Gender Discovery

We had an ultrasound done today. It was the one where they told us the sex of our unborn child. 

But instead of telling us the sex, we had the techincian tell our camera.

And later in the evening we had an intimate gathering of the closest friends and family.

Oh, and we had snacks, because I love snacks. 


And we all found out together; it was epic

Caution: I Drool in my Sleep.

I drool at night. This recently came to my attention. And when I say came to my attention, I mean I wake up in the middle in the night with so much drool on my face, pillow and connecting parts, that I can make a fresh and slimy batch of lemonade, or sangria. Anyone want some? There’s plenty to go ’round. 

And then in the morning, after I guzzle down an icy glass of saliva lemonade, I look in the mirror and see this patch of tiny zits that point downward on either side of my mouth. It’s like my face is sending me a message that I drool at night, and I’m a disgusting person. I GET IT, FACE!

Like I need that kind of judgement from my own face. Gawd, what a bitch.

chin zits

Something needs to be done, because my husband doesn’t particularly enjoy waking up each morning soaked in my spit. Or maybe he does, I’ll have to ask…

Regardless, I need to do something. 

First thing I thought of was one of those cone things you put on your dog:



You know, to contain the drool. But then when I really thought about it I was afraid of drowning. Like I said, it’s a lot of saliva, and I don’t think it would be fun to wake up dead. My obituary would say: Woman died in her home last night while wearing a dog cone. She drowned in her own drool. That’s some embarrassing shit. I don’t want to go down like that. 

Maybe I could tape a washcloth up to my bottom lip. 

Or stick a few cotton balls in my mouth.

I’d sleep on my back, but apparently when you’re pregnant you’re not supposed to do that. Plus, I snore when I’m on my back.


So, there’s not a whole I can do about it. I guess I’ll just be the lady with lots of sangria in her fridge. OLE!

Chocolate Pudding, Yard Gnomes, and Not Fancy Dresses

Hey everybody! This post was selected to be a guest post on the OC Register’s Mom Blog!

Go there, and read it again. Because you love me. 


 I’m pregnant. You know that. But let me translate for you:

It means I want to do nothing all day. A perfect day would be to lay in a pool of chocolate pudding with a really large spoon. And I’m pretty sure that’s totally attainable. I mean, I’ll grab the 45 boxes of chocolate pudding, because they’re on sale at Target, and you let me borrow your kiddie pool, but not before you clean out all the piss and slimy stuff out of the bottom, and we’ll start filling! But then you have to leave, because I need to be alone. With my pudding. Get out. Now.

But instead I’m tending to a two year old with a vocabulary that only includes the words, “I WANT MILK!” and “THAT’S MY IPHONE!” and “IT SMELLS LIKE POOP IN HERE!” And then while I’m pretending to be dead on the couch and trying to be really really still so when she sniffs me out and expects me to feed her, she’ll move on and find some other food. I pretty sure I dropped a piece of donut behind the couch a week ago. I’m sure she’ll find it.

2 is old enough for her to drive through the Mc Donald’s drive thru, and order a kids’ happy meal and a cheeseburger for mom, right?

Oh, and also means I’d like to wear a duster. I saw Kathy Griffin’s mom wearing it on the My LIfe on the D list. Instantly I was calling my Grams to find out what the name of that post menopausal catalogue I always thumb through at her house. But before I hang up I tell her I’m going to buy her giant T.V. remote and a yard gnome, because you can’t call yourself an old person and NOT have a giant T.V. remote and a yard gnome. I’m giving her some street cred at the Bingo Hall, and I’m pretty sure she’ll leave me something sparkly in her will because of my thoughtfulness.

So I order my duster and Frick Yaa! I look hot. A big dress that’s not fancy, with a zipper in the front, for me to do housework and cook? Yes please. But no to the housework and cooking. I’ll just wear it while swimming in my pudding pool. Spoon please.

No Gabba Gabba.

I love T.V. and I’m not ashamed to admit it. And I would never, EVER considering getting rid of if for a more simplistic life style, or to enrich my way of living, or any other ridiculous reason like that, because I love it, and I would tongue kiss it if I could, or if it could kiss me back, but it can’t, and an inappropriate fondling will have to suffice.

T.V. brings me much joy in the form of The Bachelorette, 30 Rock, Kathy Griffin, Top Chef, Flipping Out, and come to think of it, anything on Bravo. And I’m completely convinced that if I didn’t watch my favorite shows, my hair would burst into flames, I would sprout a tail, my stand mixer would malfunction, all my shoes would turn into lobsters, and I would die.

In that order.

