Meganithappen

Dear Kid: Month 3

2012-02-03T16:13:00.001-08:00

Dear Kid,

Last Friday you turned three months old, which means that, as of today, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 99 days. Tomorrow you will be 100 days old. Hopefully some day you will be 100 years old.

I would have gotten this letter to you last week, but for the past seven days we’ve been preparing to take you on a road trip to go to the grocery store. Just kidding. Getting you ready doesn’t take seven days. Actually, people become doctors in less time than it takes to get you ready to leave the house.

We know this, because you started day care this week. Your father and I had visions of grandeur about how our supremely organized mornings would be in order to expedite this process. The only thing we forgot about is your ability to have a complete blowout just as we’re preparing to place you in the car seat. A blow out so huge that it required an entire wardrobe change. Then there was that bottle of milk that exploded all over your diaper bag. Expressed breast milk. That one wasn’t your fault, but that was understandably the event that brought tears to my eyes.

So. Day care. Your day care provider loves you so far (well done, son, well done). We’re glad because we sure like her. Your father drops you off at day care and then I ~~get to be the hero and~~ pick you up, and so far you’ve dazzled each arrival and exit with smiles, and that makes us feel good. Though after your father dropped you off that first day I’m fairly confident he cried. (He might not have ACTUALLY shed tears but I know he probably wanted to, because when he called me after dropping you off he sounded like maybe the world had decided to take away college football. And All Blacks rugby. And Doritos. ON THE SAME DAY.)

He was sad to drop you off because basically you’re the nicest baby we’ve ever been around. No kidding. I mean, I get it, you’re OUR kid. But you also happen to be freaking awesome in all the other “technical” awesome baby ways too. You hardly cry, you sleep 8 hours a night now (and when you don’t, your dad feeds you…HOLLER!), and you even let us eat hot meals because you like laying on this thing that has other things hanging from it. You grab those things and squeal quite loudly. Shit, if that type of stuff continues to entertain you we’ll just give you our unused key chains for Christmas. Funsies!

The other thing that entertains you is your Gramma. She watched you the first week I went back to work. You guys are like BFF’s now. No kidding. I know when you get to junior high it might not seem that cool to be BFF’s with your Gramma, but we can keep it on the down low publicly as long as you can keep it real when she comes around.

We continue to learn new things about how we’re supposed to be taking care of you. Everyday when your father comes out of the bathroom, as a matter of fact, he shares a new tidbit that he’s learned from what we now refer to as “The Book.” It’s this big book that is supposed to tell us everything about how we’re supposed to care for you during the first year of your life. So far, we’ve discovered that we’ve only almost killed you 4 times. One of them had to do with lead poisoning. No big deal.

Anyway, we’ve learned other stuff from you too, which is weird because you’re only 99 days old. Like, wtf could you possibly teach us, right? A lot actually. Like, for example, I don’t actually miss going out on the town and drinking and singing Pat Benatar at karaoke as much as I thought I would because I’d actually rather stay home and clean up you stinky poo. Explain that one to me.

Maybe when you start having man poops that will change.

Listen, the point I’m trying to make here is that I’ve discovered that before you came along I was basically a selfish person, and I was totally comfortable staying that way. You make me a little less so.

So...thank you for that. And thank you for sleeping 8 hours again last night. That too.

Love,

Your Momma.

Just another Saturday night as a 30 something...

2012-01-05T17:38:00.000-08:00

Remember when I used to party like a rock star? Me either. What's crazy is that it's not like I've abandoned the group of friends who used to participate in said rock star partying. We still hang out. It's just now we've begun to multiply like flies, we drink wine (we've moved on from Arbor Mist) instead of ~~Bacardi 151~~ Busch light, and we ~~no longer puke in the drive through of fast food restaurants at 3 in the morning~~ are typically home well before midnight.

Don't get me wrong, I still know every word of "Back dat ass up" and will, on an occasion (and with a certain enthusiasm I would only display in front of my husband), bust that shit out when it's "clean the bathroom day", but it's been a long time since my ass has backed up into anything...unless you count last Sunday, when I was literally forced to rub my ass up against the car next to me while attempting to navigate the car seat into the back of my jeep because Mr. IownahummerbecauseIthinkitwillhelpmegetlaid decided to give me 3 whole inches to get into my vehicle in the Target parking lot. But other than that, I like to keep my ass as closely parallel to the rest of my body as possible these days.

In fact, when we find ourselves rockpaperscissoring our significant others at a party because we're attempting to pawn off the next diaper change on one another, we often ask ourselves, "What happened to us? We used to be cool!" Well, life, I guess. Now we chair community events and educate children and talk shop and teach yoga on Saturday mornings.

Yoga, whaaaaa? COME ON NOW MR. A, YOU KNEW THIS POST WAS COMING.

Funny you bring up yoga. One of the long standing members of our "we used to be cool in college" group - we'll call him "Mr. A" - does happen to teach yoga on an occasion. Recently, after a few glasses of Cabernet, he decided it was important to show us a new yoga move he's considering incorporating into the "partner" portion of his class. He asked for volunteers and his best friend since they were negative years old enthusiastically stepped forward.

I think it's wise to let the photos speak for themselves:

It just didn't look quite right at first.

It wasn't working out with Mr. A on the bottom, so they made a switch.

This is where it gets weird (in case you were wondering):

Let's take another look at that angle:

Mr. A (over laughter, but totally serious):
It's imperative to keep your toes pointed for balance.

And THAT'S when Paul walked in to room and said, "Me next!"

The end.

Note: No humans were harmed in the making of this post. It should also be noted that no one pictured in this post actually threw up in the drive through of a fast food restaurant after being introduced to Bacardi 151. That was...a different friend. For truesies.

Dear Kid: Month 2

2011-12-28T20:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Kid,

As I write this you’re fast asleep on the couch wrapped up like a burrito…a wrap I’ve become quite adept at creating because basically ~~IT SAVES OUR LIVES~~ you really like it. Your dad is leaned up against the couch watching you sleep because as of late, the two of us find that everything else is uninteresting compared to you.

You’re TWO MONTHS TODAY! That means that we’ve managed to keep you alive for 62 days, but who’s counting, really? You’ve gotten so BIG! Like, even your lineman of a father was all “my shoulder’s all jacked up from holding him” big. THAT big. 12.5 lbs big.

Speaking of him, can I just say that you’ve given me the best gift by being able to give HIM the best gift? Honestly, Semisi, these past two months I’ve never seen your father exude such happiness, and I can confidently attribute all of it directly to you. He’s not much of a gift exchanger…hates receiving gifts as a matter of fact (I KNOW...Christmas time at our house is TORTURE for him)…but giving him you? I know this year I NAILED it. I’ll never be able to top this.

Your dad changes more diapers than I do, as a matter of fact. You continually thank him for taking on this duty by giving him a run for his money every third change or so. I can always tell when you’ve been able to “get him good” by waiting to finish the job when the cold air hits you, because I can hear your dad say, “Ohhhhh, you little bugger…” because he CANNOT call you a little shit. He just can’t. Because he likes you that much. I would challenge any other person on the planet to shit on your father and have him respond in that way. (That one night when you got him THREE times? That was epic. Well done, Son, WELL. DONE.)

I think I could even go as far as to say that your presence in our lives has brought the two of us even closer together. We rarely bicker anymore because you’ve given us a perspective that basically reminds us that little shit that we used to worry about really doesn’t matter a whole lot anymore. The only thing we fight about is the proper way to give you a bath. (For the record, I do it right.) (Please remember to tell him that when you can speak.) (Don’t tell him I told you to say that, obvs.) (This will not be the last time I put you up to something like this.)

These past few months with you have been the most challenging and most memorably happy months of my life. Very difficult to describe that dichotomy, but I can say that it’s been 100% worth it. You’re such a sweet little guy. Today you got your first shots and it absolutely killed me that they interrupted your cooing and smiles with shots in your chunky thigh that made you scream bloody murder. But then…THEN!...after it was all done and I picked you up you immediately quit crying and gave me the biggest open mouthed grin I’ve seen as of late (and you smile A LOT). That was about all I could take, because that’s when my heart melted to the point that it actually seeped out of my skin, leaped down to squeeze your cheeks, and buried itself in between your chin and neck, WHERE IT WILL LIVE FOREVER AND EVER AMEN.

Because really, you’re the best gift I’ve ever given myself…and all you do right now is smile and poop and sleep and eat (and occasionally throw out a drama bomb…but hey, you are MY KID after all). We know what you look like…what your smile looks like…your hair (you already have enough hair to give yourself a good case of bed head). But other than that, your life is a blank canvas waiting for your touch...and frankly, I can’t wait to see how you’ll paint the world around you.

I had a friend once who told me that the day her son was born, she felt more loved than she’d ever felt in her life. I didn’t understand that before I had you. Now I do. Thank you for that.

Love,

Momma

Basically I'm famous again.

2011-12-28T06:35:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays! I've got quite a few posts in the works (two men simulating birthing techniques, Semisi turns two months, and much more!), but in the meantime, I've got big news up in here, y'all! Well, big to me.

Remember that one time when I was famous for like, 20 minutes? Well, the lady who runs that website decided to publish a book called A Practical Wedding: Creative Ideas for Planning a Beautiful, Affordable, and Meaningful Celebration. Here it is for real proof:

THEN...drum roll please....she contacted me a short time after to see if she could feature the piece I wrote in her book! And guess what? She did! I'm on page 19-20 (that's MULTIPLE pages, but who needs specifics?) and I even have a mini bio in the book. Meg Keene (the author) just sent me a signed copy today! Squeeeee! So basically I'm famous again. No big deal.

To celebrate this, we'll (I say "we'll" like there is more than one person running this blog. There isn't, but it makes it sounds more big time) be doing something REALLY exciting on January 1st, which is a significant date for two reasons: 1) it's anniversary of the time I decided to really start blogging and 2) it's my ACTUAL anniversary to my husband. (Double win!) What will we be doing, you ask? It rhymes with Biv-a-day...and this isn't your mother's biv-a-day, y'all...this is a nearly $200 value something or other...

Stay tuned!

Welcome to the 2011 Nursery Reveal Extravaganza!!!

2011-12-12T19:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, I had to give the post quite the name because A) people usually "reveal" their nurseries BEFORE they have their baby and B) I took the nursery pictures with my iphone, so I need to really build it up or else you might look at the crappy pictures and be like, "Wow. I clicked the link on facebook for THIS?"

Well, you might still be let down, but at least the post has a hell of a name.

ANYWAY, I'm not too domestic, but I got down and dirty with this nursery people. Obvs I didn't know what I was having prior to birth, and the trouble with gender neutral nurseries is that unless you like pale green and yellow, you're shit out of luck.

Then I discovered pinterest. So between that and etsy, I was able to scrounge up enough ~~plagiarized ideas~~ inspiration to put something together.

A while back I did a post about my ailments (BIG surprise!) but at the end I put pictures up of a nursery that I wanted to try to somewhat replicate for about $15 dollars.

So, maybe I didn't do it in $15 bucks, but I will say I had a lot of help and I'm definitely pleased with how it came together. So, without further ado...

A few things:

I made the AK, MT, and Hawaii framed art. (The words in between the big text are names of towns within each state.) I found the Alaska one on etsy, loved it, decided to take that idea and role with it. I made one for HI and MT, as Paul and I met in AK, married in HI, and live in MT. Get it??? Since we don't really know much about our son yet (other than that he's the coolest kid EVER) we decided to make a nursery about US. I mean WHY NOT. The cool Alaska state wood carving was an anniversary gift from my friend Lauren. Love it!

My bff Angie screen printed the "Very Sleepy" art. Thanks again, Ang!

My MOM bought the awesome rug for me on Ebay, and the curtains at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Jackie, my step-mom, got the the cute chenille chair...from...get this...WALMART online. I may or may not have led her DIRECTLY to the chair that I wanted. I was bummed that it came from Wally world but it was the one I like best out of ALL OF THE CHAIRS ON THE INTERNETS and I felt a little bit better when it arrived with a huge MADE IN AMERICA sticker on it. So there you go.

I bought the crib linens on etsy, with the exception of the cute monogrammed pillow cover that Godmother #1's mom made for me (thanks Cathy!). I need to get a better pic of that to show it off more.

The decal of the birch trees came from etsy too...and since I was an English teacher, and I hale from English majors (my Dad was even an English Prof.), I went with the Robert Frost quote. My Dad would be all having a fit because it's actually "So was I once" rather than "So I was once"...yes, I screwed that up when ordering it, but hey, I could have kept in the "IT IS" at the beginning of the quote that the vendor so kindly included in the decal (as I said in the email, "Can we change the quote? I'd like a quote from Robert Frost. It is: 'So I was once...'"...yeah, thanks vendor...that was fun to cut out of the quote because they aren't hard enough to put AS IT IS.) A HUGE thanks to Amy for helping me put up that bad boy.

The quilt on the chair was a gift to Paul from one of the parents of his wrestling kids when he coached wrestling up in AK. Paul wanted to hang it on our living room wall when we first moved in. Dodged a HUGE bullet there, and it looks perfect draped over the chair. (What IS IT with dudes and wanting to hang blankets on walls???)

Other details in the room were pretty much all gifted (like the Semisi sign on the children's wardrobe...thanks Erin!). Ohhhh, and the crib I bought second hand (thanks for the awesome deal Shane!), the children's wardrobe was my late Grandmother's, and the changing table I bought at a garage sale for $12...it was an ugly blond wood and my mom and I stripped it and painted it one afternoon this last summer.

We're so blessed. What I actually spent probably came to around $350. What do y'all think?

Actually, if you don't like it, don't tell me. Just shower it with compliments please. My ego cannot take it.

And please quit proofreading my posts (SHELLEY E., I know you're doing this without even meaning to). My ego can't take that either.

Fairy Godmothers

2011-12-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

In telling Godmother #1:

Soon to be GM1: So, how's the nursing going? How's my little sweety!?!
Me: Well, you're never going to believe this, but I have mastitis...AGAIN.
Soon to be GM1: You're kidding me! How do you keep getting that?
Me: Well, they say I get it from Semisi.
Soon to be GM1: That. little. bastard.
Me: I know! I don't think he means to though.
Soon to be GM1: Sure. Sure.
Me: In other news, we're wondering if you'd do us the honor of being one of the little bastard's Godmothers?
(Obvs she said YES.)

In telling Godmother #2:

Me: Paul and I were wondering if you'd do us the honor of being one of Semisi's Godmothers!
Soon to be GM2: Really! That's AWESOME! OF COURSE I WOULD! Who's the Godfather?
Me: There is no Godfather. He's just having two Godmothers. You and GM1.
Soon to be GM2: Awesome! I'm going to call her. We'll be like the ambiguously gay Godmothers!
Me: Perfect!
Soon to be GM2: I'm so HONORED! Wait. What do I have to do? Do I need to like, read the bible or something?
Me: Nah. Just be like, nice and stuff.
Soon to be GM2: Well I have good morals. After all, I'll be like, 48 by the time I even offer him a beer.
Me: He'll only be 18 then.
Soon to be GM2: Correct.

MRSA, Mastitis and Motherhood...Oh my!

2011-12-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

Someday I'll quit writing about my ailments. I promise. Today is not that day.

So I've been MIA for a while. Sorry about that. It was getting hard.

Where do I begin? Well remember that time I was all, "Tomorrow is my first day alone with Semisi!" Well, that didn't happy for another week and a half because I ALMOST DIED.

Okay, maybe not. But ALMOST. I'll spare you many (not all, of course) of the details, but to make a long story not quite as long, I got this thing called mastitis, and my nipple turned to something so disgusting (what? You didn't want to hear about my nipple?) that I am actually going to SPARE you by NOT posting the picture that I took of my nipple with my cell phone. The same picture that I may or may not have sent via text message to my doctor. OH YES I DID.

Yeah, that was an awkward text message. It was like, "Hi, Dr. It's Megan. This is awkward, but I'm going to send you a picture of my messed up nipple because my husband actually starts to gag every time I go to use the breast pump. We're concerned. Please send help."

My doctor called me and was all OH MY GOD GET TO THE ER RIGHT NOW. Yeah, that's how nasty it was.

So off I went. But the cute ER doctor (awkward moment number 874 of becoming a mother) simply confirmed I had mastitis and told me to keep taking the (second)antibiotic that I'd been prescribed. He also gave me pain meds, because I could tell even HE was a little...well, "put off" by the state of the nipple. Also I told him that pumping and/or breastfeeding elicited a pain comparable, if not worse, than giving birth. Wheeeee!

Three days later, mastitis is not gone, fever is back with a vengence, and I'm back in the doctor's office. And then I'm being told I have MRSA! Do you know what that is? Me either, but I think it stands for Must Really Suck Ass, because it did. And then I had to get a different antibiotic that cost a million gazillion dollars. So many dollars that I can't even say it out loud on the internets because I work in healthcare and part of my job is minimizing health care dollar expenditures and OH MY GOD the price of this prescription made me blush and cuss in front of the little pharmacy assistant. Oops.

And remember all my breast feeding drama? Well, this antibiotic that cost me a gazillion dollars hasn't been proven to be safe for my baby while breastfeeding, so to keep up my supply I had to pump and dump. To be honest, I was ready to throw in the towel at this point. But the Internet told me that only devil worshippers feed their children baby formula, and the crazy Le Leche people were like, MUST BREASTFEED EVEN IF YOU ARE ON YOUR DEATH BED and so I found myself succumbing to this peer pressure and sticking with it. So for the past the past 10 days I have been pumping and dumping what little I am producing. For those of you who have ever pumped breast milk, you know that dumping it out is like dumping LIQUID GOLD down the drain. LIQUID GOLD I tell you.

But now I'm back! And I'm better! And I'm alive! And thanks to my husband, our son is still here too!

And these past four days that I've (finally!) been alone with him have not been quite as terrifying as I thought they would be.

So onward an upward! For now, my days consist of smooching my baby, watching reruns of Mad Men, and pumping liquid gold from my body. Now that the babes and I are getting into the swing of things, I hope to blog more than every few years or so.

Maybe someday I'll even blog about something other than my crazy nipple. Stay tuned!

In the meantime, here is proof that my baby boy has, in fact, continued to thrive despite my attempting to poison him with formula. Happy 1 month b-day son! You're seriously worth it. I promise you that.

P.S. Shout out to my fab hubs, my Mom and Ang for taking care of me and my sweet little baby cakes while I was down and out.

What's in a name? Everything.

2011-11-13T18:07:00.000-08:00

[My mom, with Semisi, the day we took him home from the hospital.]

Tonight my mom went home after having been here since Semisi's birth, and it's difficult for me even now to think of the words I could use to thank her for her presense during the transition of bringing out little man home. Tonight, for the first time, it's just Paul, Semisi, and Me, and tomorrow, it will just be my son and I.

Wow. My son.

My mom told me once that having a kid is like losing a parent in terms of the depth with which it impacts your life...only in reverse, because it's a joyous occasion and obviously you're bringing someone in to the world rather than saying good-bye. I could relate to this, because when I lost my father over two and a half years ago (good God...it's been that long?), I remember feeling like my friends who hadn't lost a parent - though AMAZINGLY supportive in every way possible, simply couldn't understand the way it changes your life. Someday they will, but after my Dad passed away, I had a deep connection with those friends of mine who'd lost parents. It was a sort of "knowing"...an unspoken understanding...particularly with the friends of mine who'd lost a parent to cancer, as that's a cruel disease and a terrifying way to watch someone pass from this life to the next.

Now that I'm a parent, I feel as though I have an understanding among my friends who are also parents. Let me be clear: many are probably like, "FINALLY! She GETS it." Certainly I'm no WISER than I was before, but I am already beginning to see the world they way they've seen it since their children entered their lives. I'll continue to learn, they'll continue to suppress their "I told you so's", but from here on out I understand that nothing will be the same.

There will now always be three where there was once two.

At least until he's 18.

Right Semisi? You will be 18, and not 32...RIGHT?

Because of what my mom said to me that day, when my husband suggested, were we to have a son, we name him SEMISI, Tongan for James, after my father, I couldn't think of anything more fitting. His middle name, Michael, is my step-father's first name.

So welcome little man. You've got a lot to live up to. Either way, we still love you...because after all, that's what parenthood is about. I've already learned this much.

[Me, with my Dad...30 years ago.]

Parenthood 101: Keeping Your Baby Alive Without Having a Nervous Breakdown

2011-11-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

Warning: I'm too tired to proof read this. Don't judge me for typos.

Dudes. This shit is hard. And I have it easy, because Semisi? The kid never cries. I shit you not. He sleeps, eats, poops, and lets out an occasional grunt, and that's. about. it. So you're all probably like, "Cry me a river!" and "Where's my violin?!?!" and "I suppose your diamond shoes don't fit either, you lucky bastard!??!" You would be right to say all of those things on the baby front. He's rad. But it's not him. It's ME!

This sounds like a bad break up story. NO I AM NOT BREAKING UP WITH MY BABY. Come ON. It hasn't even been two weeks yet. I have to at least let him take me out for Thai food first. DUH.

Okay, but in all seriousness, trying to keep this kid alive is tough work. I almost had a mental breakdown the first week. There are a few reasons for this.

After having the little man home for a few days (two...TWO days) we were scheduled to go in for a quick follow up appointment with our doc to get him weighed...and we did not get good news at this appointment. We discovered that he's lost almost a whole pound since his birth, and that he was getting little to no nourishment from the boob. Basically the little guy was just a sucking away and was getting NADA from me...much to my surprise.

Of course, because he'd only been born a few days earlier, I was a damn basket case, so this, along with the tumbleweed blowing across the doctor's parking lot, made me break in to tears. We were sent home and forced to feed him formula, which we've been doing right along side some serious attempts on my part to pump some milk out of these gigantic boobs of mine.

For a few days, I got nothing...NOTH.ING. Then I'd get an ounce a pumping session, which is basically enough to keep a knat alive for an hour. However, slowly but surely, I'm getting a little more at a time and we're able to give him what little I can pump while supplementing with formula.

Why am I telling you all this? Well I don't know!??! Why are you reading? I guess I expected breast feeding to be some damned hippie ass experience where I would casually lift of my shirt and my son would nuzzle in and drink to his heart's content, giving me a slight hand signal when he'd have enough...upon which he would roll away and begin hiccuping and rubbing his belly in satisfaction...maybe saying something like, "That's some good shit."

But instead, I was basically starving my kid. NOT exactly how I pictured all of that playing out.

Partner this with my uncontrollable urge to cry every five seconds and my constant fear that every thing ELSE I was doing was putting my baby's life in GRAVE danger too, and well, the "experts say breast milk is best" warning on the side of the formula can label can just go F*@& itself.

My psychotic fit of hormone induced wailing has been a damn joy ride for Paul, let me tell you.

Because everything I do feels like it's putting my kid in danger. It's like, if I hold him this way, or burp him that way, HE COULD DIE. AND OTHER BABIES MIGHT DIE JUST BECAUSE I DID IT WRONG. JUST BECAUSE.

But it's getting better. I wake up each morning with a huge sense of relief that we've managed to keep our child alive for yet another day - this brings me a great feeling of accomplishment. And our kid seems happy.

Yet, I'm still a total basket case, and I'm looking forward to the day when I can just enjoy motherhood without being scared to death of it. But the good news is Paul is leading me through this adventure - and he stays as calm and collected as always, which is precisely why I married him. And my mom, who just retired after 35 years of doing day care, is here helping. So really, I have nothing to worry about, right? RIGHT???

Right.

So...tell me something good! Tell me you thought you were going to accidentally kill your baby every five minutes too! Tell me it gets better! Tell me it will all be okay! Tell me that not breastfeeding my kid every ounce he takes in will not result in a major arrested development!

Or tell me to shut the hell up and go eat the cheeks off of my sweet baby boy.

Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

Ohhh...and here's our week, in photos. As you can see, Paul is doing everything...likely because I'm off crying in a corner shouting "I'm killing him!"

In between those fits of hysteria, I managed to get these pictures:

Yes. That's a maxi pad. That's the shit they give you at the hospital. Scared yet, mom-to-be-who-have-never-been?

It's not the baby that's exhausting him. Trust me.

Pure bliss. OH YEAH. THIS is why I had a kid with this man.

The...ehem...birth story.

2011-11-03T18:28:00.000-07:00

WARNING: NOT for the faint of heart.

Dear Kid,

Welcome! We're so glad you're here. Mostly, my troll feet thank you for finally evicting yourself so that my ankle bone might once again make an appearance. Seriously, I think my colleagues at work were sick of me saying, "GET A LOAD OF THIS!" every time they walked into my office as I lifted up my pant leg to show off my club foot of an ankle. Apparently the side effects of pregnancy just aren't that interesting to everyone.

So, you're a dude. BIG SURPRISE there. I'm not even being sarcastic there. That was a big. effing. surprise...to everyone except your grandmother, and she'll be the first to tell you that because no one loves being right more than she does. Except for me. So, although I'm just tickled pink (sorry, bad choice of words) that you're a HE, I hated saying I was wrong about something.

Here's how we found out you were a boy:

About 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday, the 26th of October, I was getting some serious signals from you that you might be making your grand appearance. (Actually, that's kind of a lie. One of my colleagues was like, "Girl! You're in LABOR! GO HOME!" (Hi Shelley!)

So I headed home from work, called your Dad, and then called the hospital. Of course, at that point, the hospital was all, "Dude, quit calling. Your contractions are like, 10 minutes apart, fool! Call back when they're two to five minutes apart."

WTF. SERIOUSLY?

That seemed like a damn eternity. But WHATEVER. I was determined not to be that girl that gets sent home mostly because I couldn't handle that type of discouragement.

But then around 2:00 a.m. it was clear that you weren't messing around, so I stuck it out for a few more hours then I made this dramatic phone call to nurse and really hammed it up so she would believe me, and so she was like, "FINE, you can come in." And off your dad and I went to the hospital.

When we got to the hospital, the nurse checked me, and I was dilated to a 4. You don't get what that means. Some day I'll explain it to you, but anyway, it basically meant I could stay. But THEN the nurse was all, "You need to go walk the hall for 15 minutes" and I was all, "Bitch PLEASE!"...because walking at that point seemed like, SUPER hard. But I did it, and had contractions the whole time, and you made it very clear that you were ready to GO!

Then I was dilated to a 6, and the nurses were all, "Epidural?" and I was all, "Yes, please!" and HOLY SHIT SWEET NECTAR OF THE GODS OF ALL THINGS THAT ARE FUZZY AND WARM THAT'S SOME GOOD SHIT.

Except you like, can't feel the bottom half of your body with one of those things. Did you know that? Could you feel the bottom half of YOUR body? Because I could not.

Checking on the dilation progress after that point was interesting, because remember when I said I couldn't feel the bottom half of my body? Well your 300 lb lineman of a father had to help move my legs so they could check out the progress DOWN THERE, and I swear to you that my legs felt so heavy I was all, "HONEY YOUR ASS IS GONNA NEED SOME HELP LIFTING THESE THINGS."

But he was able, apparently, and low and behold! I was dilated to a seven and shit was getting SERIOUS! Your grams and gramps drove on over (from three hours away) and were there by our sides by 7:30 a.m. and I was encouraged that you and I were going to meet one another REAL soon.

Then, ummm, things just stopped.

Fast forward to 6:00 pm THAT NIGHT and I was STILL at a seven. Dude. WORK WITH ME. You were not. By this point I had conceded to a bit of pitocin, but you were annoyed with that so we had to stop. Then I was annoyed enough to go ahead and give myself a 102 degree fever, then you were annoyed and raised your heart rate, and things were getting out of control. Then the physician (bless her sweet lil' heart!) was all, "We're not messing around anymore. We're-a-gonna-go-ahead and get shit moving." And she, well, "checked" me again and did some handy work up there and we finally got things going.

Then just before 10:00 p.m., I started to push (for those of you who aren't keeping track, this means I have been in labor for 30 hours...but nbd. Whatevs). At this point, I'd lost ALL sense of modesty, and although I had originally wanted it to just be Paul and I in the room, I was totally fine with two of your grandmas setting up shop, too. Then your dad had to hold up my 300 lb leg and a way we went!

For another 2 hours.

And then finally (FINALLY) the nurses and doc were all, "I CAN SEE HAIR!" And between you and me I knew they were talking about YOUR hair, so I really gave it the good ole' college try. And I'm sorry, but when they offered to use the vacuum, even though I knew it would give you a cone head, I was all, "HELL YEAH I WANT YOU TO USE THE VACUUM!"

(Your father would want me to mention that he was trying to encourage me NOT to use the vacuum. There are a variety of reasons why his opinion, at this point, did not matter. When you have a wife and kid of your own, I'll be sure to remind you that your opinion won't matter either.)

And then BOOM! Out you came! Of my vagina, I mean. And you were screaming your ass off. And aside from the epidural, that's the best thing I felt all day. And people were all, "It's a BOY!" and I was all, "Nu-uh it ISN'T!" But you were. You were a boy. You are a boy.

And I am so, so, so, so, so OKAY with that.

Because I didn't think I could love another boy like I love your Dad, but here you go proving me wrong already.

