Toddlaerobics.

Sometimes, people read celebrity gossip sites like Perez Hilton (despite the fact that he is a hypocrite and a horrible human being), and sometimes these blogs, so I am told, feature anorexic-looking celebrity moms, who apparently poo-poo the notion that they're anorexic and just say, "I have children! That's how I stay trim! Chasing after them!"

I have never been to such sites, because I am a serious journalist, but I know if I were to go to those sites, and if I stumbled upon such a statement by a celebrity whose personal life I know nothing of... oh, say, Posh Spice, aka Victoria Beckham.... I'd probably have rolled my eyes at them and declared, "What a load of shit. It's coke and anorexia! DUH!"

Yeah. Um. Apparently it's pretty true. Because having a toddler? Fucking exhausting, dude.

I had a brief conversation with another young first-time mom in the Wal-Mart check-out line today, her angelic 6-month-old sitting serenely in the car carrier seat, our conversation broken up every 40 seconds by my child pulling all of the magazines out of the rack. Then, as I bent down to pick everything up, took off running across Wal-Mart like she was being chased by El Chupacabra. Then thrashing angrily as I tried to detain her with my withering, exhausted arms.

I remember when Punky was at that stage. Sitting in her car carrier, batting away at whatever random toy I'd managed to strap onto the handle. Contained. Immobile. And A. and I would watch her and dote on her, and dream of how wonderful and magical it would be once she could walk!

Uhhh... yeah. We were retarded.

It seems like a novel idea til you have to chase your child out of the Chipotle kitchen, when you swear to god you just let go of her hand long enough to get your wallet out of your purse because for the love of christ, kid, mommy just wants a fucking chicken taco OKAY? Not so fun anymore when in the blink of an eye, she tears across the front yard into the street while you're fishing for car keys.

And in a new and super addition to her Mobility, Self-Mutiliation and Death Initiative, she's learned to climb up onto the furniture. Cute and fun when she's on the couch, sipping on her Sippy Cup and watching TV peacefully. Not so much when she figures out how to get onto the glider rocker and then decides to STAND UP. I started up a pool among my friends as to just how soon she'd manage to injure herself with that new trick. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm actually a pretty attentive parent, but there comes a point where you have to let go and let Darwin.


Congratulations to Kellie, by the way, who won the pool with her Tuesday entry. Glad to see someone can make financial gain on my child's suffering. Really, I'm like a minor-league Kate Gosselin. (Oh no she didn't! Oh I did, I just did.)

Combined, my Plague and Toddler Diet has resulted in almost 20 lbs. lost since early May. I guess I should change the name of the diet, though, so as to not convey the false idea of eating plagues and toddlers. That's just ridiculous. You can't eat a plague.

Happy Father's Day

If only every little girl could be so lucky...

The New War at Home

So all that crap I wrote not too long ago about not having any waged wars with the neighbors? Yeah, apparently all that was needed to resolve that was some new blood in the neighborhood.

I briefly introduced you to Jabba the Slut, my new neighbor, last week. Since I stay at home all day, I've been able to learn a little bit more about her by observing her habits: her apparent favorite habits are smoking on the front porch, yelling at her 2-year-old son Nehemiah (whom I am convinced does not own any clothes since any time I see him, he is running around in a diaper, regardless of weather conditions), eating, and loudly partying with gentleman callers on her porch. All of the above are done loudly. She is nothing but an absolute joy to live beside in my previously-quiet and serene neighborhood, even if it is overrun by the Feline Minions.

At this point, I'd like to pause to mention that despite ongoing wars with Creepy Cat Guy and Kidney Boy, I actually do get along with the majority of my neighbors. My favorite neighbor is Fred. Fred is my guardian angel, in the form of a tattoo'd, gruff, Harley-riding ex-trucker. Whenever I'm in distress, he magically appears -- whether it's being locked out of my car (arrives with slim jim in hand), fighting with the lawn mower (spark plug and a little luck and he had it running again), or help pushing a comatose car out of the street (that was a fun winter). Fred's a good guy. He's abrasive, but I'm not exactly smooth as silk myself. It's hard not to like Fred within five minutes of talking to him.

It's at this point that we teleport to yesterday afternoon. A warm June afternoon, I had my windows open when I hear men yelling at each other in angry voices, accompanied with a slew of curse words. I look out the window, and there's Jabba the Slut's current booty call/baby daddy/pimp/provider of McDonald's, this tiny skinny white guy, all thugged out, screaming at Fred to get off his (mind you, SHE rents the house, I have never seen Skinny in my life) lawn.

Fred is yelling back, obscenities are exchanged, I got called a skinny bitch in the whole mix. (Again. Confidence levels = all time high.) Fred goes back down to his house and I go inside. I come back out a little later and Fred's talking to Sharon, my other next-door neighbor (Kidney Boy's mom... she and I are cool).

BASICALLY. The story is, Fred was walking past Jabba's house, stopped to introduce himself and chat, and she referred to me in conversation as "the skinny bitch next door." Fred interjected that I and my husband are good people, and not to talk about me like that. Somewhere in this the fight escalated and Skinny pushed Fred, conflict ensued, police were called. Drama, drama, drama.

So basically, the neighborhood is quietly rallying to evict Jabba as efficiently and swiftly as possible.

Wars are fun when you have an army that doesn't consist solely of your blog and message board friends. Don't get me wrong, guys, you all rock, but this is going to be an amazing summer, full of calls to the police, filing complaints, calling her landlord, and who knows, maybe I'll get drunk and egg her house. Because THAT will solve the problem.

Hold onto your panties. This summer's gonna get interesting.

The new baby

So it's official. A. and I are now really, truly, officially, totally married.

We were married October 31, 2007 in a Las Vegas quickie wedding, after I had waddled my 5.5 month pregnant ass around Vegas to get to the license bureau and then threw up in the license bureau bathroom (pregnancy-related, not nerves). We were really married when I gave birth to our daughter, whom we had created while consumating our relationship (for the umphundredth time). We were reeeaaally married when we bought a couch together. But now it's official:



Meet our new baby. We bought a car together.

Yes, as of today, A. and I are the proud owners of a 2002 Jeep Liberty. She's beautiful. And I feel hot as hell driving it. Which really is the most important thing. Gas guzzling be damned -- I'm sexy in my Liberty.

It was a day I never thought I'd ever see. After the worst winter ever, when both of our cars took a shit on us, my grandmother gave me her car to get us through the winter, fighting with the Lumina every other week, and getting A. to finally admit that his Honda Prelude is NOT family friendly... followed by months of us fighting and arguing over what kind of vehicle to get.... it's here. It's in the driveway. It's mine and he can't take it away from me, namely because my name is on the title, too.

First, A. saw the car at a dealership. Talked to the dealer (I was not around for this), liked what he was hearing. Told me to go test drive it, which I did the next day. I fell in love instantly. Then I told A. as much, at which point he rambled on for awhile about the impracticality of it, and how it's a gas guzzler and.... who cares, all I heard was "Blah blah blah, I don't love you and you can never have a car you want, blah blah blah".

What ensued was a tantrum that would make even the most spoiled three-year-olds stop and marvel at the skill of my game. My tears are magical, ya'll. My bodily fluids in general are sheer magic. My breast milk makes a consistently 98th percentile baby, and my tears make a grown man buy me a car.

Don't think I am not without my match. After waiting 2 hours at the bank to get the car loan (after being told it would take 20-30 minutes), A. had the bank branch manager calming him down, offering him everything from water to her own private stash of Diet Pepsi to donuts from the Wells Fargo employee break room. I wasn't around to hear just how it reached the point of the bank manager groveling and offering donuts, but I don't doubt he was epic. Gotta love being married to an Irish man with an Irish temper.

But now it is mine. And I am content. The How2 has spoken.

You know your weight loss is paying off when...

... you hear your trashy fat blob of a neighbor on the phone on her front porch refer to you as "the skinny Stepford bitch next door."

Yes, we have a new neighbor. The idiot elderly couple who own the house next door, which has been empty for almost two years, have found someone to rent to again. I don't know what her name is, but I do know she has a little boy named Nehemiah James. I know his name because she screams it at him, along with random strings of obscenities, about every five minutes.

She seems delightful.