Thanks!

Every year I get tricked into eating someone’s dry-ass bird for Thanksgiving.

I blame my fantasticness.

It’s probably because I’m so fantastic all the time.

I like to see the good in people. So I say yes. Yes to going to Senior So-in-So’s house for Thanksgiving this year because geez, I’m super fantastic. And I think to myself, I remember you having a large assortment of pies the last time I came over for Thanksgiving, and I’m not about to pass up large assortments of pie. I might even be willing to overlook your blander-than-my-duvet-cover-turkey. I say blander, because my duvet cover at least has some flavor with my sloughed off skin flakes that taste like corn and lubriderm.

For the right amount of pie, I’m willing to do some crazy stuff.

But this year I bested myself…

AAH-HAA!!! Take that, SELF!

…and decided to have Thanksgiving dinner at my house.

Which means I immediately threw myself into an anxiety-frenzy. I almost can’t do anything productive if I’m not in a frenzy about it. I’m like the opposite of a duck swimming in a pond. I’m all frenetic on the outside, but calm and organized on the inside. I’m like if a duck swam upside down. Or, I’m like a duck from a fish’s point of view. Yeah, that’s it.

OUTSIDE:: I’m climbing up my kitchen counters like a crazy-person, shattering bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar to find the bay leaves in my spice cabinet.

INSIDE:: I’m humming a Josh Groban Christmas carol.

OUTSIDE:: I have lipstick on my teeth, mismatched athletic socks pulled up to my knees, and I’m wearing an oversized holiday sweater with blinking lights on it, one of which is broken.

INSIDE:: I’m mentally checking off lists and multitasking like a MO-FO.

It’s my process people. Don’t judge.

Needless to say I was a mess. And things didn’t turn out perfect.

But, on the plus side, the turkey was delicious.

Here’s why:

First, I brined the sucker.

Then I rubbed butter under its skin.

And lastly, I placed strips of bacon on the turkey’s boobies.

TA-DA!! Bacon! Who knew?

People liked the bacon turkey, and I think I may have started a new tradition of having Thanksgiving at my house.

(yay.)

3 AM boobie call

If my baby could sleep through the night, all my problems would magically vanish. I’d have way more sex with my husband, I’d make the most perfect chocolate soufflé cake, I’d be way more interesting to talk to, and all my back fat would melt away.

This is what I tell myself at 3 AM every morning; right about the time when I’m walking down the hall to retrieve my fussy 11-month-old.

I think he’s too old to be waking up in the middle of the night. What does he need? He can’t possibly be hungry.

Maybe he’s bored?

Is his nose is stuffed up?

Maybe he has superior intelligence?

Ya, that’s it.

Superior intelligence.

Up until now I’ve been fine with the middle-of-the-night-wake-up-call.

I’ve justified it by thinking that it’s our special time to be together. I’ve thought it’s good for my milk supply to be nursing him, plus he gets a nice warm belly of healthy milk. And he has always been on the slender end of weight charts, so a little extra milk isn’t a bad thing, right?

But now that he’s almost a year old, I’m finally done with it.

He, on the other hand, would beg to differ.

I don’t know what to do now.

I’m in uncharted territory here.

With Berlyn, somehow I got that girl to sleep 12 hours at night when she was only 3 months old.

But with Hudson, it’s totally different. I’ve tried to fill his belly up before he goes to bed, I’ve tried to let him work it out on his own.

He’s even done it several times before–he’s gone 10-12 hours at night without a peep.

So I know he can do it. He just prefers not to.

I think he just wants to hang out with me…

At 3 AM.

Every night.

Well, these boobs have had enough of the 3 AM boobie call.

Mama’s shutting it down.

I NEED to sleep.

And he does too.

Any tips? Tricks? I’m desperate.

Road Trippin

I consider myself an authority on road trips, seeing as though I’ve braved a whopping 2 this year.

That sort of qualifies me as an authority, right?

Well, no.

But let’s just pretend, shall we?

And because I have survived a whole 2 road trips with my family this year, I’ve come across a few tips and advice points that I’d like to share.

