HIPPO BRIGADE

Napping.

It’s all quiet in the house.

Berlyn is napping.

Hudson is napping.

Zoey is napping. Or contemplating a fart. Or eating the crotch of the underwear I wore yesterday. Well, whatever she’s doing, she quiet.

I think I’ll take a nap too.

But I have to sleep on the couch downstairs, because that’s where Hudson is sleeping. Except the couch downstairs isn’t as cozy as my bed. And it smells like dog farts. And there’s crusty breast milk on the arm rest. Don’t ask me how it got there. I don’t know.

I’ll bring my pillow and cozy duvet down.

That’s nice.

My eyes are closed. I should be sleeping by now.

Hudson hasn’t moved in a while, maybe I should make sure he’s breathing.

Yes.

*Carefully high five Hudson*

He’s alive.

Okay, now I’m going to sleep.

Here I go. Deep breath, aaand start sleeping, NOW!

Ohh, I have an itch on my shin. Better get that or else it will bug me.

**Scratch, Scratch**

Now my cheek itches.

**Scratch, Scratch**

Okay, I’m seriously tired. **YAWN** I’m going to fall asleep now. Here I go…

Oooh, the sun’s in my eyes. I’d better close the shutters.

My boob itches

*Scratch, Scratch**

Maybe I should take off my watch, I’d be more comfortable with my watch off.

There, that’s better.

Is my phone turned on vibrate?

I would hate it if someone called me right  now.

I better check.

Oooh, I got some emails.

This one is from Rachel Zoe. She’s suggesting I buy some Chloe gladiator sandals.

I’ll think about that, Rachel Zoe.

I’m thirsty.

No, wait…I have to pee.

I’d better pee, or else I’ll never fall asleep.

**Bathroom break**

Ahh, that’s better. Now that I’m all cozy on the stinky couch, it’s time to sleep.

**YAWN. STRETCH**

Crap.

Hudson’s awake. I have to feed him.

Well, that was a nice nap.

A nice, relaxing stroll

So, there really ARE mountain lions in the hills behind our home.

And it turns out that my crazy neighbor is actually telling the truth.

Trusted people that I know have seen this lion with their own two eyes. And there was even a fleet of helicopters here last week trying to capture the animal.

Well, they failed.

Which means if I ever want to leave my house again, I’ll have to come up with a line of defense to protect myself and my babies.

I’ll need a blow torch, because animals are afraid of fire.

A mask, in case it malls my face.

A rape whistle, to call for help

A tranquilizer gun

And a bullet proof vest, incase I accidentally drop my tranquilizer gun, and the lion tries to use it on me.

A piece of chicken fat so I can throw it and then run in the opposite direction.

And some really fast shoes.

That should do it.

Anyone wanna go on a walk with me?

mountain lions in this neighborhood? Not only is that absurd, but highly improbable.

When we moved here we learned some interesting stuff via our crazy neighbor. Namely, the wild animal sightings.

She was all, “Be careful with your dog and children playing in your front yard because there are coyotes, and mountain lions.” And then she paused for dramatic effect, gave me the creepy eye, and I’m almost positive she growled like a lion.

And I was all, “Okay lady. Whatever. I’m good. I know all about werewolves because I’m up to date on my Twilight novels.”

No, not werewolves, coyotes and mountain lions.

Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.

No, I don’t think you heard me, they will snatch your baby right out of your arms and rip his head off, and when they’re done dismembering your tiny newborn, they’ll eat your idiotic pug whole, and then they’ll take a steamy dump on your porch. And bits of your family will be in the poo, and because you’re so beside yourself with horror, you’ll probably dig in the shit to piece everyone back together. And you’ll lift your poo stained hands to the sky and scream, ‘WHY??!’ And I’ll be looking through my front window, and chide quietly to myself, ‘told you so.’

You’re kinda crazy, aren’t you?

Mountain Lions!

Okay, Crazy. I’m going inside now.

And then I googled mountain lions, because in my mind they looked like this:

And they don’t look like it could rip my head off, and then take a spiteful dump on my porch.

But after a quick google search, I realized that mountain lions actually look like this:

But let’s be honest, crazy neighbor lady, we live in a concrete jungle of sprawling suburbia. There aren’t any mountain lions. There are rats, and crows, and the occasional abandoned Chihuahua, but mountain lions?

I don’t think so.

Little Miss Judgy Know-it all

I think I know everything about being a mommy.

And it took me going to 4 baby showers since Hudson was born to realize that I don’t.

Because ordinary, at baby showers, I’d be all, “Listen to me. I’m really smart, and I know all about this crap. And if you do it differently than me, not only are you weird, but you’re wrong.”

I’d find a way to turn the gift I got the new mommy into a 21-step tutorial.  I’d say, “Here is how it works, and if you don’t execute it precisely as I’ve instructed, your baby will probably die. Here, I even laminated this card for you.”

And while I’d be showing a new mommy  how to properly diaper a baby, some other mom would be all, “Yea, that way is cool and all, but try this instead. And BAM, my thunder  would be stolen, AND she would actually do it faster and better. Because she’d make her own wipes out of organic cotton pledgets saturated in rosewater, which hazel, and tea tree oil, from a tea tree that she grew in her back yard. And instead of me being nice and saying stuff like, OMG! You’re so creative and at one with the earth, I’d get all judgy, and feel threatened, and think she’s a giant whore-bag, and all I’d want to do is kick that mom in the vagina for showing me up, because who does she think she is? I bet her diaper wipe concoction has made it’s way to her kids’ brain through their anus and now they’re crazed-psychopaths.

But something lately has switched in me. I’ve learned that my way isn’t always the best way, and *GASP* other people can do it differently, and everything will be okay in the end.

With the birth of Hudson, I’ve learned to trust my inner mommy more. I’ve leaned less on books, and more on what I think is best.

Maybe I lacked confidence before, and that’s why I was so judgy and got so threatened when other moms did it different than me. But now I really don’t care if my friend wants to exclusively bottle feed her newborn, or that my neighbor is planning on potty training her 13 month old, or that my other friend lets her son sleep in the swing all day long. Because it really. doesn’t. matter. We’re all in this together, and instead of being a raunchy bitch, it’s so much nicer to be supportive.

Can I get a kumbaya?

I just do what works for us, and I’m completely fine with telling other judgy moms to F-off. But after that I’d offer them a compassionate hug, and tell them I was once a judgy know-it-all too.

Sugary Lent

So Lent.

Lent is a magical time a year when we reflect on how awesome Jesus is. It’s also a time, if you are Catholic, or a sadist, to give up something. I was raised Catholic, and every year we’d give up meat. And because my mom wasn’t very creative in the kitchen, we had a whole lot of Hamburger Helper, minus the hamburger.

The idea of giving up something is a way to remind us what Jesus gave up, and sacrificed for us. I don’t consider myself a Catholic anymore, but because I hate being left out of stuff, I wanted to participate in Lent this year, so I thought of the number one most wonderful thing in my life–SUGAR, and then gave it up, for Jesus, and in hopes that my ass would shrink a little, but mainly for Jesus , FOR. FOURTY. DAYS.

At first I thought, this can’t be that bad. Sugar is stupid anyways.

It’s all yummy and delicious, and sparkly, and alluring, but after having too much, it makes you feel fat, and gives you a weird feeling in your stomach, and you regret ever laying eyes on it. I guess you can say, sugar is kind of like those asshole jocks you dated in high school.

Come to think of it, I’m mad at sugar.

But all this anger is making me hungry.

And what do I eat when I’m hungry?

Sugar.

What do I eat when I’m tired?

Sugar.

Happy?

Sugar.

Confused, surprised, constipated?

Sugar, sugar, sugar.

You get the idea.

And then I realize that everything in my kitchen is loaded and covered in sugar. Well, everything I want to eat, that is…

Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, homemade cookies, Lemon cake, and Pumpkin bread, M&Ms, Jell-O pudding, yogurt, hot chocolate, ice cream, cupcakes, Mr. Pibb and Red Vines…

Oh, but Sunday.

Sweet, beautiful Sunday.

Sunday is when the Catholics grill up a bitchin’ steak, wrap it in bacon, and serve it with a sausage garnish, because Sundays don’t count in the fourty days, they’re reserved for celebration, and nothing says, “I love Jesus” more than a plate full of warm meat. Catholics can have their steaks dripping in blood, and I can finally eat an entire cheesecake.

Except.

One little problem.

It’s Sunday, and I don’t want sugar.

WHAT?!

I’m all, meh, sugar, whatever.

This is weird.

I think later, I’m going to have my husband tie me down and force feed me jelly beans.

Kinky?

Maybe.

Necessary?

Yes.

This is what happens when you don’t sleep at night, and then drink too much caffeine to offset the sleepiness.

I just want you to know that I’m trying to write a blog post right now, but for some reason I can’t concentrate.

It’s like my brain is on the phone with a Swedish inventor named Hjalmar, and is holding up a finger like, hang on a minute…

But I can’t wait a minute, STUPID BRAIN! I have things to do, so hang up the phone already, and pay attention!

Plus my eyes are all blurry. And the computer screen looks like I spent all day swimming in a chlorinated pool with my eyes open, and then stared at one of those Magic Eye pictures that they used to sell in the mall, but then had to stop, because sales were low, because everyone realized that those things are pure crap, and finding the dinosaur was only fun the first time, and your friends really don’t care, and now they think you’re super lame for spending $34.95 on that junky picture that you have to work for. Who wants to work to see a dinosaur?

I sure as hell don’t

I mean, really?

Would you rather look at this:

Or this:

Last night I had this dream…

I have this adorable trait–

I’m the girl who tells everyone about my dreams.

Well, I think it’s adorable, because I happen to think most things I do are adorable.

Like the mouth guard and moisturizing gloves I wear to bed at night?

Adorable.

When I talk over you when you’re trying to tell me a fascinating story about your life?

Adorable

And when I bite my toe nails off while sitting on the couch because I’m too lazy to go upstairs and get the clippers, and toe-nail particles get stuck in the cushions?

ADORA-FRICKIN-BLE

So yeah, I like to tell people about my dreams.

If I have the most insane dream about you, I call you immediately and tell you all about it.

I’ll be all, OMG, I had the most fascinating dream! You were flying with me in the sky and your armpits looked like a tiger and then we fell out of the sky and landed on a shoe store. But it wasn’t a cute shoe store, it was one of those specialty stores that sell to people with fat feet. But it turns out that I had fat feet, so while we browsed the isles, you told me that you were actually Bruce Willis, and then you french kissed me.

And you’d be all…So?

And I’d look at the floor, pick my finger, and then hang up because, you know what?

No one likes hearing about other people’s dreams.

Except, no one told me that.

I had to find out on my own.

I woke up from having the most insane dream, and I turned to my husband and told him all about it, then I started to interpret it. I said, “I think when I started humping the bust of Margaret Thatcher, it was my way of saying F-You England! You think you’re so cool with your fancy way of saying words. And I’m almost positive it stems back to my childhood and my feelings of inadequecy…don’t you agree? Pat? PAT!!”

And my half asleep husband said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your dream.”

After that I locked myself in my closet and cried.

But in the end, I learned a very valuable lesson: To annoy the ones you love, tell them about your dreams. They might tune you out and act like they’re ignoring you, but deep inside they think you’re adorable.

The Sugar Shakes

Valentine’s Day.

It’s probably my favorite holiday.

Not because I’m all secretly sentimental.

Not because I like shitty jewelry.

Not because I have no where else to wear this stupid heart sweater.

It’s because of the candy.

Sure, most holidays are associated with eating. I mean, what fun is celebrating something if you can’t chug a giant vat of chocolate? Can I get an Amen? Honestly, how else do you say I love you, or Merry Christmas, or whoo hoo Jesus is risen!! without candy?

CANDYCANDYCANDY!!!

Clearly I have a problem.

And that problem is covered in sugar.

I love sugar so much, that most times I won’t stop eating it until I have fully engaged in the sugar shakes.

Oh, you don’t know what the sugar shakes are?

Allow me to explain.

It’s when you buy a box of See’s candies for your grandma’s 85th birthday, but then eat the entire thing because it’s just sitting there, wrapped in the cute Valentine’s day wrapping paper, just begging to be opened, and maybe Grams won’t mind if you have just one piece. But now that there’s one missing, what’s the harm in two? And 7 minutes later you look down and exclaim, “HOLY SHIT BALLS! Someone ate all my grandma’s chocolate!!”

Only that someone is you, and you have some re-shopping to do for Grams.

But before you start shopping your hand starts to tremble, then your jaw starts to twitch, and faster than you can say, “Willy Wonka” you’re laying on the ground next the the little brown wrappers, clutching the empty box and singing softlly Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” while a little thread of chocolate spittle escapes your mouth.

Those are the sugar shakes.

It’s lovely really.

And no chocolate binge is complete with out it.

So while the rest of the population is out at some bourgeoisie restaurant ordering in French, and paying far too much for liver and pig fat, I’ll be in my home with the shades pulled, shaking on the floor.

Wearing my heart sweater.

Happy Valentine’s day everyone.

I Would Make a Really Crappy Celebrity

Remember when I was all, OMG I am completely incapable of having a conversation with people because my brain is covered in mayonnaise that a donkey just ate and than shat a donkey stool on the fourth of July when your gay cousin lit your baby on fire because he mistook her for a sparkler, and then we all took a giant nap because…WHAAA?

Yeah, all those words up there? Code for, I’m a total idiot and no one should listen to the ramblings of my mouth.

But someone did listen. An actual person listened to me. And they got paid for it. Or I’m assuming that they got paid, because they sounded very professional. Maybe she got paid in Gloria Vanderbelt merchandise. Perhaps a pair of paisley knickers and a oven glove?  I think that’s a fair wage for listening to me.

So, anyways a few weeks ago someone called me up and did a phone interview with me for the OC Family Magazine.

I didn’t have a stenographer handy, but this is pretty much how it went down:

Her: How long have you been writing your blog?

Me: I don’t know.

Her: **awkward pause**

Me: Well, I guess you can check the archives if you really want to know. Or you can write, longer than a year, shorter than 17.

Her: What made you start your blog?

Me: The fact that I think I frickin hilarious. And I needed an outlet to introduce the world to my dog, Zoey.

Say ‘hi’, Zoey. Come here Zoey. ZOEY! COME HERE. Say ‘hi.’

ZOEY: ((Labored breathing))

Me: That was Zoey, she says hi. She’s very shy on the phone.

Her: Okay…What do you think makes your blog stand out among the crowd?

Me: Humm. I have a hippo on my blog. That’s something cool. Wait. Not that I think I’m fat or anything. Ahh man! Do you think people could misconstrue my hippo illustration for a poor view of my body image? I’m actually quite slender, well that is, when I’m not stuffing my face with onion rings from Ruby’s, while I try to lose this flabby baby weight. It’s really hard to lose baby weight when all I want is a greasy hamburger and some chocolate covered bacon. You know? Do you have any kids? You must know what it’s like. (Opening the fridge) Oh shit! I’m all out of cheese!

From there it sorta spiraled down hill.

There were a lot more awkward silences, and a handful of moments where I tried to make a joke, but it came off as me sounding creepy. Oh, and there were lots of times when I changed subjects because I couldn’t remember what her original question was, and then there were times when I TALKED REALLY LOUD to hide my flatulence.

All in all, I think it went really well for my very first phone interview. But if I ever do one of these again, they should buy me like 3 apple-tinis and make sure I’m not wearing any pants.

I say the funniest things when I’m pantsless and drunk.

Crumbly

No, thats not cradle cap.

They’re crumbs from my biscuits.

What?

Don’t act like you’ve never spilled food particles on your baby before.

Gawh.