So I’m not really surprised to find out that Berlyn loves T.V. too. The girl L.O.V.E.S the television. She has insisted on watching this show called Yo Gabba Gabba, and when she does her eyes glaze over, her head tilts to one side, and there is a distinct amount of drool that puddles in her lap. I started to worry about the effects this show has on my daughter, so I began to sit down and actually watch the show with her, because usually I flick it on and BOOM! Instant babysitter! Time for a shower. Am I right mommies? No? Shoot. No, what I meant to say is I adore my child, and would never claim that I use the television to entertain her when I’m all out of entertainment and I just need to lay down and pretend I’m drinking a dirty martini, but really its a tall frosty glass of milk with exactly 4 ice cubes, and I’ll have the most intense gas after I finish it, but damn it’s worth it.

That’s actually what I really meant to say, but the point is I started watching it too…and something strange happened. I got sucked in.

Hot Dog! That show is mesmerizing. They have these loopy 80s graphics, that I can identify with, because I am a child of the 80s. And they sing really repetitive songs that talk about liking bugs, and how much fun it is to  brush your teeth, and most importantly, there’s this tall skinny guy called DJ Lance Rock who wears an orange unitard, and he’s my favorite. And if he wasn’t so flamboyantly gay, I’d probably have a mammoth-sized crush on him. 


But then there are these weird things that he plays with, and I swear one looks like it belongs in an adult (ahem) store…


He’s a one eyed pleasure toy, that has been infected with genital warts. Stay back Berlyn!

So in conclusion, we enjoyed the fun of Yo Gabba Gabba, but I think we’ll go back to watching Sesame Street, because I’m positive they don’t have any vibrator toys on their show.

Handmade Memories

I have really good intentions.

I have stack of laundry that sits on the couch in my room that has been washed, and I have good intentions of folding it and putting the clothes away. Instead I sit on it and pretend it isn’t really there while I read a magazine and hum the tune to Bonanza.

I have good intentions of going to the gym, but So You Think You Can Dance is always on, or the Bachelorette. And yup, I watch that crap. Whatever. 

I have good intentions of showering on a daily basis, but a nap trumps smelling good any day.

And I have good intentions of chronicling Berlyn’s life in a scrapbook, but there’s such a giant mess involved. And those little sticker square things are a pain in my ass.

But wait! I My cousin, Lisa is willing to do the dirty work which means I (or you) don’t have to. I just gave her a heap of labeled photos and had her go at it. In less than a week, viola! A beautiful book of my family photos was in my hands! And I didn’t have to get up from the couch, or turn off the Bachelorette! Pretty rad, huh?




If you’re feeling uber lazy, or as I like to call it “overwhelmed” click on over to Lisa’s website, and let her glue your photos for you!





I tried to be vegetarian once. It was college, and I was already starving myself with a diet that mainly went like this: coffee, coffee, piece of bread, coffee, Coco Pebbles, alcohol and some more Coco Pebbles.

I kept in my dorm mini fridge/pantry stocked with Easy Mac, Pringles, anything chocolate, and cereal, so I was practically living a meatless lifestyle already.

But then one day I decided to go all vegetarian on my ass. Just like that. It was as if I forgot how yummylishious a hamburger or rack of lamb tasted, because I couldn’t really afford anything other than the food that Target sold.

And I wasn’t going to be one of those lazy vegetarians, you know the ones they say crap like, I’m a vegetarian, but I still eat chicken, and fish.

So…then you’re not a vegetarian, you just don’t eat certain types of meat. What you should be saying is, I’m a picky eater, who likes to exaggerate and be obnoxious just for the sake of sounding interesting. And now please excuse me while I prick myself in the neck several times with this fork for being so obnixious. 

No, I wasn’t going to be like that. I was going to go all out. No meat. No bacon, no ribs, no hamburgers, no filet mignon. Nothing but tofu cubes and lentils for me.

I felt like I was making a difference in the world. I felt like I had more energy, and I thought of all the sweet baby piggies, chickens, and cows I was saving by not eating them. 

When my friends were all giggling and eating drippy red meat, I was fine. I didn’t try to sneak bites of their crunchy taco from Del Taco when they weren’t looking, I didn’t draw pictures of a fried chicken in a bucket in the margins of my notes in my Shakespeare class. I kept it together. 

Then one day it wasn’t great anymore, it was a pain in my ass. It’s complicated to be a vegetarian. And I started to miss bacon, and I gave it up. I mean, really, a life without bacon really isn’t a life worth living.

Sea Lion Woman

Yesterday, I woke up extra early, threw off the covers, and sprinted out of bed because we were going to SEA WORLD!!!


It’s among my favorite places to go, and when I was a little girl, I used to dream of being the trainer that gets pushed around the water by Shamu, and then I’d do a back flip off her face, and then wave to the audience while I discreetly blew a giant seawater-snot-rocket out of my nose. The notion is all very quixotic, and if I was any good at swimming, or sticking to one thing, I might have actually had a chance.