Here we go!

  • Tip #1-There’s no such thing as a bad out-the-car-window-photo. Take a bunch and enjoy. But beware, you can end up with a few photos that have you thinking, why did I take this?! What is the significance? The sky is kind of pretty, but other that that it’s total crap.

But then you can’t delete it because it makes you think of your fantastical trip in the car for 8 hours, and how barfy you got when you were just outside Gilroy, and you contemplated stopping on the side of the road to dry heave, but you decided against it, because you just stopped for the kids, and they’re finally sleeping and you are a martyr, who denies thyself such luxuries as barfing, for the good of the family. But it’s all worth it when you get some magical photos that warm your heart  just enough to make you crave a bite of lemon strudel cake with a sip of hot coffee:

  • Tip # 2- Snacks are a must. Candy, chips, even beef jerky are all okay. At home they might be forbidden, but when on a road trip they are encouraged, even celebrated.

It’s your lucky day! Fast food is also acceptable.

  • Tip #3- Sleeping children is the goal. Finding a clean rest stop is not the goal, making fond memories in the car is not the goal, not even getting to your destination is the goal, I repeat: Sleeping children is the goal. And you should stop at nothing to get your children to sleep. Because once they’re sleeping, it’s almost like you’re on a date; a long-uneventful-trek through-sprawling-highways-of-nothingness date. It really is quite romantic.

  • Tip #4. Drive safe. You don’t want to end up like this guy.

Not buying it

It was a quiet morning. Hudson was sleeping and Berlyn was at school. I was sitting at my dining room table looking at my computer. I was enjoying coffee and a viral video with Keenan Cahill and 50 Cent when I was accosted with a loud knock at my door.

I jumped up, brushed the Triscut crumbs off my pants, grabbed my bra, and went to answer the door.

Was it my Amazon order? Perhaps it was my neighbor coming over to borrow some eggs? Maybe I just won the Publisher Clearing House. I’ve always wanted to win something awesome.

And I would feel so cool walking into the bank holding one of those giant checks.

I’d be all smug, with my head held high, but then as I turned the check over to endorse the back I’d take out some bank patrons at the knees. I’d say I was sorry, and offer to buy them a blueberry Slurpee when I was done depositing my gignormous check, because I was a millionaire now, and I could afford to buy a few frosty blue drinks. Heck, I can even buy them an entire Slurpee machine. If my huge check karate chopped your legs in half, please accept this Slurpee machine from me as my deepest apologies. 

BLUE SLURPEES FOR EVERYONE!

All the bank patrons would clap and pull out their phones to take my picture with my huge-normous check, and I’d do something borderline inappropriate for the photo like mount the check and pretend to ride while smacking it’s anthropomorphic butt, because I know they’re all posting their photos to Facebook, and under the caption they’re writing something like, “Blue Slurpee Princess saves my day!!” And I want to make sure the photo gets them at least 7 likes and 4 comments.

Because I care.

I’m a carer. It’s what I do.

So, at this point I’m wrestling to get my bra hooked and as I look through the peep hole I see two women:

Nicely dressed.

Chit chatting on my porch.

Who are they?

I don’t know them.

And where the heck is my gargantuan check for one million dollars?

I look closer into the peep hole and they’re holding a big thick book with shiny pages.

A Bible?

An Encyclopedia Britannica?

I decide not to answer the door. They obviously want to sell me something, and I don’t feel like buying today. Yesterday I was in more of a buying mood. I bought a few things on anthropologie.com, and a new Marc by Marc Jacobs iPhone case, Oh! And I almost bought some adorable Frye boots.

Almost.

But today, not so much into the buying.

So I just stared at them through the peep hole. Because aside from being a carer, I’m also kind of creepy.

Stickers

Stickers are fun, and everyone’s having a good time.

This is a lie.

Stickers are not fun, and the only one having a good time is my kid. You know my kid, she’s the one with the snot in her eyebrow making her eyebrow hairs look all wonky and old-manish, she’s the one wearing a thrice handed down Ariel costume with shedding sequins, to which she refers to them as “sea-coins”, and she’s a rabid maniac sticking stickers on all my stuff!

