Mighty Delicious

I get these ridiculous food cravings. I call the cravings ridiculous because I will stop at nothing to see to it that the food makes it directly into my mouth. Say, for instance, I had a hankering for some lobster and Alpha-Bits. I would redirect my entire day to revolve around obtaining said lobster and box of alphabetical cereal. I would squish myself into a entirely unflattering and rubbery wet suit, board a fishing boat, get intolerably sea sick, jump in shark infested waters, and pull up the cages where all the lobsters are, while deftly avoiding any sudden snapping from those wily sea creatures. As for the Alpha-Bits? Target. Where I will impulsively buy mascara, a sports bra, lemonade, an enticing board game by Milton Bradley, potato chips, and a fruity smelling body wash.

Three in a half years ago, I defied my intolerance of lactose and became quite acquainted with a little establishment known as Golden Spoon. Pretty soon, any time seemed like a good time to have Golden Spoon. Nasty thing about those crazy yogurt shops is, they are franchised, so each one is different. Would I go to the one that was within walking distance from my house? Heck no! What about the one that was 4 blocks away. Nope, not good enough for me. Instead, I would drive two cities away for the shop with the rainbow choco chips topping. It’s true I would. These little beasts,:


would drag me away from watching reruns of Sex and the City on TBS, doing Spanish homework, and planning my wedding.

I’d be all, “what flowers would work best as a center piece in the ladies’ bathroom, the phaleaenopsis or the peonies? Peonies remind me of my high school prom, where I had some ponies strapped firmly to my wrist, then I discovered an allergic reaction to the flower, and then my favorite song came on, and…yadi, yadi, blah, RAINBOW CHOCO CHIPS!! Must go to Golden Spoon NOW!!” And off I went.

I haven’t revisited my Golden Spoon Craving since then, but that picture of rainbow choco chips sure looks mighty delicious.

This is What I did this Weekend

First we headed off to my favorite discount department store to try on a ripe smattering of shades.


These ones made me want to jog for no particular reason.


These made Pat conjure up impressions of an angry, hot cop. To which I batted my eyelashes and said, “Is there a problem officer…?”


There’s a striking semblance between my child and my grandmother in this photo. I can’t say for sure if that’s such a good thing.




These red beauties came home with me.


The ice cream truck just happened to wander into our neighborhood, and I just happened to chase him, waving my dollar emphatically. Naturally, I got a frozen pink foot with a blue gum ball for a index toe.


Then we met up with the gang and celebrated Nate with a couple pitchers of Margaritas. It was a happy birthday indeed.


The boys all sat on one side of the table, while us lady-like ladies sat on the other side, discussing our versions of pot roast and how to get gravy stains out of satin table cloths.


Woah, did any one notice that my hair changed colors? Here’s a sexy close up for you to enjoy:





After dinner we headed over to the Jack’s for some poker in their living room. Do you think it’s weird that their light looks like a giant boob? I’m just sayin…



Our best poker faces

Jenielle dominated the game. She kinda scared me a little bit.

There was lots of this…


…and some of this


…which ultimately lead to this.

Good times.

…and so it goes

My friend Jenielle (see figure A.) is a delightful creature and her hair is one of her most prominent features; it’s silky, smells good, and looks absolutely delicious when curled with hot rollers.



Unfortunately, she only wears it curled with hot rollers when something fancy is going on, because rolling your hair with hot rollers takes an exceptional amount of time and patience, and sometimes you burn your fingers, and who wants that?

So most of the time her hair is pulled back in a pony tail that weighs approximately 6.7 pounds (see figures B., C., and D).







So I hope you all understand and are not mad when I say that I had to cut it:


…9 inches of her precious tresses to be exact.

But, OH MY GAWD, how frickin cute is she?



Blue Steel

So I do this weird thing when I look at myself in a mirror:

I pout my lips and squint my eyes a little, and sort of suck in my cheeks like I just took a honkin’ bite of a lemon…let’s just say it’s not cute.


Do I think I look more attractive when I do it? No.