To cheer myself up from my shattered dreams of being a whale trainer, I decided to look at walruses. And holy shit! A walrus might just be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. No lie. 




And then we saw polar bears. 


And then we met up with our friends for some more sea adventures.






And lastly we saw the manatees. This Mr. Manatee kept doing slow motion swirls in the water. He looked so peaceful and majestic, even with the bit of poo hanging out of his buns.

My Mom Puts Things in my Fridge

When my mom stays over to watch Berlyn she sticks stuff in my refrigerator. Usually she brings a produce bag stuffed with a strawberry Yoplait yogurt, raw almonds, a box of Wheat Thins, and a bottle of water. Because apparently I don’t have any food in my kitchen. I think she thinks I hate food. I have nothing in my pantry or fridge, and I solely live off coffee and my good looks.

Not only does she bring her own food, but she buys food and sticks the weird leftovers all over my kitchen. I come home and there’s the crust of her sandwich sitting on my counter and quarter cup of milk, 2 baby carrots and a half eaten apple just sitting in the middle of the refrigerator shelf. Gross.

She says it’s for Berlyn. But Berlyn doesn’t want to eat my mom’s half eaten apple. She does have some standards.

The last time she stayed over was about 3 weeks ago. And this morning I was rummaging through my fridge to find a wedge of cheese to chew on. And shoved waaay back into the far reaches of my fridge was a crumpled up paper towel. Ordinarily, I don’t refrigerate my paper towels, and I defiantly don’t ever clean my refrigerator, so I knew as soon as I saw it, it was the work of my mother.

I pulled the paper towel out with the tips of my fingernails, and carefully inspected it. I peered inside without breathing in, and found that It was the yolk of a hard boiled egg.

Who keeps the yolk of a hard boiled egg? Did she save it for me? Why did she hide it in the back of my fridge? Was she trying to sabotage me with the stench of a rotten egg? I think my mom secretly hates me. Oh, so many questions I have to get answered.

I immediately called her up and interrogated her about the egg.

She said that it was weird.

She said she didn’t remember.

She said that maybe it wasn’t her.

No, I don’t believe her. I know it was her.

And when I see her today, I’m going to give it back to her. Because it is hers after all.

Sleep all Day

Currently I want to write about nothing. I’m boring, and my ass is huge.

I want to sleep all day, and then eat a sandwich from Togo’s.

I’d like to sit outside for 26 minutes, and read a trashy tabloid tucked inside a copy of The New Yorker, so people think I’m really literary, and then lay indoors the rest of the day and pretend I don’t feel well, because there’s really no reason a perfectly healthy person should lay in a cocoon of down pillows and 800 thread count sheets all day.

No, unless if you’ve just had rhinoplasty and a chemical peel and you look like pure evil. 

I’ve had neither of these–I’m just growing a fetus, the size of an avocado…Mmmm avacado.

And that makes me sleepy.

And hungry.

I can’t stand when people cough loud

It’s disgusting. It’s like they’re saying, “Hey you over there. yeah you, the uptight one, want to hear something cool? This is what my boogers and throat-goo sounds like when I try to scrape them out of my esophagus with the sheer force of my breath! GRRRHHRUGHTUTUCHH!!”

Only it’s not cool. It makes my innards quiver. It’s like when you stick a butter knife in between the prongs of a fork and slide it back and forth a few times. 

It’s those damn smokers that are the worst. They’re all yellow, and leathery, and half falling apart. And if the annoyance of their smoke AND the cigarette butts they leave everywhere wasn’t enough of a disturbance, they cough in front of you while you’re in line at the gynecologist. Not quietly either, It’s all GUYGKFFFIEGIEH%#((@)#GFFFKKHYTTYHHIHGCHCH!! 

Then there’s a pause and you think you can go back to watching Emeril (yeah, they play episodes of Emeril at my gyno, because nothing says vagina like braised pork loin with a side of garlic mashed potatoes, am I right, ladies?), and then the bitch starts at it again, but this time she adds a meek and raspy, “sorry” at the end. And the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up and you’re clutching your purse so tight that you’re tearing small holes in the leather with your fingernails, and she says sorry?

And then you stab her. Because seriously, someone needed to put her out of her misery. And then everyone in the gyno office gives you a standing ovation, and Emeril comes out and gives you a lasagna with words written in mozzarella that say, “thanks for stabbing the coughing lady.”

And you’re all, “oh, that? That was nothing.” And you shake his hand, and the nursing staff hoists you on their shoulders, and they all sing ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’, because everyone really likes that song, even in July.