It’s like she has obsessive compulsive sticker disorder. OCSD. It’s serious, ya’ll. And there’s not enough Goo-Gone in the world to eradicate this disorder.

Princess Tiana on my beautiful dining room table?

Super.

How did my daughter know that I wanted a hot skinny bitch watching me eat my third bowl of Strawberry Frosted Mini Wheats?

She’s so intuitive.

And Trader Joe’s stickers on the car window?

Yay!

Thanks Trader Joe’s!

Oh, and my personal favorite:

Stickers on mommy’s ass.

I didn’t know it was there. I conducted my entire day with that damn sticker on my ass. No one told me it was there either. Berlyn has gotten incredibly good at the nonchalant divert-attention-and-stick-a-sticker-on-someone-move.

She came up to me all sweet and loving, and said, “Mommy, you’re the best mommy I’ve ever had. I love you!” and stealthily applied just enough pressure to my left buttock to stick the sticker there ALL DAY LONG.

But don’t worry Berlyn, I’ll get you back.

BAWAHHAAA!! (that’s my menicing laugh)

Mom Car

No one ever told my mom that when she had kids she was supposed to get a mom car.

This is weird, because she totally got the memo to wear pleated-front mom-jeans and she always used the time honored phrases, because I said so and if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?

To which I answered, yes. Because if all my friends committed mass suicide I would be plagued with the deepest depression and would have no choice but to join them.

That response just pissed my mom off, which was (and still is) one of my favorite things to do…

Anyways–

All through my childhood my mom drove tiny, fast cars.

I’m pretty sure her and my dad took me home from the hospital on the back of one of these bad boys:

I think it helped communicate to the world, Hey, I’m here! I’m kind of a bad ass, and you can take your five-point harness and shove it.

As a baby, my mom carted my brother and me around in a Toyota Celica.

Did she ever complain after countless trips to the grocery store or hoisting us in and out to our respective daycare centers? Nooo, because she looked hot. And looking hot is paramount. And it is what also led her to her next car purchase, a Nissan 3000ZX:

As a 4 year-old, I can assure you that this was the coolest car ever. While my friends’ moms drove station wagons and mini-vans, my mom drove a talking car that also had it’s very own Matchbox.

Yes, I said talking car. My mom’s car would go all Nightrider on your ass, saying things like:

Your door is ajar

Your key is in the ignition

You won’t go far driving with the parking brake on, Cyndi.

A few years after that my mom decided to get a new car, my brother and I were about 9 and 10, and she was driving us to soccer practice and dance class. Maybe just maybe she’d get a Volvo or something equally sensible?

Nah, she got a Chevy Camero instead:

The car was completly impractical.

It made me barfy.

It was a bitch to get in and out of.

It crunched over steep driveways and bottomed out at every dip in the road.

And my mom loved it.

She’d take the T-tops off and drive fast while the wind whipped through her perm, I however, would be in the back contemplating a juicy vomit on the upholstery.

My mom had that car for about 6 years, and then gave it to my brother.

Yay.

He never did get that throw-uppy smell out of the seats.

Now I was about 16 and my mom didn’t have to drive us anywhere anymore. She was done with carpools and dropping us off at our friend’s houses or the mall.

She could finally get a car totally for herself.

So what does she get?

A Lexus 4-door sedan.

She finally got herself a mom car.

Way to go, Mom.

Hippo Halloween

I wore jeans and a shirt for Halloween.

But then I realized that if I added a pair of boots, a knit hat, and a sexy axe, POOF, I was transformed into a lumberjack.

(I’m totally giving attitude in this photo, huh? I think it’s the fact that I’m on the brink of chopping down some trees)

So that’s what I was, a last-minute-lumberjack. And when the kids got a little too rowdy, I just swung my axe around to let them know who’s boss.

Berlyn was a butterfly princess:

and Hudson was a cute little lion: