was parked in the gated lot across the street from the station, I locked it and took anything of value with me, and clung on to Punky tightly for fear that she might be snatched and sold into slave labor, or for drugs, or something.

Setting things up with the receptionist wasn't anything noteworthy. She took my information and directed me to sit in the waiting area and an officer would be with me in a minute. Okay, cool. So we sat. And waited. And waited. And waited. It was in this wait time that I began to watch the people around me, and casually listen and figure out their stories.

The most notable -- and the most dramatic, not only in the story itself but the dramatic display -- was a young mother come to "spring" her 11-year-old son out of jail for, and yes, I'm serious, allegedly selling cocaine at school. She was understandably distraught, hugging herself and rocking back and forth in her chair, loudly moaning into her cell phone, "Oh LAWD, oh LAWD... I done TOL' Tootie not to bring his drugs an' shit into the house! He keep doin' that and I'm gon' lose my babies!" Further inconspicuous evesdropping led me to believe Tootie is Mom's boyfriend.

Whatever, I mean, sometimes my kid takes her diaper off and smears her poop everywhere. Nobody's kid's perfect.

Then the Mom started giving me childraising advice. "Don't ever let yo' baby grow up, next thang you know she gon' be sellin' drugs and you gon' be here too." I smiled tersely and thanked her for her advice. I silently made a personal note to keep Punky away from Tootie, whom I believe is a bad man.

The Mom was also wearing a sweatshirt with Tupac and Barack Obama airbrushed on. I'm not sure what the collaboration between the two of them is, nor did I realize such merchandise existed, but I guess considering I was an ardent supporter of Obama throughout the election, I should just be glad she had some sort of propoganda on. Whatever. We won, yes we can, ya'll.

By the time the officer came out and helped me with the process -- which took all of 30 seconds, in the end -- I was apparently so completely and utterly out of my element and frightened-looking that I was advised that you can call and have an officer dispatched to your house to do the VIN inspection. Which is convenient since it's actually a pain in the ass to go through this process of police station-to-DMV while lugging around 25 lbs. of sheer uncooperative toddler. Shoveling goldfish crackers and cheerios into them only works for so long toward staving off a fullblown "FUCK THIS SHIT" baby meltdown. How long? Til about halfway through the DMV experience, when you're to the point you need to sign paperwork and shit -- in case you were wondering. So I think I'll take the "put my tax money to work and have an officer come to my house" route. It's a route I wholeheartedly plan on pursuing next time.

That, and keeping my baby away from drugs and Tooties.

Oops.

So while I've been discussing my farting in public and how I pretty much pressure-sprayed my daughter's face off, I've totally neglected to post birthday pictures. So here ya go....




And that last one, my friends, is what we call a motha-effin' sugar crash.

Priorities.

I've realized that since having a kid, I'm much less reluctant to fart in public, especially the silent and deadly ones, because if anyone smells it, they can just assume my baby has a dirty diaper.

I'd rather have complete strangers think I am a negligent parent than have them think I'd fart in public.

Priorities and such.

Road to child abuse: paved with good intentions.

Punky has apparently been eviscerated and had all of her innards replaced with snot by some maniacal fairy intent on totally and completely fucking with my sleep schedule. I had a happy, smiling baby that I put to bed on Wednesday evening. By 2:30 a.m. on Thursday morning, I was up comforting a screaming, hyperventilating baby (who was so worked up from crying, she couldn't breathe, on top of her nasal/bronchial passages being filled with snot).

So I've been chasing down any remedy I could to help her feel better. This kid has a river of snot coming down her face all day. She's weezing and coughing and it's pathetic. Really, really, pathetic. And the snot. Oh my god the snot.

In one of my plots to make her feel better, I made a warm, steamy bath. I fed her dinner in the bathtub, and all was well. She was content to play with her bath toys, splash, and generally be the cheerful and chipper trooper she is. A. and I sat beside her on the bathroom floor, watching her revel in the attention and the comfort that the steamy bath brought.

This is such a situation where a good mother would let things be. The baby is happy, after all, right? Let's just let her play and bask in the adorable nature of our family.

No. This is the point where I have to take it a step further and think, I bet she'd like the shower! I bet she'd find it funny, like rain drops! Yes, rain drops dropping on the Punkin in a happy and beautiful shower.

So I turned the water on, and pulled the plunger to turn on the shower. Here is where things went awry:

1.) We were out of hot water. I'd used it all to create a steamy hot bathroom atmosphere/bath. So the water was freezing. (Probably should've checked the temperature before I turned the shower on.)

2.) The adjustable shower head setting was set on "OMG CAR WASH PRESSURE WASHER SHEER FORCE PEELING OFF MY SKIN" setting, which A. uses, for some unknown, masochistic reason, and he was the last to use the shower. Again, a little bit of forethought would have prevented this.

3.) By sheer luck, Punky was looking at the shower when it turned on. So she was hit in the face by freezing cold water coming at her at a skin-peeling speed, knocked over in the tub, and promptly began to inhale the water.

What resulted was me jumping, fully clothed, into the shower to rescue my daughter from my own imposed death by shower. I was wet, she was hysterical, and A. was at a loss for understanding my logic (which is the norm in this house). And I'm pretty sure we're never going to get her in the tub again.

I meant well. I did.

That guy I live with.

What are your middle names?

A's is Aaron. Mine is my grandmother's name, and that's all you need to know.

How long have you been together?

TOGETHER together, like a couple? Almost 2.5 years. We started dating in November 2006, and we were married 11 months later. (It doesn't count as a shotgun wedding if you're on the other side of the country from said shotgun, right?)

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

A few years. We worked together at Old Navy for awhile and were just friends (and flirt buddies) for awhile. Then we both quit Old Navy and full out of touch for awhile, and we rekindled our interest in one other after running into each other at a strip club on Midget Stripper Night. I know, we're so romantic.

Who asked whom out?

He asked me. He so asked me. Can you blame him? I'm adorable.

How old are each of you?

I'm 23. A's 29 and a dirty old man.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

Um, that's a toss up. Probably mine, but the most interaction is with A's brother and sister, since my brother is 18 and too cool to acknowledge me, let alone engage us in conversation that doesn't involve the phrase, "Hey, can you pick me up a case of beer?"

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Finances, currently. I would say parenthood, but we seem to kick parenthood's ass together.

Did you go to the same school?

We went to the same college but not at the same time, and I graduated, A. did not.

Are you from the same home town?

Nope. I am from Ohio, making me, by nature, a superior being.

Who is smarter?

I don't know. It depends what you're talking about. I'm smarter with words and shit. He's smarter with... I don't know, money things. Me girl, me no understand moneys.

Who is the most sensitive?

Probably me, but he can be a gigantic sopping vagina some days. I'm the one that randomly calls old women "pathetic failures at life" at Wal-Mart, so really, it's probably a toss up.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?


We actually rarely eat out. It used to be BW3's, back before we had a child. Now I guess Steak 'N Shake, maybe? I don't even know. We aren't exactly the kind of people who should be out in public. You know the stuff I write about on my blog? Yeah, I talk about that in public. And I have issues moderating the volume of my voice.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?

Las Vegas.

Who has the craziest exes?

I think we both have our fair share of nutters, though his ex did leave a four-page-long menacing letter on my car in the early days of dating, and showed up on his doorstep telling him she was pregnant and that it was his. (It wasn't, there was no way it could've been and he has scientific lab tests to prove it.) Yeah... ya know, I think he wins this one.

Who has the worst temper?

We both have insane tempers, though I'm much more apt to go off on people in public, he's more apt to be an asshole to me in private.


Who does the cooking?

I do the majority of it, though he is known to cook on occasion.

Who is the neat-freak?

Oh Christ, that's me. Let me tell you about the first time I came to A.'s house -- he kept the lights off so I wouldn't see the house. Once he got comfortable enough to turn them on, we had a huge poster of Hank Williams taped on the wall (the only wall decoration), a stack of tires in the middle of the living room, ash trays filled with cigarettes everyfuckingwhere (God I'm glad he quit smoking), everything in the house was sticky, and a print-out picture of Jeff Goldblum positioned to watch you on the toilet in the bathroom. It was bad. I've been living here for 1.5 years now and I'm still working on it.

Who is more stubborn?

We are both stubborn but I usually give in because while I'm stubborn, I'm much more laid back and just don't care. I know in the long run I'll get my way. Isn't that how being a wife works?

Who hogs the bed?


I can, but A is much more persistent about it. I can at least be coaxed back to my side of the bed, though it sucks sharing a full-sized bed. Really. It does. A lot.

Who wakes up earlier?

A., usually, but only by about half an hour. We're both capable of sleeping til 2, 3 in the afternoon if we're left alone. Damn children.

Where was your first date?


We went and saw Borat in the theater and had IHOP afterwards, where over dinner I discussed with him how I got E.Coli at my last job. Yeah, I'm slick and socially aware.

Who is more jealous?

Him. Totally him. The notion of him cheating on me makes me giggle at the absurdity.

How long did it take to get serious?


Considering we got married less than a year after we started dating... or that we were more or less living together within a month (I was paying $500 a month for an apartment that was more or less a storage unit)... not long.

Who eats more?


A. The end. A.

Who does the laundry?

95% of the time, me. But A. can do a load when the need really arises. And I offer promises of Blow J's.

Who’s better with the computer?


Me, just because I am supreme being of this household.

Who drives when you are together?

Majority of the time, me, because if we're together, it means Punky is with us, and that means we take my car. And I hate listening to him bitch about how much he hates driving my car. So I drive for the sake of shutting him up.

525,600 minutes.

What a crazy, loopy, lovey, sleepy, nutty, wonderful, amazing year it has been.

One year ago, the culmination of nine months of worrying, crying, fretting, and anxiously awaiting finally came to head as my water broke while I was sitting on the couch eating popcorn and dicking around on the computer. What would follow would be 24 hours of labor, drug-induced Cheez-It begging, and swearing that would make a sailor blush. But the end result was beautiful.

That's when you were born, my sweet, beautiful Elaine Louise.

You came into the world at 4:19 p.m. on February 15, 2008, a Friday. When you were born, you didn't cry at first, which while it scared the shit out of me (well, pushing during labor had taken care of the majority of that issue), it just served as a testament to who you would become: cautious and intelligent, content to take the world around you in before making your screaming, joyous conclusions.

The nurses put you on my chest, still warm and gooey and covered in things I care to not think about, and the first thing your father said was, "Look at that little butt! It looks like a Punkin! Heya Punkin Butt! Heya Punky!"


And so you became Punky.

I had planned on calling you Lainey, but Punky you became and Punky you remain today.

In that split second, I knew I had met the love of my life. Your dad's alright sometimes but you, my little lovey, were what love at first sight is all about.

The first months were a blur of cold, sleepless nights and frustrations. I was young, had no experience with children or babies, and didn't really know what I was doing. We were both sort of playing it by ear. Thanks for sticking with me -- I'm sure I was probably a huge, clueless pain in the ass, and motherhood's not exactly one of those things where you can stand stammering in front of the paper copier, mumbling things about, "I'm new here, I didn't know any better." Thankfully, you survived, and I haven't been reported to Child Protective Services yet -- mostly because this blog is anonymous.


Seasons changed, days turned into months, and you morphed from this screaming tiny blob (sorry, I loved you, but that's what you were). Even from an early age, you were opinionated and outspoken. Things were -- and have been -- done on your terms. You were dropped a couple times. You tried foods. You traveled places.

No matter where I went, I was stopped by complete strangers who marveled and commented on what a beautiful baby you were (and are). For reasons I still don't know if I understand, you are the result of some amazing genetic lottery in which you are spectacularly beautiful. You have your father's dark brown eyes and smile, set on my bone structure, with a sparse topping of light brown hair. You're beautiful. When you smile. When you sleep. When you cry. When you're you. You are my beautiful, wonderful, perfect baby girl.


Not all parts of you are beautiful, however.

The older you got, the more fun you became. Always sunny and cheerful and ready for adventures, carrying your beloved Sophie Bear everywhere. You loved car rides, and I loved them even more, mostly because they put you to sleep. Now you love to look out the window, singing your own songs and talking in your Nelle-like personal language, commenting on the world around you as it unfolds. In one short year, you've become my best friend, favorite travel buddy, naptime cuddle partner and exercise catalyst. (Because seriously, kiddo, you're exhausting some days.)


You're smart. God, you're smart. You ooze intelligence in ways that would make a lesser mother start hatching plans for publicity tours and prodigy classes. You're fiercely independent, content to play by yourself rather than with anyone who attempts to join in. But in the same breath, you love to bring books up to anyone in your vicinity, hand them to us, and cuddle up on our laps, eager to be read to. You LOVE to be read to. Whether it's Clifford the Big Red Dog, Thomas the Tank Engine, or the latest issue of Star (sorry, Mommy needs her celebrity tabloids), it doesn't matter to you. You cuddle and drift off listening to me or your dad reading about Thomas passing by the farm, or the latest Lindsay Lohan/Samantha Ronson gossip. Because that's really what's important.


It was a strange and crazy adventure, the story of how you came to be and how you came to us. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was rough, but the end result is you, and us. And there are no words to ever tell you how much I love you, my lovey-dovey, my Punky Pie, my Pickle. The world is a strange and scary place right now, but inside our warm little house, there is so much love that you have created and reverberate and echo. You are the greatest thing I have ever done, the biggest adventure I have ever embarked on in my life.

Happy Birthday, Elaine. I love you forever and always, to the moon and back.

OHMIGODYOUGUYS.

I got a call back for an on-site interview for that job I phone interviewed for last week. And I'm psyched. That's all. I shall rely on the ecstatic glee of the Delta Nu's to properly illustrate how I feel now.

In addition, though, I should describe how I almost blew it all by being a douchebag. (I've been using that word a lot lately -- seriously. Say it with feeling. DOUCHEBAG!) So I'd been waiting a week to hear back from The Firm. After prompting from friends, I finally was working up the courage to call them and do the, "Hey, it's me, the Fat Girl, did you forget to invite me to prom?" (Because I compare this whole thing to waiting to be asked to prom.) So I picked up my cell phone and look and see the "New Voicemail" icon.

Wha-wha-whaaaaa?

So I dial up my voicemail, figuring it's another message from my mother that I quit listening to halfway through because good goddamn that woman rambles in her voicemails -- and the phone just kept it saved as "new." But it wasn't my mother. Instead, I heard,

"Hello, Ms. How2, this is Jane from The Firm. If you could please call me tomorrow [the call came in yesterday evening] at blah blah blah, we would like to set up an interview with you for the Position..."

This is the point that I was doing pirouettes around the house like a madwoman.

So I quickly dialed the number and called The Firm, giddy and excited and OHMIGODYOUGUYS. The receptionist answered and I asked for Jane. Who? Jane. I'm sorry, there's no Jane that works here.

I immediately began doubting myself, and realized that maybe I misheard the name from the caller while I was...um....leaping and doing moves from Bring It On through the house. I apologized and said I must have the wrong number, and hung up and hid under the covers. Thankfully I never said my name. I went back and re-listened to the voicemail, and lo and behold, I was needing to speak with June. (This is all for the sake of the blog -- I'll say now that the real names were even more similar than "Jane" and "June." Easy mistake to make when you're dancing around like the spazzy kid at the 2nd grade ballet recital gone off her ADHD meds.)

So then. THEN!!! I didn't want the receptionist to think I was some retarded douchebag who can't get names straight, because who would want to hire a douchebag like that. So I sat agonizing for an hour, hoping that my faux pas would be forgotten in the hustle and bustle of the day. After an hour, I called back, disguising my voice as much as possible without sounding completely demented (because surely someone not demented wouldn't have this problem in the first place). I was sent through to JUNE'S voicemail, left a cheerful and appropriate voicemail, June called back, and an interview is scheduled for Monday.

Anyway. I'm a douchebag but I'm a douchebag with a job interview, so whatever. It's official because it's written on our family calendar, with "FUCK YEAH!" written in multi-colored gel pen next to it. Serious shit, guys. Serious.

OHMIGODYOUGUYS.

Competitor.

It's hard to believe that in just over a week, Punky is going to be a year old. Where the fuck the last year went is beyond me, but I'm guessing it went up in smoke somewhere with my sanity and sleep. Time flies when you are suffering from sleep-deprived dementia.

Though that issue has improved. I've learned not to brag about such things on the blog because that means The Blog Mommy Gods will hear it and punish me for such prideful thoughts. But I'm just sayin', if Punky was sleeping through the night besides one small wake-up around midnight, which isn't a huge deal since we still aren't in bed yet, and besides that sleeps through til 9 a.m. consistently, and that for the last week or so I have received eight blissfully uninterrupted hours of sleep nightly... if that was the case, I wouldn't mention it on my blog. I'm just sayin' *nods at you knowingly*.

Besides that, Punky has entered this really hilarious "Monkey See, Monkey Do" stage, where she is working in her clumsy way to imitate things A. and I do, and slurring her way through things she hears us say (which, um, fuck uh-oh!). And may I tell you how absolutely thrilled I am that she is hitting everything with her mallet, like an Olde English judge on a power binge? Yeah, I'm so glad A. taught her that. Poor Mimi has been mercilessly beat to a pulp, though apparently Punky finds it more satisfying to hit hard things, like her big plastic kitchen, our hardwood floors, or A.'s head.


Tomorrow, A.'s store is participating in this Children's Expo downtown and somehow I got wrangled into attending with Punky (oh yeah, because if I'm going to put it on my resume that I'm his marketing director, he's insisting I at least pretend to market). Somehow Punky has been signed up for this crawling race, which may or may not be a good thing, considering how fiercely competitive I am. So keep your eyes on the news, if you hear of some Children's Expo gone awry by a mob of angry mothers attacking each other over a crawling contest. If you hear about that, you can probably be rest assured that at the heart of the matter, I probably said something uncalled for and inappropriate, because really, that's what I do.

But seriously. Punky is almost a year old, comfortably (almost snugly) wearing 18-month clothes, and still not walking. Her size and determination may prove to be an advantage in this competition, since babies can't be walking yet. So she's going to be going up against clearly inferior, smaller babies, most likely. That, or huge 2- and 3-year-olds with developmental disabilities who can't walk yet, and their parents are really desperate for diapers so they enter them in the contest. But in that case, while she may be at a size disadvantage, I would hope we'd have the edge based on the fact that she would probably have the comprehension to GO, for the LOVE OF GOD GO, or MOMMY WON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE.

See, this is why I'm confident that somewhere along the line, some angry mother is going to try to punch me in the face.

Jitters.

I have an interview tomorrow for a marketing position that I want. Like really want. I know, I know, all of ye faithful Stay-At-Home-Moms (I refuse to use the insipid "SAHM" abbreviation), I'm a horrible person for jumping ship, and it's a joy to be a mother and blah blah blah blah blah... but fuck, ya'll, I want a career. It's something I never got the chance to get around to, since nine days after graduating college, I so very gracefully managed to get drunk out of my mind, along with my husband, and created the little zygote swimming in hard liquor that we now know as The Punky.

It's a phone interview, which means I get to run and hide in a corner of the house, far away from potentially angry baby, while I stick her in the Octagon UFC practice ring play gym, turn on Winnie the Pooh and drop a few toys in and pray for the best. It also means that I plan to drink a beer while I'm interviewing, and probably not wear a bra, because if it's anything like my college term papers, that's when my best material comes out. And I don't mean my floppy, pathetic, used-up funbags.

I'll say it now without being too arrogant -- I interview like a champ. I'm funny, I can carry conversation, and I know how to answer interview questions with thoughtful, intelligent answers. (And the answers I don't know, I've been impeccably coached by friends with "real jobs.") But without fail, the night before an interview, I totally break down and fill with self-loathing and doubt. My design portfolio could be stronger. I haven't had any solid clips in over two years. I don't have exact numbers for events I've planned. Oh my God, did I even go to college? WHO AM I?!?!?!

I'll be fine. I'm sure what's meant to happen will happen. But in the meantime, I'm going to sit here and question my existence in pure Matrix style, and keep you posted.