So welcome, little man. Thanks for being cute, and thanks for...you know...changing my life...and stuff.

Momma

P.S. Shannon - this one's for you. I totally pooped. Cheers!

Meet Semisi Michael

2011-10-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

Semisi (James, in Tongan...phonetically pronounced Say-me-see) Michael was born just shy of midnight on October 27th.

Believe it or not, he was born exactly 7 lbs. (not 15), 20.5 inches, with a full head of hair (that part is probably NOT surprising...)

We really, really like him.

We, like, LOVE him.

A lot.

Here are some quick photos to tide y'all over:

More to come (i.e. gory birth story details), but for now you'll have to excuse me while I go eat some baby cheeks.

Much love to you all.

Megan

Gus and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

2011-10-17T16:24:00.000-07:00

So my dog.

Yes. He’s a 12 pound Pomeranian. We think. Or something. Here is a picture of him:

He enjoys sitting (like that) in the sun room.

He also enjoys driving in the car with the window rolled down:

And rolling in dead things in the grass:

I think if my dog could be compared to any one in real life, it would be David Sedaris. Or maybe Frasier’s brother. You know, this guy:

Anyway, he’s a bit eccentric. He only likes food that is the color red. He prefers to hang out in his little house during the day, even though we don’t put him in there. He will lick my ankles for hours at a time. He’s a weirdo, but we love him.

We adopted Gus a few years ago. I caught Paul off guard and in a weak moment he agreed to let me adopt him. When we got him, his hair/fur/whatever it is was pretty shaved down, and we didn’t know what he was or what he was going to look like. He was neither cute, nor uncute. At the time, he looked like this:

You see, because Paul didn't grow up with dogs, he didn't like dogs. I, myself? I’m a BIG dog person, but I grew up with labs, and if I had my druthers, we would have a big dog. Sometimes I treat Gus like a big dog and not a little furball. But our condo association won’t let us have a big dog, so I had to compromise and just get what was available and under 30 pounds.

As time passed, Paul began to love him even more than I did. He even considered entering the two of them into a contest called Big Guy, Small Dog. We never did, and I think Paul still regrets having not done this, as he’s fairly convinced they would have won. Basically, Paul has become the equivalent of a stage mom. If there were a show called “Tiaras and Pomeranians,” I think Paul and Gus would be on it.

Because Paul is a much more responsible human being than I am, he has typically always come home at lunch to let Gus out to take a whiz. Paul did that every day for two years, even though I worked closer to our home than Paul did. However, Paul’s job location has recently changed, and now he works so far from our house that it would be impossible for him to drive all the way home to let Gus out at lunch. But of course, Gus is now USED to being let out every four hours or so. So now I have to do it. Ugggh. Fine.

Bear with me…I getting to the good part.

Anyway, Paul leaves the house at 6:30 a.m., I leave the house at 8:45ish, so I usually let Gus out ONE MORE TIME before I head to work so I can push coming back to let him out until later in the day. Last Friday, I did just that, because I knew my parents were coming to stay with us for the weekend and that they would be in around 1:30 p.m. and head straight to my house. So, I asked my mom if she would let out Gus out when she got to my house so that I wouldn't have to go home for lunch that day.

Only, when she got to my house, she didn't have to let him out.

Because he was already outside.

Where I left him earlier that morning.

Chained to his little tether.

Oops! Pregnancy brain!

Thank GOD it wasn’t like, negative 20 degrees outside!

I confessed that I’d done this to Paul. He was not pleased. He was tempted to turn me in to dog protective services.

Later that day (TO MAKE UP FOR MY NEGLIGENCE) Paul made an appointment for Gus to get his hair cut the next morning at 8:00 a.m. (MY DOG LOVES GETTING GROOMED. SEE ABOVE COMPARISON.) Obvs I was NOT about to get up that early on a Saturday morning to take my dog to the beauty parlor, but Paul, being the stage mom that he is, was happy to do it.

When they came home, THIS is what walked through my door:

Holy. Shit.

The Pomeranian Stage Mom has De-RAILED.

That's Paul's hands in the first two pics, holding him into submission so that I can take a photo. I'm sure you're surprised. Paul said he ASKED the dog groomer to give him this cut for Halloween. But he also said that with a flashy hair cut like that, maybe I wouldn't forget to let him back in the house in the morning.

Well play, Paul. Well. Played.

Meet the Parents

2011-10-03T17:16:00.000-07:00

Dear kid,

Because we’re about three and a half weeks away from your arrival, I thought I’d take the time over the next few weeks to give you the low-down of what you can expect when you get here, since you are unable to prepare me at all for what I might expect upon your arrival. If you’re anything like your dad, you won’t need to be prepared. If you’re like me, you’ll want to know the name of the nurse in the delivery room well before you’ve met her. I’ve requested an Ethel. No promises.

I thought I’d begin with how I met your father. His name is Paul. His actual name is Paula – pronounced Pah-ooo-la…three syllables. When he moved to the United States from Tonga, his teachers pronounced his name “Paula” (as in a female customer service lady who might work at a Herberger’s). Because of that likely traumatic experience, he now goes by Paul to everyone except a select few – including both your grandmothers and a handful of his buddies who have taken the time to understand how to say it the right way. You can just call him Dad if you want, though.

Here is a picture of him. He will be embarrassed that I picked this picture because it’s from the olden days, but I can’t help it.

You’ll come to discover that Tonga is an island in the South Pacific. Not many people from Montana know this. I was one of them. Despite having hailed from a tropical island, I managed to meet him in the Alaskan tundra.

Explain that to me.

Anyway, the best way to describe your dad is to say that he is the exact opposite of me in every way possible. Needless to say, we’re curious as to how you might come to blend the two of us into one little package. When we met, I was a lowly second year Drama and English teacher who was getting her emotional ass kicked by her students. Your father was a wrestling and football coach for the high school, and he had total control in every way I did not – especially with students who acted like assholes. At that time, this was about the hottest and most attractive quality anyone could possess.

Despite that – and despite the fact that your father is probably the nicest man I’ve ever met - I actually didn’t like him all that much in the beginning. He’d be the first to tell you this. He was just SOOOO NICE. If you're a girl, you'll understand that someday.

So one day, I broke up with him and told him to quit calling me because I “just wasn’t feeling it.” He took these instructions literally, because he's a boy...and because he was very, very smart.

Of course, not calling me like I'd asked him to was just unacceptable. So I called him...because I had to see him THAT DAY...and he said that if I wanted to see him I had to come to a WRESTLING MEET.

UGGGGGH. He was pushing it. But I did it. I went.

The only thing I understood about what was happening on the mats was that your father had a personalized handshake with each one of his wrestlers, which he promptly administered upon the completion of each of their matches – win or lose. Because of another man you’ll soon meet, you’ll learn that individualized handshakes are very important to me. Your dad doesn’t know this, but that was the day I decided to fall in love with him, marry him and reproduce with him.

Luckily your dad has always been quick to forgive utter stupidity (this will come in handy when you’re in Junior High), so he took me back.

THEN I made him move back home to Montana with me, which he did because he really likes me. When we got here, shit got crazy, and we survived two of the most difficult years we’ve ever had (more on that another day). At the end of all that, we came out alive and married. Things started to look up.

Enter: you.

Little people actually terrify me, but your dad is much braver than I am, and so he convinced me to give the kid thing the good ole’ college try shortly after we got hitched. When I wasn’t pregnant that first month I was convinced it wouldn’t happen. Then, just a day or two after returning from a little getaway weekend of hot-tubbing and drinking a lot of booze, I discovered that I was 8 weeks pregnant with you. Oops. Sorry about that. If you end up with nine knuckles, you can blame that weekend.

When I showed your dad those two little pink lines on that thing I had to pee on, the first words out of his mouth were, “It’s going to be okay.”

And, other than having made 7 (seven!) trips to the bathroom between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 7 a.m. last night; other than my new face, which now looks like a soccer mom version of Chucky; other than my troll feet and sausage fingers; other than the nausea, and the panic attacks in the diaper aisle at Target, and the frozen yogurt cravings, and the lack of vodka, things have, indeed, been okay.

Because yesterday, when I was reading a book that I had propped up on my belly, you kicked so hard that the book actually rolled off of my stomach and dropped to the floor. I understood this to be your first attempt at establishing a hand shake with me.

As a result of this nice gesture, I’ve made the decision to fall in love with you, too. And I didn't even have to tell you not to call first. So already, you're one step ahead of your father.

We’re all excited to meet you, so please don’t overstay your welcome in my ~~cervix~~, ~~stomach~~, ~~ovary~~, ~~belly~~, uterus? Whatever. You know where you are. See you soon.

Love,
Momma

OH YES I DID.

2011-09-12T15:49:00.001-07:00

Here's the recipe, a la Megan (I found is on pinterest, my new favorite thing...are you pinning? You should be. Follow me and I shall follow you. Amen.):

1. Get your favorite brownie mix.
2. Mix the shit up, then divide evenly into muffin tins.
3. Bake for 15 mins. or so. You know. just...watch it. Or whatever.
4. Heat up 3/4 cup peanut butter. When the "cups" of brownie collapse, poor some of that melted goodness into the center of each cup.
5. Top with peanut butter chips, semi-sweet chocolate chips, and angels.
6. Enjoy. Say, "Oh gawds, it's just so rich. I think I can only have one." Then have 3.
7. Wash down with ice cold milk.

Oh God. I see what's happened here. I've replaced alcohol with baked goods. This is not good.

Or isn't it?

It's like a party in my uterus.

2011-09-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

The good news about having a tumor? You get to have one of those sweet ultrasounds so they can get a real good look at it. Of course this also meant that I got a look at the kiddo chillin in the ole' uterus, too!

And no shit, these ultrasounds are something else! I kind of feel like we cheated a little. Like we got to see the baby ahead of time. Like when it comes out we'll be all, "Nice to meet you. You look just like your photo."

At first we couldn't get a good look at the face because the babe's foot was in the way. Of it's face. That is correct. And yes I did make them clarify that the foot appeared to be an extension of the leg, showing an unparalleled act of flexibility instead of a foot in place of a hand.

Once the foot moved over a bit, we got some sweet shots of him/her throwing us some gang signs. But then he/she shot us a smile, and that was pretty rad, not gonna lie:

In the above pic the babes is actually holding its foot. I told Paul that's a total cheerleader move.

He just smiled and said, "She has my nose."

And then I was thinking that it'd be sweet if we had a lineman sized boy who wanted to be a cheerleader. Can you image how solid the base of that pyramid would be?

And then I had my first "HOLY SHIT I'M PRETTY EXCITED TO MEET THIS KID" moment.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

So any bets? Based on the pic...boy or girl?

You're so ANAL about your BABY.

2011-08-29T17:44:00.000-07:00

Jokes.com

Megan Mooney - Irish = Mexican

comedians.comedycentral.com

Megan Mooney

Comedians

Stand-Up

First of all, if Megan Mooney were to ask me to marry her I just might say yes, because she’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a comedienne and more. Too bad she's married (with children now, as a matter of fact). (Shout out to Ang for introducing us.)

This particular bit really spoke to me though – on a very deep level. I remember having these very same feelings the first time a friend of mine told me she was pregnant. She was a college friend and needless to say, we’d had some seriously good times - times we'd never be able to continue with a baby on board. After she broke the happy news I remember thinking “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?!”

It felt like she was breaking up with me for her reproductive rights. The NERVE.

As I’ve matured (i.e. ever since I've had to deliver the same personal development to my friends), I'm happy to report that I've embraced this news from others with a tad more class...even genuine happiness. However, as of late, I’ve begun to think long and hard about how I’ll continue to navigate my friendships, my marriage, and my work, and my drinking habits with a kid. There are definitely friends who have, in my opinion, been more successful in this endeavor than others, but I’m still unsure about what’s made them so successful. Timing? Good babysitters? A complete disregard for child protective services?

I don’t want to be the type of parent who makes everyone else have kids right along with me. Having a child is a decision Paul and I made on our own…we didn’t consult with our friends and ask them for permission to bring a third wheel into our group. And though I’m confident my friends will not only make accommodations to our new family circle AND go home and talk to one another about how amazing our mad parenting skills are and how they just can’t get enough of our incredibly smart, talented, athletic, and well mannered child, I think it’s equally important that Paul and I demonstrate that we’re willing to make accommodations to maintain our friendships on a kid-free level, too.

I don’t have kids yet, so I’m not sure what that looks like exactly, but I do know that for starters it means getting babysitters (or a small cage with some food) and dedicating childless conversations to each other and to our friends…even with our friends who already have kids (that is, if we can get them to simultaneously cage their kids, too). Because, well, sometimes I think I’m going to need conversation that doesn’t involve lactation and poop. I think they’ll need this too. Especially my friends who don’t have kids.

And when I do need to talk about that? Well, that’s what this blog is for! (Get ready to live, readers!)

Perhaps this is a naïve position to take. Perhaps all of you who currently have children are reading this while making all sorts of guttural noises and saying, with bated breath, “She has NO idea what she’s asking of herself!” Maybe you’d be right. But at the end of the day, when the smiles and sunshine and unicorn fantasy of children begins to dissipate and it starts raining poop and puke, I want to know that I can get by with a little help from my friends. And Jose Cuervo.

And I think in order to make that phone call with dignity, they need to know long before that day comes that I have not abandoned them. Or Jose.

Passing on an evolutionary step in human development.

2011-08-22T17:06:00.000-07:00

Like most mothers-to-be, my dreams have been bat shit crazy. To keep you thinking less of me I’ll spare you some of the real doozies, but I will tell you that more than once a week I have that dream where I give birth to something resembling a gremlin. That, or I birth a child with T-Rex arms. I kid you not. That one comes up quite a bit.

These dreams happen so often that during my last ultra sound, I kept asking the radiology tech (in a very suspicious “YOU KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW” voice) “So everything [insert a checklist of items including, but not limited to, a finger, toe, limb, eye, nose, and mouth count] looks fine then, right?”

Interestingly enough, though, I’ve yet to ask the tech if she’s been able to get a good close-up of the kid’s knuckle count.

That’s right. If you don’t already know (by that I mean if I haven’t already shown you this while exuding a great deal of pomp and circumstance), I’m missing a knuckle. I actually think that the human race does not NEED that particular knuckle (I'm right handed and it doesn't impede on any day to day function of hand use...with the exception of maybe picking my nose...but who picks their nose with THAT finger anyway? We've got THUMBS for that.) However, DON’T TELL MY MOM THIS, because I’ve been milking this little gem for all it’s worth for the past 25 years.

You see, my mom beats herself up over the fact that I have this small hand deformity because she (unknowingly) smoked while pregnant with me. That, and she didn't actually KNOW I was missing a knuckle until I pointed it out to her one day while we were painting our nails together at the kitchen table. I think the conversation went something like this -

Me: Mom, why doesn't my knuckle pop up like yours?
Mom: WTF???

We know, Mom, “NO ONE KNEW YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SMOKE BACK THEN!!!!” (Side note: my mother has not smoked for over 25 years. I'm guessing she quit about the time we had the above conversation.)

That said, let me be clear: I do not think her smoking had anything to do with this deformity, but when I’m trying to get under her skin about something – I mean REALLY give her a hard time - I’ll sometimes mime the action of smoking by taking a fake drag of a cigarette and setting the imaginary cigarette in the slot where the knuckle should sit…like it’s an ashtray.

Opportunities to pull out this crowd pleaser usually present themselves when my mom is giving me a hard time about something domestic, but lately these situations have been few and far between. I think because I’m giving her the grandchild she’s always wanted, she’s decided she’s got bigger fish to fry when it comes to worrying herself over my lack of domestic capabilities – like HOW WILL I KEEP SAID GRANDCHILD ALIVE?

Suddenly my inability to wash bath towels properly has taken a back burner.

I know, Mom. I KNOW. But don’t worry, Paul’s around to make sure the baby only drinks wine on weekends.

Ehem…anyway, secretly I’m kind of hoping that my kid is missing a knuckle. That way, when my child looks at me with his/her dark curly hair, brown skin and dark eyes and asks me if I’m REALLY his/her mother, I can say “Of course I am. I've given you my lack of knuckle. YOU’RE WELCOME.”

Because when my kid whips out that mime scene for her grandma? Well, that’s going to be proud moment for me, as I’ll know right then and there that I was able to throw a little something special my kid’s way…something I received from my own mother…something even more important than a four knuckle fist. After all, it’s not what you can or cannot physically do with 9 knuckles…it’s how you use it.

My muse...

2011-08-11T17:08:00.000-07:00

Today I created a new Pandora station. Can you guess what it was called?

Nothing like a little New Kids, Debbie Gibson and Whitney Houston to get you through the afternoon! All I needed was my walkman.

It was great until our intern came in my office and I told her how much I missed Tiffany, as her version of "I Think We're Alone Now" reigns supreme against all others. She was all, "Who's Tiffany?"

Ouch.

Now I know how Paul feels when I ask him about music from the olden days.

I made a thing!!!

2011-08-10T16:38:00.000-07:00

Look! I made this for a friend's baby shower card:

When Paul walked in and saw me getting all crafty he was all, "UMMMM, who are you and what have you done with my wife?"

I was so proud of myself. Now it is over. It was a fleeting moment. I'm confident it will never happen again. SO ENJOY THAT CARD, KELSEY.

28 Week and Counting...

2011-08-08T15:48:00.000-07:00

After much anticipation (okay, okay, so maybe it was only like, ONE person who asked[hi Traci!]), I bring you my first belly picture:

I guess I'm just not big on like, sharing pictures of myself when I look like a beached whale. But hey, y'all asked for it, so GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT!

I'm really looking forward to that moment when I can have a baby and be like, "I lost 15 pounds today!"

(For those of you who have had kids and know that it's completely unrealistic of me to think that I will actually lose 15 lbs the day I give birth: please just let me be blindly led in this department. After all, I thought the baby was in my cervix that one time and you set me straight on that already, so consider your job complete. Don't even get me STARTED on how I think this thing is actually going to move OUT of my cer...errr...uterus?)

Paul has yet to feel the baby move. He has no patience, and the baby appears to get stage fright the minute he lays his giant hand on my belly. It's like when it's dancing around in there like a white girl, and Paul puts it's hand on my belly, it immediately feels judged and just quits dancing altogether.

Wait...are we still talking about the baby? Cause my baby's got MOVES, y'all. MOVES.

Bumps in the road.

2011-08-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

Warning: this is that one post where I talk at nauseam about my medical problems. This is the type of thing that my husband refers to as "over sharing"...so grab a drink and get ready to live!

Yeah, so being pregnant is getting hard. And by hard I actually mean slightly annoying. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m creating life as we speak, and that’s awesome and awe-inspiring and stuff, but for the most part, I think that at this point if I could just have a pregnancy on like, a layaway option, wherein after rendering 9 months worth of payments I could just go pick up the kid? Well, I think I’d go with that option.

For example, the drinking thing. Yes (MOM), I know it’s immature to keep talking about how much I miss vodka sodas. It IS. Because at the end of this whole thing I’ll get a baby and not having drinks for 9 months will seem like a worthy sacrifice. It is a worthy sacrifice. But I’m always surprised when women who have been pregnant are all, “Oh my gosh! You MISS it? It just did NOT sound good to me.” My response to that?

“Then lady, you didn’t like it like I like it. Period.”

Another reason that this pregnancy thing has been slightly annoying is that I’ve had weird things happen. For example, I learned that my umbilical cord (apparently that’s the thing that connects me to the baby!?! Every day I learn something new…) only has two vessels flowing between me and the baby. Most umbilical cords have three vessels. My doctor said this isn’t a big deal, but when I asked her if it was like having my baby on slim fast she didn’t really disagree. She was quick to point out, however, that despite this new development the baby has still managed to grow at an alarming rate, weighing in the 90th percentile. I WONDER WHY, PAUL.

Also, my right ovary has developed a little side kick. Well not totally little. It’s more like a baseball sized tumor side kick. I envision my right ovary as the “black sheep” ovary of the family that has like, a Hispanic accent, a few tattoos and who keeps bringing carnies home for dinner. It’s that ovary that says “Say hello to my little friend” (I can’t say that without it sounding Hispanic, so that’s why I think it’s of Hispanic ethnicity) to the radiologist every time she covers my stomach with goop to say hi.

This specialist doctor who specializes in ovary side kicks is not concerned with this thing…other than that it could twist, burst, or result in an early c-section where he’d remove my ovary, its little friend, and the baby all at once. I’m thinking if I’m really going to have a 16 lb baby this might not be so bad. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

Oh! And I’m suddenly getting morning sickness. So that’s a new development too. I’m enjoying it. Paul is enjoying hearing about it.

And yes, I totally owe you guys some baby bump pics. Why you are all fascinated with seeing me grow into a pregasaurus I’m not sure, but I’m willing to oblige, so stay tuned!

In the meantime, I’m actually starting to get excited about where this little babes will be setting up shop for the next few years after he/she makes its grand appearance. Check out this nursery that I plan on trying to copy in under $15 dollars:

Think I can pull it off?

Right now this room is the bane of my existence, so I’ve got my work cut out for me, for sure. Buttttttt, maybe it will be cool? No? What do you all think? (By that I mean only tell me if you like it.)

LORDY, LORDY...

2011-07-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

(whisper: look who’s 40.)

Oh my gosh you guys. Oh. My. Gosh. Someone in our household has turned 40. And I’m 30…and he weighs more than 12 pounds. So...I'll let you use a little deductive reasoning on this one:

Not that ANYONE would believe it. Seriously. Paul looks younger than I do and CERTAINLY has not been utilizing sunblock until very recently.

This monumental occasion took place on July 21st.

Here’s how the day went:

7:00 a.m. – Paul leaves for work while I proceed to move into a DIAGONAL position across the bed and fall back asleep.

1:00 p.m. – I call Paul to see if he’s gone home to let the dogs out yet. Paul asks what I'm up to. Not until I verbally say the words, “Oh, Mom and Mike just bought me a fabulous lunch” do I realize what an asshole I am. (Like, why would he want to join us for lunch on his birthday?)

8:30 p.m. – A group of 15 people sing Paul happy birthday in the middle of a restaurant as we all watch him fight off the equivalent of a grand mal seizure in the world of being uncomfortable. It. Was. Awesome.

So here I am, about to make him go into minor convulsions again, but you guys! YOU GUYS! I can’t help it. Look!!!!! Look at him as a baby!!!!!!

(he’s probably like, 3 days old here).

And look look look!

And look at this one where he’s carrying his little books!!!!

I can’t help it. If I could squeeze these pictures and call them my fluffy, I would.

Every day, as I re-adjust my position in the bed when he leaves it to make myself MORE comfortable...just after I give his crisp, scope cleaned mouth a kiss good-bye with the ass breath that I’ve developed as a result of a full night of open-mouthed breathing, I realize how damn lucky I am.

Because in the 4th grade, when I was wiping boogers on the bottom of my desk and using my chapstick to wax the cork of my alto saxophone, this guy was the captain of the football team.

(Actually when I put our age difference in those terms, it’s kind creepy. But you get my point.)

But hey, it's too late for him to back out now. Remember when you did this, honey?

(see how I look really happy and he has this look like WTF did I just do???)

But hey, it's too late. And now a baby makes three. This shit’s in the bag. You’re stuck with me, honey.

THANK GOD.

Happy birthday, baby.

Here's to looking up.

2011-07-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

These last few days have been a little crazy, and I'll get into that later, but in the midst of all the pandemonium, I wanted to share something cool that I was able to attend a few months ago.

My friend Shelley Hayes, who is an extraordinary human being and amazing life coach (I know this personally AND professionally), invited me to attend one of her Possibility Party Workshops. I didn't know what to expect initially, but it ended up being an amazing experience where I was able to take a couple of hours to really explore what I wanted for myself and for my life. When do we ever take the time to do that, anyway? When do you?

During the workshop we were able to make our very own VISION BOARDS. Here's how mine turned out:

You can see here I'm quite pleased with my final product:

The sweet thing about these parties is that Shelley really takes you through the process of centering yourself...helping you really get to the ROOT of yourself. And then she gives you this little board and about a million Oprah magazines in front of you and you're like "I WANT TO PUT EVERY QUOTE AND PICTURE I SEE ON MY BOARD!" But no, this is not how it works. Shelley pre-determines the board size, so you really have to be selective and think about what you want to put on that darn thing. And really, when you're thinking about your life, isn't that sort of how it should go? Shouldn't we be selective?

Anyway, with the craziness of life, and all of the changes happening as of late, it was really refreshing for me to revisit this bad boy and remember just what I am passionate about in life...and remember to breath...and remember to drink my prune juice. That last one has been of particular importance.

If you're needed to create a bonding experience for you and your colleagues, you and your girlfriends, or even just yourself, I suggest you look in to this. It was definitely worth my time. :)

Happy weekend!

When you know the pregnancy is getting to you...

2011-07-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm driving home from work last week and this song by Selena comes on the radio. You know the one:

I'll be dreaming of you tonight
Till tomorrow, I'll be holding you tight
And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be
Then here in my room,
Dreaming about you and me

As I was singing it, I really had to take a moment to realize how absurd it was that I was thinking neither of a former lover (as if, honey!) or my current husband. Instead, I was thinking of this:

Wow. A nice moment for me. Never mind that I'm CREATING LIFE AS WE SPEAK. I'm being deprived of a Gin and Tonic in the summertime, and THAT'S what's dominating my thoughts...even NOW, if we're really being honest.

Someone tell me your fave summer cocktail, so that I might live vicariously through you over the course of the next few months.

When you're having a bad day...

2011-06-29T16:28:00.000-07:00

This is my brother's very favorite thing on the internet. He loves to show it to people. After I found out that the window to Paul's avalanche was busted, I went straight for this video because it always makes me laugh.

My brother says that if he were a millionaire, he would own some of these just so that he could have something to come home and yell at when he was having a particularly bad day.

So if you're having a bad day, ENJOY!

When you say nothing at all...

2011-06-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

Upon hearing that a bunch of punk A$$ mother-BLEEP-ing, pip-squeek punks - who have nothing else better to do than go around costing people hundreds of dollars - busted out the window of Paul’s vehicle during the middle of the night…AND DIDN’T EVEN STEAL ANYTHING:

Me: I wish you would have been rounding the corner right when they were busting through that window. Can you image how I bunch of 110 pound punks would react to seeing you round the corner right at the moment of impact?

Paul: Geesh honey. Relax. How do you know there were 110 lb kids?

Me: Because lately, everyone looks about 110 lbs to me.

Paul: Honey. I think you would have been more of a threat to them right now than I would have been.

Me: Really? Why??? You’re the 300 lb lineman!

Paul: [silence]

Me: [noting his inclusion of the words “right now”] I gotcher back there, Tiny.

I bought a weird thing.

2011-06-21T16:19:00.000-07:00

Some people call it a crib.

It's used, but I bought it from a really cool guy at work who happens to be done baby making. As he was loading it in my car I kept thinking, "Holy shit, there's a crib being loaded in to my car. Why????"

Oh yeah, I have a baby in my stomach.

Or cervix.

Whatever. You get the point.

Anyway, this was a big step for me. I'm really trying to go the economical route with baby item purchasing thing because I heard that having a kid can be fairly expensive. So, when my kid complains later on in life that we gave him/her a USED crib, I can retort with, "Dude, you got a used crib so you could get a shiny, brand new college education. Quit 'yer bitchin."

In fact, in an effort to keep it economical, the other day I went to a "Mothers of Multiples" garage sale. By myself. I almost had a panic attack looking at all of the strollers with seats for three, and the various clothes and baby fence things and booster seats. I hope I didn't alarm the other mothers when I ran back to my jeep screaming like a lunatic.

The good news is after I thought about that experience a bit more, it actually brought me a great sense of relief. As in OH MY GOD THEY HAD THREE KIDS AT ONCE AND I ONLY HAVE TO HAVE ONE.

This weekend my sister took in some more garage sales with me, and it was a much more pleasant experience. I even bought a baby changing table thing. So, progress. It's all still sitting in our basement right now, but when I decide what non-gender specific color to paint the room, we'll work on step two, which is coating both those items (crib and baby changing table thing) with three coats of lead based paint.

Just kidding. We'll use a primer so we don't have to do three coats. Duh.

But I'm serious about the non-gender thing...we're going to keep it a surprise till the end. Why not! I do know, now, however, that there really is a baby in there because I can feel it moving around now. And that's cool. Not gonna lie.

Anyway, onward and upward with the Megan and Paul Baby Extravaganza. More updates to come, I'm sure!

I appreciate all food that comes in tube form.

2011-06-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

Because I can no longer drink as I am with child, I'm finding myself living vicariously through the drinking habits of others. My friend Jill knows this, so she has now resorted to sending me videos that accomplish this.

The following short film is something I can imagine my friend Jill and I to have done when we were roomates in college. Except A) we didn't cook, and...I forgot what B was.

My mom will not like this video. When you first start watching it, you think, "Oh no, a drunk girl got ahold of the camera." But she's actually pretty hilarious:

Then when I was reading through the comments of another "drunk kitchen" episode I saw this:

"it really upsets me that you're a lesbian, not because I don't support gay rights (because I do), but because I'm 1) a straight male, and 2) so ridiculously in love with you."

Well, I'm a little in love with you now, comment boy.

I think I shall go make a tube food now. Good bye.

My bleeding heart.

2011-05-31T16:04:00.000-07:00

You know how they say to not have a kid if you can't foster growth and sustainability in both plants and animals?

I got a dog two years ago, and although it's still alive, I will say that I think comparing dog raising to child rearing is just dumb.

However, lately I feel like everywhere I look examples of this inadequacy are just shouting at me, waving the inadequacy flag.

For example, two summers ago, while walking up the steps to my our condo, my Mom was all, "Look! You're got a little baby bleeding heart sprouting up over here! I bet that will get bigger and bigger every year! Just water it!"

Well, maybe you haven't heard, but Montana has been FLOODED (literally) by rain this spring.

Exhibit A: My neighbor's bleeding heart -

Exhibit B: My bleeding heart -

"All it needs is water..." she says.

Right.

That's like saying all a baby needs is a blanket.

But I can totally raise a kid. No problemo. Don't you worry.

Peace out, O.

2011-05-25T05:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a total Oprah junkie. So is my husband. Don't tell anyone.

Anyway, when my husband was emptying shop vacs for my parents as they dealt with their flooding basement, I got all caught up on Oprah shows that I made my mom record for me (since I no longer have cable OR DVR). It was such a great weekend for me, personally!

Anyway, I'm hopping on board with Mighty Girl, so what follows are my biggest Oprah lessons:

and:

and of course this one:

And finally, this one...which is especially helpful to our male readers:

How bout you guys? Any Oprahisms that you'd care to share?

Happy Wednesday!

Yes to this.

2011-05-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Paul and I went down to Glendive to help my parents deal with the water coming into their basement from the inordinate amount of rain and rising river problems that the people of Montana are presently facing. By that I mean Paul helped my parents empty 18 gallon shop vacs every hour, on the hour, while I read, ate a banana cupcake with cream cheese frosting, napped, read again, ate another cupcake, and continued to play the "I'm pregnant, I shouldn't lift heavy objects" card, which surprisingly, my parents and everyone else conceded to.

I was reading this:

It was awesome, indeed.

I actually never used to like Tina Fey. I thought she ruined weekend update by laughing at her own writing while delivering it, and that just bugged the shit out of me. I mean come on, nobody likes a somebody who likes their own jokes too much, right?

Buuutttt, slowly my opinion began to change.*

Too many hilarious parts of this book to pinpoint, but I was especially smitten with her chapter entitled "Amazing, Gorgeous, Not Like That" which relays the details of, and offers advice regarding, the experience of going through a professional magazine photo shoot. (Something I'm bound to be asked to participate in just as soon as I can put down the cupcakes long enough to deliver what will no doubt be a 15 lb. child and promptly get myself to a a size half that of which I maintained before getting pregnant.)

I shall share two sections from that chapter with you now:

"Some photographers are compulsively effusive. 'Beautiful. Amaazing. Gorgeous! Ugh, so gorgeous!' they yell at shutter speed. If you are anything less than insane, you will realize this is not sincere. It's hard to take because it's more positive feedback than you've received in your entire life thrown at you in fifteen seconds. It would be like going jogging while someone rode next to you in a slow-moving car, yelling, 'Yes! You are Carl Lewis! You're breaking a world record right now. Amazing! You are Fast! You're going very fast, yes!'

"With the wind blowing on your long extensions, you feel like Beyonce. The moment the wind machine stops, you catch a glimples of yourself in the mirror an wonder, "Why is the mother from Coal Miner's Daughter here?"

And the other part of this section, which is something that has totally happened to me, just not at a professional photo shoot for a magazine:

"The photographer will ask you what kind of music you want to play during the photo shoot. [Everyone will hear this music, so] just murmur 'hip-hop' or make up the name of a hipster-sounding band and then act superior when they've never heard of it. 'Do you guys have any Asphalt of Pinking? [disappointed] Really? [shrug] Whatever you want then."

"Sometimes they ask if you want to hook up your iPod for background music. Do not do this. It's a trap. They'll put it on shuffle, and no matter how much Beastie boys or Velvet Underground you have on there, the following four tracks will play in a row: 'We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover' from Annie, 'Hold On' by Wilson Phillips, 'That's What Friends Are For,' Various Artists, and "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover' from Annie."

I don't know about you guys, but every time I offer up my iPod, it's like EVERY LAME SONG I HAVE ON THERE PLAYS. Over and over and over again. Of particular occurance would be "Isn't She Lovely" by Stevie Wonder...THE LONG VERSION. The one that has the baby crying at the beginning. It'll really get a party started. Or ignite leaky boobs among any nursing mothers in the vacinity. (I MUST REMOVE THIS SONG, STAT.)

That's just a preview of the many parts that made me LMFAO many times in between my naps. I hope you will all go purchase this soon to be classic autobiography and tell me about it so we can talk at nausium about all of the parts that made us snort.

*That's a lie. I can pinpoint the moment I began to like her...you betcha.

LOTS of people go to college for 7 years...

2011-05-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

(Yeah, they're called doctors.)

So, it was a crazy month in April. I turned 30, which maybe I’ll talk about later. One other thing I did though? I got my masters degree. So I guess I’m a master at something now. Officially, I have a Masters of Science in Public Relations (MSPR). Unofficially, I’ve made bullshitting my way through school a science. I’m equally proud of both.

I will say that I felt a slightly larger sense of personal accomplishment getting this degree simply because I did it all on my own. I was fortunate enough to be raised in a household where getting one's bachelors wasn't a choice. Period. It was never up for debate. However, with my masters degree? That was something that I personally decided to do. Then I took the GRE (which was so nerve racking for me that I actually sweat through a HUGE hooded sweatshirt while taking the test. It was disgusting). Then I applied. Then I got accepted (despite having done so poorly on the GRE that I thought they’d have to send me a “special” note of rejection). Then I…well, I went. One little class at a time. And then I finished. And I paid for it as I went along. And now it’s over.

So now I have time to do things I like. Like this.

What was most touching about the whole thing though was how many people came out to support me. You guys! I felt so loved. Paul’s family flew out for the event, and they showered me with so many leis that I’m sure the spectators watching the “lei-ing” scene go down after the ceremony were a little shocked. If we were in any other state other than MT, I’m sure people would be all, “Why is that haole getting all of those leis?” However, because we were in MT, I think they were more like, “wtf?”

Here is a photo for your viewing pleasure. That's Paul's cute little Dad that I'm standing with. Doesn't he look sweet? He is.

But can you SEE ME IN THERE? No? Me either. All I see are flowers. And teeth. I do have big teeth.

My mom told me that the best part of the day though, was when Paul's aunt, who doesn't really speak English, suddenly pulled out a big fat whistle right as I was accepting my diploma. This picture made my day:

And my bff from way back in Junior High days, Angie, even surprised me by flying in from Seattle (thanks, Paul, for helping arrange that and actually knowing the joy that can come from keeping a surprise.) She’s now seen me graduate three times (highschool, undergrad and now grad school), which she really liked telling people throughout the course of the day…even strangers. (I know, Ang. I’m getting sick of going to school too. Consider this the last one. I promise.) And then there were a million other friends who also helped me celebrate.

See?

I will admit that I am a master at convincing great people to be my friends…so maybe I’m using that MSPR degree after all.

Either way, I can put a big chizzzeck! next to life list item #16! Holler.

p.s. Thanks Mom, for 1) knowing I could do this even before I knew I could and 2) taking all these pictures. You're the best.

On being...well, you know...pregnant?

2011-05-16T16:17:00.000-07:00

So pregnancy. Yeah. It’s crazy shit.

For me, not so much in the “read everything I possibly can about what’s happening to my body and what to expect” kind of way, though. (Paul does that.) More in the “shock and excitement and fear” of it all kind of way, which I’m sure is typical for everyone.

For the most part, Paul and I did that thing where we wait to tell people that we’re expecting until it’s “in the bag”…but secretly it was easy for me to keep to myself because I was busy trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. As odd as it sounds, the idea of telling someone and having them exhibit over the moon excitement for the two of us (though a sweet and totally appropriate reaction!) was a nauseating thought for me. That sounds completely twisted, I realize.

It’s just that, although I’m excited to start a family (because family is really, REALLY important to me), I’m terrified to be a mother. I don’t have “that maternal thing.” I know, I know, it’ll come – people have told me that it’s “instinctual”, but initially (and even now, at times) I can’t say that I was really excited to be a mother. And, honestly, I didn’t want those feelings placated or pushed aside by positivity and excitement.

Finances I can figure out…it’s the little things that worry me the most. What I get obsessed with is how I’m supposed get a kid ready and to a day care in the morning when I can barely get myself to work by 9:00 a.m. every morning. When will I go to the gym? Will we really have to take the baby with us WHEREVER we go? If it’s sleeping, can we just, like, sneak out for a quick cocktail down at the neighborhood bar? (I can feel the readers of this post slowly pulling their children away from me.)

I’m not a kid person. I’m just not. Sometimes I try to pretend like I am but kids are typically on to me. They run to the huge, stoic, intimidating looking man next to me because Paul has that “kid thing” that I just don’t possess. He’s like the baby whisperer. Kids are f#$*ing intuitive, I’ll tell you that much.

Soooo, where does that leave me? Well, many of those pressing questions that I’ve been unable to answer I’ve decided to address with this response: “Paul will do it.” He’s pleased, as I’m sure you can imagine.

But it’s getting better. I’m starting to be okay with this. I’m starting to know that I’m not in this alone…that I’ll figure it out…WE’LL figure it out. And at the end of the day, week, year…hell, at the end of MY LIFE, I’ll never regret having been courageous to do that which terrifies me the most. Because I’m confident it will be worth it…no matter what. Right, Mom?

Positivity, you’re welcome to enter in to the equation now. Thanks for your patience.

Big news. Literally.

2011-05-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

So. Well. First item of big news, thus substantiating the excuse of "Crazy ASS month" referenced in previous post…can you guess what it might be? Let me help with this analogy:

No? Okay. How bout this:

This little baby cakes is due on Halloween. (Of course I would have a child on the one day of the year where people dress up and prance around the neighborhood asking strangers for candy. Of COURSE I would.)

We’re happy. In between terrified. More happy than terrified, mostly.

This is all.

More to come later.

Strike a pose.

2011-05-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

Wow. Well hello, internet. It’s been awhile.

Holy crap, y’all, to say it's been a crazy ASS month is totally understating it. I’m really excited to tell you all about it over the course of a couple of posts. So, STAY TUNED FOR THAT (you three readers, you).

But first (first!), I must take a moment to say that on this day, 6 years ago, I went on my very first date with this stud muffin:

Because it was Cinco de Mayo, we took in some Mexican at a restaurant that no longer exists in Anchorage (*sad trombone sound*) and then hit up some reggae (if you know Paul, no big surprise there).

I was totes nervous about this date because when I first met Paul I thought he was a prude. By that I mean I not only thought he wouldn't put out, but I thought he was just, you know, too cool for school.

You see, it was springtime in Alaska, and that’s when everyone comes out of the woodwork. It might only be 40 degrees outside, but by golly, those Alaskans are sitting on the damn patio and LOVING it. WHY? Because over the winter all Alaskans begin to look like a Twilight character, minus the sparkle and marbled body. Well, everyone except Paul, that is. He’s brown all year round.

AND, while everyone else was hugging a tree and pointing their head to the sun, Paul was huddled in a corner, beanie on his head, arms crossed in front of him in a jacket that said “Coach Kongaika” and I was all, “Ohhh, he’s one of those.” By “one of those” I mean a cocky football coach who is just too studly for English teachers.

Turns out he was just freezing his ass off because he’d just shaved his head for the first time (from a head of beautiful hair that went half way down his back). That, and apparently he's just quiet by nature. WHO KNEW!?!

Anyway, I thought for sure we’d have nothing to talk about, so I’m confident that I talked nervously throughout the whole date. But either way, he still continued to like me, so GAME ON!

And I discovered he could dance! Bonus!

And then he discovered that I could NOT dance! Fail.

That might have almost been deal breaker for him. He's even tried to help me:

But there's no helping that. One time he was even all, "Maybe if you just move a little bit LESS while we're dancing."

Whaaaa?

But what do you know, he married me anyway.

Deep down inside I had this planned all along. This bad dancer thing was just to make him think he could "fix" me.

This is our year, baby. Love you big.

Alan! Alan! Alan!

2011-04-01T04:20:00.000-07:00

I've always been a strong believer in the ability of the English accent to bring the funny up a notch in pretty much just about anything. When you throw a British accent on a baby or an animal? Well there's just not much that's funnier than that. Am I right?

When my friend Kelsey showed this to me, I laughed my A$$ off.

It was awkward too, because the computer we watched it on had no speakers, and the only headphones Kelsey had in her house had a ridiculously short cord. This means that in order to watch the clip I had to sit on the floor (where her computer drive thing is) and look up at the screen while she watched on as I laughed hysterically and clapped my hands in front of my chest. It was a SPECIAL moment for us both indeed, but I think if a passerby happened to take in the scene they'd think that Kelsey was doing some volunteer work, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

I had a really hard time choosing my favorite clip from below, but in the end I think I'm going to have to go with, well, Alan.

Tell me yours! Tell me yours!

Dreamstime stikes again.

2011-03-31T15:04:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before, I stumble across some unbelievable snapshots when I'm searching sites for photos for new marketing pieces at work.

The key search word for the beauty below? "hay fever"

I think maybe I might just use it. We need a little pizazz in the "seasonal allergies" piece I'm currently working on. This just might do the trick.

Good work Dreamstime, good work. Once again, you've found me just what I was looking for.

This one's for Erin.

2011-03-21T04:27:00.000-07:00

My friend Erin LOVES Michael Buble. She likes him so much that she actually listens to him when she's training for all of her crazy marathoning. Like, she runs for miles and miles and listens to MICHAEL BUBLE. When I run for miles and miles, the last thing I want to hear are a couple of standards redone by a kid my age. No no no. I need Miley Cyrus.

Erin is just so much classier than I am on so many levels.

What I do love, however, is celebs doing nice things with and for nice kids. I'm a sucker for that shit, and after watching this video, it really took my love for Mr. Buble up a notch. Almost made me crush on him for a little bit. Throw a puppy into the mix and hell, I'd be throwing me panties on stage.

Just kidding. This is a G rated site.

(I just reread that and realized I said "me panties" instead of "my panties" without even meaning to. God I'm good.)

Anyway, when this video first starts out, I'm kinda like, "Okay, Michael Buble, being pompous and full of himself and a little bit condescending." Then as I watch, I feel second hand embarrassment coming on...and then I realize the only person who should be embarrassed in this video is Michael, for even showing like, a hint of hestitancy at the beginning.

I only post things that give me goosebumps and make me pee a little. This gave me goosebumps. So many that I almost thought for a second that maybe I could run to Michael Buble.

Epic fail on so many levels.

2011-03-10T08:12:00.000-08:00

The other day I came home to find my husband in the back yard, picking up the poop of our dog, Gus. The snow recently melted here in good ole’ Montana (don’t hold your breath, we’ll see it again) and so when that happens we (he) decide that we should be good condo association owners and you know, take care of business so that the children of the complex aren’t forced to play in the equivalent of a poop land mine.

I just popped in the house for a second because I had to immediately head out to an appointment. So, I slid the screen door open, expressed my appreciation to my husband for doing “that job,” and gave my dog a squeeze, because was hanging outside watching Paul pick up his poop.

About 45 minutes later I buzz back in the house, chatting away with my mom on the phone, and see Paul still sitting on the steps outside, right by our screen door, with Gus. “Huh, I wonder. He must really be loving that fresh air.” I continue to chat with my mother.

Then I hear three knocks on the glass window, and I look up at Paul who’s giving me a look that is somewhere between “WTF” and “WTF”?

Ohhhhhhhhhhh. I see.

“MOM, IT'S AN EMERGENCY. I HAVE TO GO.” Click.

I'm sure you can take it from here.

Yes, I locked my husband outside for the duration of my appointment. WHEN HE WAS PICKING UP POOP. That last part just added insult to injury for him.

In true Paul fashion he did not freak out on me in the slightest. Instead he just reacted the same way he did when I dropped his keys – along with the garbage – in the gigantic dumpster outside of our house.

Silence seems to be best in situations like these, he’s discovered.

Someone explain this to me.

2011-03-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

For my day job, I do a lot of photo searching on stock photo sites. Any graphic designer knows that photos can be a nightmare. There's just no pleasing folks with photos. You might spend hours trying to find just the right stock photo and when you plug it in, finalize the piece, and send it off for approval, often the only feedback you get is "I just don't like that sweater the girl is wearing in that photo. Is there another photo?"

In my search I find some real gems. After all, it's not every day that you run across a "business operations" photo that could also be used by "The International Star Trek Fan Association, Inc."

Well done, dreamstime. Well. Done.

Meet the Parents. Before, and after.

2011-02-20T21:57:00.000-08:00

Paul refuses to take any photo without tossing out the hang loose. I've come to accept this, because I love him and his island ways. I really do.

The first time I sent my father a picture of Paul, he said, "Good looking guy. The only thing I'm concerned about is the gang sign."

The fact that Paul has worked in gang prevention programs really makes that so much funnier.

Anyway, the picture above might actually be the only one I have of Paul where he was able to suppress the gang sign. This photo was actually taken by my Mom the first time Paul met my parents.

Then my Mom said "One more, one more," and just like that, he couldn't help himself. It's like a force stronger than he is. He can't suppress it. (If I stare at the picture long enough, it looks like he's using his pinkie finger to point at my cleavage. That will embarrass everyone, and just like Paul's hang loose tendency, that's just something I can't suppress. He's learned to deal with it.)

On an alternate note, please never let me flip my hair out like that again. I just...don't know what I was thinking there.

Oh, and doesn't my husband just look studly? He's even got a bit of a Saturday night fever thing happening with his shirt in that first pic. And I'm not surprised by that. The boy can dance.

Thanks, Mom.

2011-02-20T21:48:00.000-08:00

I can always count on her to send me the good shit.

And can I just go ahead and give the slow clap to Don Austin, the news reporter who covered this piece?

I also love how the woman at 00:28 just skims over the name, like she's unsure of how to actually SAY the it.

I love the internet. I really really do.

The historical St. Valentine was clubbed to death, you know. (Lynne Truss)

2011-02-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

This book is so rad. I bought it for myself after I got completely, totally, unabashedly DUMPED a month or so earlier – wwwwaaaaaaayyyy back in the day. Not surprisingly, this book made me feel better. Luckily for you folks, it’s now on sale for $1.03 (NEW!) over at Amazon. Go there and get it. Now.

The editor of the anthology was inspired by the responses she received from her girlfriends when she forwarded them the letter she wrote to her ex after a disappointing break up. It contains 356 letters of love, hatred, anger, disappointment, disgust, and rejection (and everything in between) written by women when SHIT GOT CRAZY with their lovers, suitors, or husbands. Both sent and unsent, the letters come from folks like Anne Boleyn to Henry VIII and Monica Lewinsky to Bill Clinton. Too many famous females to name here – writers, poets, and other infamous dames in between are included, as well as unknown (though equally scorned) women. The anthology is divided into 13 sections, chronologically arranged, according to types, from "Marriage Refusals” to "Dear Johns" to the "Tell-Off" (my personal favorite).

So can I get a fist pump for the single ladies? This one’s for you.

Oh, and here’s a sampling of two of my personal faves – one by the passion driven bad-ass, Anais Nin, and one that could have just as easily been written by me or any one of my girlfriends. It takes on a familiarity that knows no bounds. Enjoy.

* * * * *
A series of letters from Delta of Venus (1977) writer Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) to society man and sometime poet C. L. (Lanny) Baldwin. According to Noël Riley Fitch's Anaïs: The Erotic Life of Anaïs Nin (Little Brown, 1993), the two became involved in 1944, after the married Baldwin invited Nin to dinner following a meeting in Manhattan's Gotham Book Mart. Later that year, Nin published a book of Baldwin's poetry, Quinquivara, to which she wrote the introduction and her husband contributed six engravings. (At the time of their affair, Nin was married to Hugo Guiler, a filmmaker, engraver, and illustrator known professionally as Ian Hugo.) The two parted romantically in August 1945, when Baldwin, torn with ambivalence over their relationship, returned to his wife and children. Baldwin responded to this letter, saying that he felt that Nin was "a kind of dog in the manger with men. You want them all to sit at your feet and be yours, all yours and only yours." His response to the second letter was to say "Is there to be no way of settling things without going to blows and insults? Can you kick me off your planet? Can I pull a switch and consign you to the proper section of hell?"

They resumed contact a few months later, mostly in regards to business matters and monies owed to Baldwin from her publishing imprint.

My poor Lanny, how blind you are! A woman is jealous only when she has nothing, but I who am the most loved of all women, what can I be jealous of? I gave you up long ago, as you well know, also I refused you the night you wept-I only extended the friendship as I told you then until you found what you wanted-When you did I withdrew it merely because I have no time for dead relationships. The day I discovered your deadness-long ago-my illusion about you died and I knew you could never enter my world, which you wanted so much. Because my world is based on passion, and because you know that it is only with passion that one creates, and you know that my world which you now deride because you couldn't enter it, made Henry [Miller] a great writer, because you know the other young men you are so jealous of enter a whole world by love and are writing books, producing movies, poems, paintings, composing music.

I am in no need of "insisting" upon being loved. I'm immersed and flooded in this. That is why I am happy and full of power and find friendship pale by comparison.
But in the middle of this fiery and marvellous give and take, going out with you was like going out with a priest. The contrast in temperature was too great. So I waited for my first chance to break-not wanting to leave you alone.

You ought to know my value better than to think I can be jealous of the poor American woman who has lost her man to me continually since I am here-

Anaïs
[postmarked August 26, 1945]

* * * * *

From Kylie, 28, a resident of Queensland, Australia, to her ex-fiancé, Jamie*, in January 1999. Kylie sent Jamie this letter through his lawyer who, she says, found it "quite amusing." "I didn't have the heart to delete it and every time I feel depressed I open it and read it again," says Kylie. "It always makes me feel better and reminds me that even though things are tough, they used to be a lot worse." After receiving it, she says, Jamie "apparently swore quite profusely, then tore it up and threw it at the woman who gave it to him."

[January 1999]

Dear Jamie,

I missed you today, I missed you yesterday and with any luck I won't see you tomorrow either. I am writing this letter for two reasons. I am writing it because I want to thank you and I am writing it because I never want to speak to you ever again.

I want to thank you for being so selfish, otherwise I would never have known what I was going without.

I want to thank you for being so rude, otherwise I would never have learned to appreciate the good manners and politeness my parents instilled in me.

I want to thank you for spending all our money on crap, otherwise I would never have been able to justify the hire cost of a trailer to transport it all to the rubbish tip [garbage dump].

I want to thank you for running our phone bill up so high, otherwise I would never have learned to appreciate the visits of my friends (as they can't phone me, they visit instead. Or is that just because you're no longer here?).

I want to thank you for leaving me in so much debt the car has now been repossessed, otherwise I would never have lost so much weight by walking everywhere.

I want to thank you for telling all your friends that I was such an evil person, basically because I don't like any of them any more than I like you and I no longer have to deal with them either.

I want to thank you for telling me that our daughter was 'the biggest mistake you ever made', otherwise I would wonder how to explain to her why you're no longer here.

I want to thank you for leaving me with the kids while you went for a holiday overseas to meet the woman you hooked up with in a chat room, otherwise I would never have realised how well I could do without you and would probably still be putting up with your crap now.

Mostly, I just want to thank you for getting the hell out of our lives. We're so much happier now and the house is filled with the sound of the kids' laughter instead of the sound of you yelling at them to shut up.
In closing, all I can say is that after all these years you finally did something right and I hope your new girlfriend appreciates it as much as I do.

Kylie.

PS: You know that burning sensation you thought was an STD and you were too afraid to tell me about it? I put Tiger Balm in your jocks!

How many marketing girls does it take to make a name tag?

2011-02-02T17:27:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what the answer to that question is, but last week TWO was apparently not enough.

My co-worker and I were working late last week to attempt to shore up some things for an event that was happening the next day. The final task of preparation on our list was the creation of roughly 150 nametags.

Easy enough, we thought. We've both done mail merges, we said. We've got the labels purchased, we noted. How hard could it be?

Pretty hard, apparently.

At one point I was in the "printer room" and Amy was at her desk across the great expanse of cubicles, and I was yelling ACROSS all the cubicles, "Hit it! We're ready! Hit print! Did you hit it? Did you hit print? Whaatt? Oh. Okay I'm waiting! Did you hit it yet?"

God only knows what the poor night janitor thought, who at that moment happened to be emptying the garbage in the coffee nook right around the corner from the "printer room".

We screwed up this task. Boy did we screw it up. The alignment was off. The first name wasn't big enough. The names were crooked. The sheet of labels was mutilated by the printer. The printer wouldn't PRINT the paper. The printer wouldn't FEED the paper. In the department of printer malfunctions, you name it, it happened.

When we were down to our last 20 sheets of labels, and we discovered that we needed (and I shit you not) EXACTLY 20 sheets to print off all the name tags necessary for the event (and NOT have to make a run to office depot at 9:00 at night), we knew we had to get serious.

And then, as if God finally said, "Okay, okay, okay, I've effed with these two yay-hoos enough," the labels suddenly printed. Perfectly.

The celebratory embrace at that moment could have rivaled any publisher clearing house footage. I'm not shitting you.

All that, just to introduce this, which exemplifies exactly how we felt that night.

Dreaming of something...

2011-02-01T08:25:00.001-08:00

Can you guess what it is?

LOVE this.

2011-01-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

Wedlock Sunday

she is working in the garden,
facing away from me,
trimming the bougainvillea,
still trim herself and youthful,
relaxed and free of cares,
doing something she enjoys,
something that she always has enjoyed,
and having lost all conception of
the passing of the hours,

and i feel a tenderness for her
that i may never have felt during
the selfish passion of young manhood,

and i wish the bitterness that
have more than merely punctuated
our thirty years together
could be magically obliterated
(which will never happen-let's
not kid ourselves-but perhaps for the
rest of this afternoon and evening
they will be.

i resolve to do and say
only kindesses to her
over dinner and in front of
the pbs mystery that we've been following

and not to react to
any sarcasms or schemes
she may slip into out of habit, hunger,
merlot, tiredness, or contemplation of
the work week's rattling hours
of third graders, parents, colleagues,
homework, grades, and art projects,

lying once again in wait for her.

"Wedlock Sunday" by Gerald Locklin

Public Service Announcement

2011-01-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

I feel it's important that we all keep abreast of the most recent medical concerns plaguing citizens of the world. After reading this I'm sure many of you will have a whole new appreciation about the fact that you made it through high school. Alive.

CLICK HERE TO READ A SHORT MESSAGE REGARDING THIS VERY IMPORTANT MEDICAL DISCOVERY

(Thanks, Julie!)

What the butter nuggets?

2011-01-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

Since phones were a recent topic, LET'S JUST GO THERE.

This is what will happen when the iphone finally makes it to Billings, MT. I have one friend who might just pee her pants when she sees this.

Also, speaking of iphones, I gotta give my friend Whitney (who HAS an iphone) and Jason probs for showing me this time waster. I opened the link from my BLACKBERRY at 5:00 a.m. and I literally had tears rolling down my cheeks and my face did that thing where it freezes up in a perma smile. Paul thought I'd lost my mind.

For others who have seen this and not told me about it? Shame. On. You.

CLICK HERE AND BE PREPARED TO LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF.

What's a LAND line?

2011-01-12T10:00:00.000-08:00

That's what our children will ask us. No shit.

Phone talk has been following me around lately. While in Alaska, we touched upon the topic over Christmas dinner (with my friend's parents). My friend's dad asked the table, "Remember party lines?" Well, no, I don't remember them, but I've heard of them. (My mom HAD one growing up.) The other "kids" at the table had no clue what they were, though, and suddenly I pictured future conversations with my own children: "Hey kids! Remember LAND lines?"

Remember the first bag phone? Remember ANALOG? (Shout out to Jeremy Alley!) My first cell phone was a TRIFOLD.

I cannot WAIT to show my kids this:

Gone are the days of extending the phone cord beyond all reasonable lengths in order to have a private conversation. Gone are the days of slowly lifting up the phone and practicing the breath management of a YOGI in order to listen in on your older brother's conversation with his high school girlfriend. (Hi, Eric!)

My friend Jason brought this up too, in regard to drunk dialing. It's so much easier than it's ever been! However, contrary to Jason's argument, I would argue that nowadays, we drunk TEXT because we've lost the social skills to actually brave a conversation after one too many brewskies. (That used to be where all the real conversations began!)

Like most people, there are moments when I have a panic attack because I (momentarily) think that I've lost my blackberry. Then there are other moments when I want to throw it into a river (hi Mark!). My mom would vote for the latter of these two options if she had to choose. She is constantly giving me a hard time for being attached (AT AN UNCOMFORTABLE LEVEL) to my phone.

THIS JUST IN: My Mom JUST called me. RIGHT NOW. Had I not answered the phone, I would have been left a cold, annoyed message about how I screen her phone calls and AM I ALIVE, ANYWAY?

Seriously though, my mom really gives me a hard time about this. So much so that I was going to make a (silent) resolution to be better this year. But I think I've got to go public in order to be held accountable. Paul and I have both, on separate occasions, lifted up our cell phones in the middle of dinner while the other one was mid-sentence. Shame on us! I've been on the receiving end of this type of behavior enough to THINK that I (usually) notice when I'm doing it and either a) stop doing it or b) apologize and explain why it must be done. Either way, it sucks. It communicates that the person calling or texting is more important than the real live conversation happening in front of you. Yuck!

So, enough is enough. I don't want to be the person who does that to people anymore! Here's my public commitment to be more conscious about when and where I use my phone. I know there are plenty of other cell phone etiquette taboos to keep in mind, I'm just starting with this one. What's your most annoying cellphone catastrophe? Let's hear 'em.

Who knew prancing men were my thing?

2011-01-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

So the other day Paul and I are at the laundromat (which is a whole other story altogether...not that I'm "above" laundromats...they're really quite an efficient way to get things done quickly, I've discovered. Anyway, video below was on the tv, and it caught my attention enough for me to tear myself away from US magazine, and I'd say that saying something.

Three things to note:

1. Sorry about the commercial.
2. After it begins downloading you could skip to minute 1:00 if you just want to get to the chase.
3. If I could repeat what happens at minute 2:08 everytime I see something that moves me, I would.

But seriously, this game me chills. Don't tell anyone.

Oh, and doesn't the weird little guy in this duo remind you of this weird little guy from Ghostbusters?

A concerning resemblance.

2011-01-05T16:48:00.000-08:00

This Halloween, my friend Amy, who has a quite reputable knowledge when it comes to art history, told me that she was going to dress up as Edie Sedgwick, Andy Warhol's muse, I said "GREAT! I'll be ANDY WARHOL!"

So that's what we did, because I needed a REASON to make my eyes look MORE close together than they actually are:

Yes, my boobs don't help the costume. I wore the pins because I thought SOME people might not "get" it. To my (somewhat) relief, without the pins, many people didn't. Even my grad school professor, who WAS ON JEOPARDY had to reference the pins before he came up with Andy Warhol. (To which I replied, ehem, do you mean, "Who is Andy Warhol?" badang ching!)

Anyway, I do like Andy Warhol. Even did a project with him when I taught way back in the day. SO, when I was up in AK and I heard that an exhibit called Andy Warhol: Manufactured was going to be at the new museum in Anchorage, I told my friend Whitney that we must go. And we did:

And that's how jazzed I was just by the ELEVATOR mural. We hadn't even gotten to the exhibit yet.

Anyway, one of the MANY cool things of this great exhibit was that they had an interactive thing for the kiddos, which allowed them to dress up like they were in the sixties, including glasses. And do you think I could resist that? Come on now. Of course I couldn't.

And THAT's when things started to get weird.

So I shot the (very alarming) photo above off to my mother, who then forwarded it on to her sister (my aunt, for clarification), a very accomplished artist herself. Then my AUNT took it to show all of her GALLERY friends at some meeting they were having about the gallery.

So now a bunch of people in Florida think my aunt has a "special" niece.

THEN, my Uncle John (not blood related, which I'm sure is a HUGE relief to him) decided to play around with the photo and shot THIS back to me:

A brilliant job, indeed.

But when I got home I was reading through some Andy Warhol stuff online just for the halibut, and I stumbled upon this quote:

If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface of my paintings and films and me, and there I am. There's nothing behind it. (Andy Warhol)

No, Andy, no.

THERE I AM.

I'm a genius, basically.

2011-01-05T16:30:00.000-08:00

Me: There's something funny I want to show you. We must go to Youtube.
Paul: What is it?
Me: It's this thing with Josh Groban.
Paul: And Kanye West?
Me: YES! I'm going to put it on my blog.
Paul: Everybody knows about that. It was on msn.
Me: Na uhhh! I found it in secret. And not everyone checks MSN. I bet you $100 bucks my mom has not seen it.
Paul: Okay.

Then I went to the gym this morning and saw it on E! News.

THEN I did my daily check in this morning over at DOOCE and GUESS WHO ALSO DECIDED TO SHARE IT WITH HER AUDIENCE LAST NIGHT?

What does this mean? It means that I know good blog material when I see it, people. That's what that means.

But my mom actuallys follows DOOCE.

So, damnit.

If you HAVEN'T seen this, tell me so I can tell Paul how many people were thankful as a result of my persistance to share. After all, sometimes you just can't put a price tag on being right.

Come on baby light my fire...

2011-01-01T17:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at midnight Paul and I celebrated our first anniversary. Last year we were in Hawaii when the clock struck midnight (accompanied, might I add, by some of the loveliest people I know). I was actually going to post some pictures of last year, which would have shown off some of those very lovely individuals, but that’s when Paul had a little talk with me about how that could really get some of our closest friends and family members fired. So ERICKATCINDYLUCASJILLGREGANDWHITNEY? You’re welcome. (Note, ANGIENICKELSEYBEN and MYPARENTS…you weren’t up at midnight [with us, anyway], but yes, I have footage that's just as damaging. Some involves booze. Some involves triple chins. So again, YOU’RE WELCOME.)

Despite the fact that I'm suffering from a ridiculous case of butt clench in following picture, I’m going to show it to you, UNCROPPED, for three reasons: 1) It’s kind of cool because as you can see from the date, it captures the first 56 seconds of what Paul and I will from now on refer to as our BIG DAY, 2) it shows my brother, and his wife, Kat, in the background. Please make note of what my brother is doing. We had just walked back from the beach at this point. (Or were we just heading there? The former would have been smarter while the latter is more likely.) and 3) it contributes to one of my life list items, which is to take a family picture on Christmas and New Years every year. Because that life list item was an AFTERTHOUGHT, this photo is what I'm stuck with for last year's 12:00 a.m. moment.

Why does the picture look so HAZY, you ask? I can explain. Stay with me.

This year, we were in the middle of a lake. A frozen lake. We were sitting next to a bonfire which was burning in the middle of the frozen lake. (And hell, since I already mentioned butt clench, let me just say that it took until midnight for my butt to unclench itself from the terrifying drive we took ACROSS the lake to get us to the bonfire. The real Alaskans did not seem to be alarmed.)

The chair that the bottle of champagne is sitting on is actually about to be burned in the fire. That thing IN the fire? That’s Whitney and Greg’s china hutch. Whitney has been dying to get rid of that thing since she acquired it with the purchase of their lovely home. What we failed to bring, of course, was their Christmas tree, which could have been set a flame with a hot cup of TEA if someone were to walk too closely to its branches while taking a sip.

Paul SO looks like an Eskimo and not an islander in this pic. Hey, WHEN IN ROME!?!

It was fun to ring in the New Year (and our anniversary!) with Whit and Greg again this year, as they stood up for us on our wedding day. However, I’m not sure we could top last year’s New Year’s Eve extravaganza. Though there were fireworks, it was a pathetic effort. To others, perhaps, who have never been to Waimanalo, HI on New Year’s Eve, it might have seemed like something really special, but to us, it just didn’t quite have the impact. Let me quickly explain why.

On New Year’s Eve last year, the crew of friends who ventured down for the wedding had originally thought we’d head to Waikiki (the only night we’d likely be in Waikiki for the entire duration of our trip). However, when a local told us that it’d be in our best interest to stick around Waimanalo, we decided to stay. I’m not sure exactly when we began to realize we’d made the right choice, but when we saw what appeared to be somebody’s uncle buying $5,000 worth of fireworks earlier that day at COSTCO, we really started raising our eyebrows at one another, if you know what I mean.

The fireworks show started at oh, I don’t know, 3:00 in the afternoon, and it did not stop until 3:00 in the morning. To attempt to describe to you how extraordinary this experience was would be nearly impossible. Let me say this: we were having dinner out on the Lanai when the fireworks were really getting warmed up, and we could not have a conversation. We were literally screaming across the table at one another. “PLEASE PASS THE SALT. THE SALT. THE…oh, forget it.” At one point, when there was a 5 second delay in between booms, my bff, Angie, randomly shouted across the table: “And THAT’S how I got that rash!” As you can see, I’m still riding the coattails of that little gem.

Anytime I try to explain it to someone who wasn't there, I can always tell when they lose interest, as if to say,“Quit telling me this boring story about fireworks, baby Huey.” But those of us who witnessed it that day look at one another with a deep sense of understanding.

Let me be clear, though - it ain’t no professional show, my friend, whooohoho no, it’s neighborhood rivalry at its finest. I’m fairly confident that much of what we saw go off that night wasn’t even legal. And the booming went on, and on, and on. (Interestingly, our neighbor at the beach house, who complained when someone blew their nose outside on the Lanai past 9:00 p.m., didn’t seem to mind the fireworks...not that we could have heard her if she were yelling from her window. Maybe when your neighbor spends $8,000 on fireworks, you just say thank you and shut the hell up.)

I knew we were really stumbling upon something special when I rounded the corner of the beach house at one point in the evening to see my brother speaking in to his video camera, documentary style, describing what was happening around him. He was really getting some good footage when it turned midnight. Because, well, it was…oh forget it. Just go there.

Anyway, so we weren’t in Hawaii this year. We were on a frozen lake. And there were a few sparkles here and there but mostly there was coors light, good friends, and you know, that guy I married exactly a year ago. And that was alright with me. So Happy Anniversary, Paul! I’m confident that 50 years from now we won’t be able to hear fireworks or stare at a china hutch burning in the middle of a lake in Alaska, but baby, I’m confident you’ll still light my fire.

p.s. Please excuse and typos. I'm running on like, 5 minutes of sleep. We're in the Seattle airport on our way home.

p.p.s.s. Greggie, thanks for the sweet pics.

Life list number #26: Chizeck!

2010-12-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

I know many of you might find this difficult to believe, but anytime I ask my mother (Why do I ask? Why do I KEEP ASKING?) what she would have done differently in raising me, she always tells me that she wishes she would have insisted on my having learned more “life skills” (her term, not mine). How my mom even thinks I accomplish simple tasks like toasting bread is beyond me. She truly beats herself up over this. I’m not sure what made her come to this conclusion. Was it the fact that I called her from the grocery store every other day in college, asking her things like “What does BROIL mean? It sounds some sort of skin condition.” Maybe. Hard to say.

Either way, I think every female on the planet has an innate need to impress their mother. I’m not sure life list #26 was brewed up as a result of this need or not, but for some reason I felt like I had to prove it to my mom myself that I could cook (er, bake) cookies, and I could bake so damn many of them that I’d have to give them away as gifts or even freeze them! So I put it on the ole’ life list, and ladies and gentleman, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Please note exhibit number #1:

That’s puppy chow we’re holding up, by the way. Anyone this side of the Mississippi knows what that is, I think.

Sure, maybe I lost my will to live shopping for the ingredients. Maybe it took just a shade longer than I had expected (WHO BAKES FOR 8 HOURS IN A DAY?), maybe the three of us who decided to tackle this job weren’t on speaking terms by the end of the process (just kidding), but we baked the SHIT out of those goods, and we’re better for it, dammit.

When it was all over and done with, I called my mom. I was feeling good. I mean, I was feeling like a Domestic Goddess, I’m not gonna lie. My mom seemed impressed as I relayed the afternoon activities, she really did. What was most intriguing to her was the fact that that her daughter, who had never baked in her life, actually baked fudge (now I’m confused…I feel like I didn’t really BAKE the fudge. This is hard.). I was relaying the skill I exerted in the fudge baking, err, cooking - MAKING process, and she seemed very, very impressed (surprised).

“Oh YES!” I said. “It was EASY! You’ve struggled to make fudge in the past, mother?” I quipped. “I really just had no problem at all! Bubbling? No! What’s that?”

I allowed her to explain. Then she asked, “Now, honey, did you make the fudge with the marshmallow cream?”

“Why YES!” I answered. At this point confident I was really giving her something to tell Aunt Arlene about next time they spoke.

“Well that’s a little easier, but STILL, so proud of you, honey.”

Now, I was willing to shake off that last little comment. After all, we’d really busted some cookies out over the course of the day.

Anyway, I was not about to let that comment get me down. I was ready to teach a pastry class or something. I was ready to pass some knowledge on to the grandkids. I’m not even kidding.

So when Amy (who’d done a FABULOUS job on the scotcheroos [sp?], by the way) gently noted that I had something on the back of my thigh, I brought my hand down just below the bum to wipe what I was sure was simply DUST, A HAIR, a CHERRIO. What I found was a frosted cookie.

No shit. It was like someone had actually taken one of the cookies we’d JUST frosted and pressed it in to the back of my thigh like, I DON’T KNOW, a STAMP? HOW DID THAT GET THERE? That’s what I want to know.

Then I tried to cut the fudge. Things were going downhill quickly.

Let me say that I had every intention of taking a picture of the “plates” I’d made to give to friends as gifts. For the record, I did make those plates. Friends did receive them. However, by that point, I’d decided to get back to what I knew best, which was not BAKING, but wine.

So, I don’t have a picture of the plates.

But they were amazing. They really were.

Cheers!

Word to your Mother.

2010-12-21T21:40:00.000-08:00

My Mom called me tonight SUPER excited to contribute a blog post idea, which is the video below. (I TOLD her that I had one "brewing" already, but I'm not sure the fart blog was what she had in mind.) She actually discovered this from my friend Whitney's facebook status update. And, as a former Alaska teacher myself, I had to share!

Plus it kicks ass. That too. AK in da HOUSE!!!! Represent. And Merry Christmas. (And Whit, see you soon!)

Let's just get this out of the way right now...

2010-12-20T15:02:00.000-08:00

Farts are funny. They. Just. Are. My husband is horrified by the fact that I CANNOT GET IT TOGETHER when someone starts in with the potty humor. He begrudgingly accepted this about me when he married me, but he likely didn't think I'd attempt to share my humor with, umm, THE INTERNET. (Hi, honey!) But I can't help it. I keep thinking I'll outgrow it while simultaneously hoping that our children will inherit my potty humor gene, because when they discover how much cooler their father is than their bat S@#* crazy mother, at least WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE THAT.

Quick side note: In an attempt to humor me, Paul often chimes in with the only potty joke he knows. When something smells good (cologne, food, you name it) and some unknowing, innocent friend verbalizes this to the group, Paul immediately jumps at the opportunity by offering this:

"I farted." (He "exclaims").

(Those of you who know my husband know why I put "exclaims" in quotation marks.) If potty humor had it's own version of slapstick, this would be it, minus both the voice inflection and comedic timing it takes to warrant a laugh. But what can I say? Some people are born with athleticism, some with potty humor. I like to call our union a joint survival of the fittest.

I love Dooce.com, for example, in part because she embraces potty humor on a regular basis. (Hahaha...I said regular.) Sure, there are other things that keep me coming back, but she had me at the gas.

The most recent post on Dooce, for example, talks about dog farts. Because my parents' dog, Tobe, lived to be 1,241 years old, as a family we shared many noteworthy moments at the dinner table. In his early years, Tobe was sly, releasing without a sound. When guests weren't present, we'd take pride in being the first one to warn the rest of the family about what was momentarily about to hit them. Later on (and, conveniently, when guests were present), Tobe took over the warning process, creating a sound that was a cross between a pathetic bugle horn player with emphysema and a whistling wind. When this happened, the adult children would look across the table at one another, smirks on our faces, while Dad chose to simply ignore it, moving the conversation along in the only subtle way he knew how: "MORE WINE?"

It's easier to talk about dog farts than human farts, but this weekend my girlfriends (delicate flowers that we are) explored the subject extensively. Do you fart in front of your significant other? Who was the first to do it? (Something that, to a potty humor specialist, often holds more significance than the first I LOVE YOU.) Whose farts are the loudest? (A unanimous HIS.) The grossest? (HIS. Usually.) If there's one universal truth about females, they can talk a subject to death and throw their significant other under the bus at the DROP OF A HAT when it comes to potty practice. In true fashion, we gave this subject all we had.

I naturally flock to people who share my love for potty humor, but there is always a moment when, in the first stages of friendship, I GO THERE only to discover that my new friend does not, in fact, have the "potty gene." They laugh politely while I dab the tears from my eyes and wait for my abdomen to stop hurting. But when we both suddenly come to the realization we're NOT on the same page when it comes to what we consider funny (IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), we look at each other with disappointment, as if to simultaneously say, "Ohhh, I see."

So be forewarned, anti-potty humor blog readers. Be. Fore. Warned.

P.S. Coming soon! The domestic goddess experience of checking #26 of the Meganithappen Life List. Stay tuned!

My brother could follow this guy like nobody's business.

2010-12-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

I just found this earlier today on a blog I was stalking, and to say that it made my Thursday would be a grave understatement. If you can watch this without smiling, then I would feel confident in saying that you have no soul.

Now, let me digress for a moment to introduce this next little gem. Two summers ago Paul and I took a trip up to our family's cabin, and one particular evening we were having a real good time. (A REAL GOOD TIME). So much so, that at one point I walked in to the kitchen to see both my brother and Paul attempting to dance like Beyonce. Now, I married a man with some rhythm. The boy's got some moves. But my brother? Well, that looked more like this, but without the rhythm:

Those who made it to Hawaii for the wedding saw a replay of this. The rest of you will have to use your imagination.

The thing about blogging is...

2010-12-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

I've been dabbling with the idea of starting a blog (and committing to it) for some time, but I've had a lot of hesitancy. Blogging takes guts. Having courage enough to self publish and think that what you've got to say is actually interesting enough for other people to want to read it takes a little ego. (Then again, let's be honest, so does the blog name Meganithappen, right? And I have to admit right now that a good friend of mine came up with Meganithappen. And she has every right to utilize it when she runs for president, though she'll have to use her own name.)

But, really, blogging is putting yourself out there. It's like online dating with words. That's intimidating to me. Honestly, who would want to read what I have to say? Who actually reads personal blogs?

Well, I do.

A lot of other people do too, I discovered. Two years ago I began blogging after being inspired by some friends and reading a few blog posts by other folks. Then some crazy stuff happened in my life (like, the death of my father) and I abandoned ship. But I've really been inspired these past two years watching and reading some pretty amazing bloggers from the sidelines. I started reading Heather Armstrong's Dooce (after a recommendation from one of my favorite peeps). From there, I've discovered some other blogs that I check out on a near daily basis (Mighty Girl, APW, QueSeraSera, to name a few). Mighty Girl inspired me to start a life list. APW encouraged me to submit a piece for their website (check it out...should be published on 12/15/10), and Sarah Brown? Well, she just inspired me to go for it...and they all did it without even knowing they did it. What if I could do that?

My goal is to write or post something every week for a year. One year. Try it out. I'm expecting the IN-TER-NET (that's for you, Mom) to hold me accountable. Maybe that only includes my Mom. Maybe that includes you.

Either way, it's something to challenge me to continue to share and connect in the same way others have done with and for me for the past few years. Maybe that means I'm only connecting with my friends and family. Maybe that includes others along that way. Either way, it's gravy.

So, here goes nothing. Starting, like, now.

They tell me she only sings at Christmas parties.

2010-12-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

I just discovered THIS website and I can't believe I've lived my whole life waisting time without it. A friend of mine (whose humor I'd trust with my life) posted this little ditty on facebook and now my life is changed forever. (Alright, that's a bit dramatic but it's cute video, okay?) I especially like the commentary towards the end of the video when they tell the man in the "Why is he telling us whom we can't marry t-shirt" that Jewel is actually Karen. The fact that he runs away from the camera immediately after that really takes the humor up a notch, too. (Lauren, I KNEW there was a reason I liked the name Karen for you.)

Undercover Karaoke with Jewel from Jewel, Eric Appel, Antonio Scarlata, FOD Team, and BoTown Sound: "

Funny or Die Featured Videos from Funny or Die

Oatmeal is Good for You, Don't You Know?

2010-12-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

I've recently discovered the website THE OATMEAL. For those of you who have been part of the 21st century for quite some time, this is nothing new. I, on the other hand, am a new member of that club, and this site basically gives me a reason to get up in the morning. THIS is The Oatmeal's most recent post, and it is most delightful. And I don't even like cats.

Things are happening.

2010-12-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

I just haven't told anyone about them since August of 2008. My new goal? Post once a week in 2011, with warm-ups to that starting now. I promise. Stay tuned.

Guess who's back. Back again. Shindy's back. Tell a friend.

2008-08-12T21:59:00.000-07:00

After traveling all over the world (Africa, Armania, Japan [where her name was Shindy, not Cindy] all over Europe [and I mean all over], and spending three precious years in Boulder, CO) my sister has decided to come full circle and move back to Montana. Get this, she's even living in the SAME small house that my MOM and DAD lived in when they lived in Billings as a young married couple. (As if we didn't have ENOUGH oddities in our family...we're not even going to GO there...)She too, drug her unknowing and innocent significant other with her. Thus, both my sister and I are now back in MT with our poor, poor boyfriends. (I mean honestly, what did they ever do to US?)

Great minds think alike, hence, a trip to the DIVE to celebrate this reunion. What better way to celebrate our sibling "same state status" than by going back...and by back, I mean WAY back...to our roots? Shucks, we even brought our cousins and parents along.

Yes, it was a weekend of 4-H burgers, Catholic booth french fries, Lutheran booth pie, and beer booth beer. Oh. And Firehouse. Yes. The 80's band. Don't remember them? Well, then you didn't have older siblings in the early EARLY nineties, my friend. Perhaps THIS will refresh your memory...or maybe THIS.

Ah yes, the Schultz/Wilondek clan is back together, and, just like Firehouse, our hair isn't NEAR as big as it used to be, but we can still rock. Oh, and we got rides home from the police (no worries, the were just being darn good samaritans). Just good, old fashioned Montana fun.

Bozeman Debauchery

2008-07-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of attending what will undoubtedly become on annual event. And, as my friend Lauren said, this particular 24 hours of my life cannot be explained with "you had to be there" stories - I imagine that would be like describing WoodStock as a "neat concert."

Let me just put it this way: If and when (God help us) in thirty years, any of the four of us have a daughter...and if, (God forbid) they ask us what we were like when we were their age...I presume that we will look back upon this very weekend, cock our head to one side, as if searching for some reasonably modest answer, and (God willing) respond with something along the lines of "JUST LIKE YOU."

How do I know this? I disclosed all of the pictures my friend Lauren took throughout the evening to MY mother. And, although it would be innappropriate for me to post all of them here on this blog, here's what she had to say reference to what she saw:

Megs,
The slideshow is proof if I ever needed it why I will never again party with my daughter and her friends.
Were you all as sick as you should have been?
And I think someone must have shared those photos with Dooce and so because of you guys, Heather Armstrong is starting a 21 day cleanse. AND she wants to become a better citizen of the EARTH.........all because of your debauchery.
I hope you are proud.
Mother

At the evening's start...here's what our bottom (and better) half looks like...

And, at the evening's close...here's what was going on up top. Not my most flattering shot. Frankly, I don't know HOW I made my face DO that.

Hard to believe they're sisters...I mean, they look NOTHING alike.

Ahhh...it's not Bozeman without a stop at the....

The well behaved women of the hour...

Jill and I pointing to a completely RANDOM person's fake ID that was taken away from her a LONG time ago. ODD, she LOOKed JUST LIKE me..but her name was AMANDA, and she was from PORTLAND, and she liked drinks called "SEX ON THE BEACH," not Argentinian Malbec.

2008-06-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

It might be impossible to not giggle while watching this. Go on. Try it. I dare you.

Note especially, around 51 seconds and a 1:14. IT's worth it. I promise.

jump shots

2008-06-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

That's what i prefer to call them, much to jill's chagrin, as apparently they are called jump "pictures." The play on words seems...brilliantly elementary, watson.

Either way, she's more of an expert. They normally happen AFTER multiple types of beverages are consumed. I live in a condo unit. My poor, poor lutheran neighbors. And they STILL made it to church the next morning...to pray for our ridiculous, drunken souls.

p.s. we are in our pajamas. that's a racey as it gets after you hit 27.

Upon driving in the car with my sister...

2008-03-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

My sister and I. We're complete opposites.

Leaving town one summer a few years back, we decided to stop for a coffee before hitting the lonesome highway back to our home town of GLendive. I bellied up to the counter while my sister stood back inquisitively looking over the menu posted above.
ME: "Tall double carmel mocha please."
HER: "Skinny or whole?" asked the barista.
ME: "Whole."
HER: "Whip or no whip?"
ME: "Whip. Definitely whip," I replied.

She smiled, plugged my order into the computer and glanced up at my sister, who offered an even warmer smile as she politely listed off her order.

CINDY: "I'll take a short, 1/2 shot (I swear she said decaf) vanilla latte please."
HER: "Skinny or whole?"
CINDY: "Skinny, please."
HER: "Whip or no whip?"
CINDY: "No whip. Thanks."

I slowly turned my head, eyeing her with eyebrows that spoke, "WHY BOTHER?" She smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she said, "I know. Shut it."

SHe's short, I'm tall. She's brunette, I'm blonde (or at least, I used to be). She's smart, I'm, well, not dumb.

Despite our differences, however, we tend to agree on a few things. Upon driving in the car with my sister a few weeks ago, this discussion came up:

Cindy: "What is one supposed to call one's "significant other" once one has passed the age of, say, 26? Do you call him your 'boyfriend?'" (I'm 26, she's....older, barely.)

Me: "No. Too junior high. How about your partner?"

Cindy: "No. That could, for some, solidify that thing that they've always suspected. God knows we can't add to the confusion. Roommate?"

Me: "No. Too 'unattached' sounding. Too 'three's company'."

Cindy: How about "significant other?"

Me: "Too formal. Way too formal. How about siggy?"

Cindy: "Nope, sounds too much like a bad habit."

Me: "Good point."

Cindy: "Yes, it is. I think that's what we should call them."

Me: "Yes. Yes you're right. We shall call them our siggies, and they shall be our siggies."

Cindy: "And so it was decided."

Me: "Should we stop for coffee in Miles?"

Cindy: "Yes. I'll have you know I've graduated to drinking Americanos."

Me: "That's what I drink! With or without cream?"

Cindy: "With."

Me: "Can't win em' all."

Only in Alaska

2008-03-05T19:59:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I got to be an Alaskan. Again. This time, for three days, not three years. However, I think I packed more Alaskan into my three days than I could have ever hoped to do in my three years. To help commemorate my experience with the Fur Rendezvous Festival, I've compose a short poem:

Ode to Alaska

Only in Alaska can you dress up like a star,
and be accepted, nay, celebrated,
with free drinks at F Street bar.

Only in Alaska, can you see the ferris wheel,
drawing crowds in zero degree weather,
and still think, "what's the big deal?"

Only in Alaska can you see Rocky's brother,
enjoying a glass of chardonnay wine,
as much as, say, your mother.

Only in Alaska, can my friends get big brown drunk,
and dance around in his lava lava,
to the beat of the white man funk.

Only in Alaska can you see greg, whit, et al,
dress up, get drunk, win a plaque and dance,
at the miner's and trapper's ball.

You better believe it bitches. Next year I'm writing a song, so you better start thinking of some damn good inspirational moments.

Though truly, I don't think it can get any better than Frank Stallone and chardonnay.

The Bald Couple

2008-02-10T21:47:00.001-08:00

Two thirds of the most important men in my life are about to be bald.

In the year 2008, over 15,500 American's will hear the words, "You have esophogeal cancer." Just under 14,000 of those people will die from the disease. We live our lives certain that we are born with an internal ammunition to keep killers like cancer away from ourselves and those we so dearly love. We lock our immune system up with vitamins and we prepare our bodies for battle by running and sweating, and eating brussel sprouts - not because we ever think that we've go to war with cancer, but because we know that by doing so, we will intimidate the beast enough to hide from us,and loom instead, in the shadows of others.

My dad is a shining example of just such a healthy soldier - cautious and wise in his lifestyle, his biggest crime has been tying one on every now and then, an act that I am convinced has kept him young at heart. Yet, despite his effort to scare the enemy away, he has been sent off to battle one of the cruelest cancer enemies: esophogeal cancer.

And now, I watch him sit at the table, eating dinner slowly - his chemo bag hanging gently against his hip, and I think, "How the hell did this happen? How in God's name could this be happening?" He looks at me and smiles as my big, brown, and voluntarily bald boyfriend says, "I can help you shave your head, Jim. I've had practice."

Never in my life would I have imagined that my boyfriend and my father would be together, in the bathroom, shaving their heads.

Never in my life would I have imagined tucking my father into bed in the room next to me, promising him that things will look brighter in the morning.

Never in my life would I have imagined telling my dad that he can't leave the table until his plate is clean.

I guess never's day has come.

In the year 2008, over 15,500 American's will hear the words, "You have esophogeal cancer." Just under 14,000 of those people will die from the disease.

My dad will never be one of them.