Do I think I look really really ridiculous looking? Yes.


You’re Either In or You’re OUT

Because I am so savvy in the ways of the world, I thought I would enlighten you, my dear readers, on what is hip and sassy. I’m considering it my public service for the day– you’re welcome.

In: Hybrid
Out: Hummer

In: Obama

Out: Hillary

In: traveling to third world countries

Out: traveling to Hawaii

In: having twins

Out: having a vaginal birth

In: Twitter

Out: carrier pigeons


In: pomegranate

Out: plantain


In: hyper-color t shirts

Out: polo shirts
In: reusable shopping bags

Out: plastic bags that destroy the environment

In: acai

Out: Red Bull


In: dogs

Out: cats

In: the iPhone
Out: the Razr


In: Kanye West

Out: R. Kelly

In: Facebook
: Myspace

In: complaining about the economy
Out: mortgage brokers

In: cupcakes

Out: cake you have to eat with a fork

Do you ever wonder…

What it would be like to be really really tiny?

How long you’d live if all you ate was cheese?

If you really have to wash your clothes again if they sat overnight in the washing machine?

If those paper toilet seat covers really do anything?

How people emerge from Costco without spending over $100?

What you’d look like if you were born in another part of the world?

…I do.

The Little Engine That Could May Not Be Suitable For Young Adults

Berlyn loves to read and be read to. I think it’s her favorite past time, that and grabbing her crotch after she goes poop, oh, and sticking her finger firmly in Zoey’s ear.

Among her favorites is the Little Engine That Could.



wait, did I read that right?


Maybe the first draft looked something like this:


And after Watty Piper’s editing crew had a go at it, the jack knife suddenly didn’t seem so bad.


Being a mom is an entirely selfless act.

It all starts when you get pregnant: the vomit, the zits, the cellulite that will never go away, the stretch marks, the no sushi and the no beer. Why did I sign up for this again? And then there is the birth, and all the goo that erupts from your lady parts, and the constant latch of a tiny baby suckling on your breast. Motherhood is some hard-ass work and freedom is a thing of the past.

Berlyn is a year and a half old now, and I am still struggling with being selfless. I am still stuborn with my thinking. I want my alone time, I want to be able read Anna Karenina without interruptions, while resting listlessly on a towel in the sand.

Instead I have sippys to refill, shoes to find, and diapers to change. My life is not hard by any stretch, and please don’t confuse this rant with complaining. Instead I am tragically admitting my shortcomings of how totally selfish I really am; How instead of reading The Hungry Caterpillar for the 87th time, I’d rather get a pedicure, and instead of making her lunch I want to take a yoga class.

I know I have so much to learn about motherhood, I am still very much a novice. But I tip my hat to those mothers who give and give, and expect nothing in return. They are truly my heroes and if you know one, make her a chocolate souffle cake with raspberry sauce, offer to clean her bathtub, and say thank you.

I have developed an allergic reaction to working out.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning I have committed myself to working out. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning I shimmy my thighs into a pair of spandex pants that squeeze the excess and make it look less excessive. And Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I stomp my unpedicured feet into my cushy gym shoes, grab my baby, and head out the door–Without drinking a cup of coffee.

Then I meet up with some bright and sunshiny girls with their babies and we start intensely walking up hills. I love intensely walking up hills, no really I do, I’m totally serious. Especially when my ass starts to burn a bit. I like to envision all the bad-for-me food I ate the day before is just melting off, does that make me weird?

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, an hour after the endorphins leave me alone, after I take my cushy gym shoes off, and Berlyn settles in for a nap, I get a migraine. At first it starts off dull and pansy-assed. So I try to ignore it and drink loads of water to stave it off. But then it starts to peck at my temples, sinuses, jaw, and neck. And If I don’t take a 5 hour nap right then and there, I’m pretty much screwed for the rest of my day. I don’t think this is a fair trade. Maybe it’s my lack of caffeine in the morning, or perhaps my body is rejecting physical activity.

I’m starting to think I’m better off laying on the couch