The Fisher King and his wonky liver

Blogs are supposed to be for chronicling every day life, right? I mean, that's the point of them, whether that's the approach you take or not. I'm not always so good about doing that because every day life? Let's face it, it's reeeeally boring sometimes.

Okay, most times. Sigh.

And when it's not boring there's not that much time to blog about it. What's a woman to do?

I vote for cry and then eat loads of chocolate and other fatty foods. It doesn't necessarily make me feel better but it makes my tummy feel happy. And, yes, I just referred to my stomach as my "tummy". I'm not ashamed of that.

Things just got a little more, uh, interesting around here and not in the good way unfortunately. And though I have time to blog about it I don't have the mental capacity to write about it as eloquently as I would like, because I'm kinda losing my mind over here.

I brought my dog Fisher in for a routine tooth cleaning yesterday. The dog, I'm afraid to say, has the breath of death. Really. It smells like something crawled in there and died. I know lots and lots of dogs and I can safely say that no other dog has breath like Fisher's. We thought a tooth cleaning was in order so that he may continue to be allowed to live inside with the rest of us slightly less stinky beings.


Fisher has a stomach issue, you see. I won't bore you with the details, but ever since he was one year old and swallowed a half bottle of Immodium that was left on a low window sill by some dumb punk at the kennel I was working at - ahem - and then was brought to the local emergency vet clinic for a lovely and expensive overnight stay, he's had these issues. That was almost five years ago and we suspect during the course of his throwing up the offending drugs (did you know Immodium in large quantities is an opiate? Now you do) he may have aspirated. Since then he has this problem with retching and bile, which has caused his teeth to get really nasty.

Hey, baby. I ain't nothin' but a hound dog. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Um, scratch what I said about boring you with the details. That's it in a nutshell.

Anyway.

Yesterday I was supposed to pick him up at the end of the day with pearly whites that even Paris Hilton would be envious of, but soon after I dropped him off I got a call from the vet. Never a good thing. Apparently they found in his routine screening before he was anesthetized (again with the anesthesia!) a problem with his liver.

A problem. With his liver. A PROBLEM. With his LIVER.

(I'm losing my freaking mind here. Losing. It. Now. Aaaand... It's gone.)

Take it from me, life is easier when you don't have much of a mind to begin with.

The routine procedure was scrapped, more tests were scheduled and I spent the next hour in my own doctor's office alternately fielding questions about how I was feeling (Quite shitty, thanks for asking) and freaking out about Fisher. I was so stressed out that I noticed later I had a fingernail sized cut in my palm because my fingers were pressed so tightly into balls all day.

I know that not every person feels the same about their pets but my dogs, Fisher especially, are very dear to me. Fisher goes to work with me. He was my first baby, so to speak, and he's my buddy. Even if he is stinky.

You might want to check and see just which of us is the stinky one right now.

I'm not ashamed to admit that he's my favorite. It's hard not to favor a dog who sticks by you when you cry your eyes out because your mom is dying or guards you more protectively when you're pregnant. Fisher has done all those things and more. I never have to worry about him around Chicky, except maybe to be concerned that they're licking yogurt off the same spoon. They play fetch every evening, he let's her take the ball out of his mouth and slowly runs after her when she plays keep-away. He let's her sit on him or use him as a foot stool. I don't even mind that he walks around with dirty socks in his mouth because I know he won't chew them. He just likes the taste of dirty socks. I love that damn dog.

I got news this morning that parts of his tests came back abnormal, as was suspected after the quick blood tests he had first thing yesterday. His blood was sent out and came back with an elevated white blood cell count and other initials I can't remember right now. He has an appointment for x-rays and other tests on Monday. Hopefully it's just a parasite but I can't help but freak out, thinking it could be something else. I'm little miss happiness that way.

I'm wishing for hum drum and boring right now. I'm hoping the vet will send us home with worming medication and antibiotics on Monday and that will be that. I'm praying it's absolutely nothing but a routine parasite. I'd really like for my life to be dull and not full of medical problems for my pup. My Fisher. My Squisher McFisher Fishy Fish.



I couldn't stand life without that face.

Labor, part 2 - Don't mind me, I'm just having a baby here

Missed part 1? Read it here.

---------

He was olive skinned. Possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but what did it matter? What we knew for certain was that he was not happy to be there. Not happy at all.

Surly and sarcastic - two qualities you really don't want in the anesthesiologist who was about to administer your epidural, but that's what we got. We got the mean guy. The guy who looked at us with disdain for pulling him away from his other responsibilities. The guy who seemed to think he had so many other more important patients to administer to; certainly more important than a pregnant woman whining for pain relief drugs.

He asked a few questions and had me position my body on the edge of the bed, which I tried to do as quickly as possible. But since I was in the throes of my worst contractions I guess I didn't move as fast as he wanted.

"Move to the edge of the bed, please," he said with a bite in his voice.

I looked at my husband and tried to tell him with my eyes, since I couldn't speak, Please punch this guy in the face. Pretty please.

With my husband's help I was able to move my body to a place that suited the anesthesiologist and he began to insert the needle into my back. As I faced my husband I felt another strong contraction starting. A very strong contraction. An oh-my-GOD, where-did-this-pain-come-from? contraction. And at that moment the surly man chose to ask me a question. I cannot for the life of me remember what that question was but I do remember this - when I didn't answer because of the amazing pain I was trying to breath through he said in his most sarcastic tone,

"She's not much of a talker, is she? Hello. Did you hear me?"

My husband told me later that the monitor measuring my contractions was peaking at its highest point. And the man wondered why I wasn't talking to him. I wanted to kick him in the nuts.

Just when we considered asking for another, more compassionate, anesthesiologist, my sister walked in and suddenly the man's demeanor changed.

You know those cartoons where the horrible wolf spots a beautiful she-wolf and hearts pop out of his eyes as he shouts "Aaaah-ooooo-gaaaaah!" and he turns into a love sick puppy? That's what happened when the horrible man met my sister. I swear I saw cartoon hearts, but it may have been the pain making me hallucinate.

"Who's this?" The question practically dripped off his tongue.

"My sister," I breathed.

"Your sister? No, you two can't be sisters. You look so different."

Yeah, tell us something we've never heard before, buddy.

My sister is quite dark, with almost black hair and big brown eyes where I'm blonde (thanks to nature and a little help from my hairdresser) with light skin and hazel eyes. Take that away and we don't look so different. But when one of us is sweaty with pain and bloated with pregnancy and the other is slightly tanned from a recent trip and practically radiating with health, I can see how someone could miss the resemblance.

While he finished attaching the needle to my back he tried to strike up a conversation with my sister. What did she do for work? Where did she get that amazing tan? What nationality was she? (The guy still didn't believe we were related) He was of some Middle Eastern descent, but no one was really listening to him and his pitiful attempts to attract my sister. My married sister, I should add, who was wearing a huge rock on her ring finger that I guess he just missed. It was so inappropriate. But at least he wasn't mean anymore. If anything he was slightly bumbling. We had no idea how bumbling, however.

He had to tear himself away but he did leave us eventually - and by "us" I mean my sister - and I lay down on the bed to wait for the drugs to hit me. When they didn't I mentioned this to the nurse and she checked my line.

"Uh oh."

What's worse than a nasty anesthesiologist? A nurse who says "Uh oh".

Apparently in his haste to get as much information out of my sister for his later sick fantasies he FORGOT TO HOOK UP THE I.V.

Ain't that a bitch?

There I lay with an uncomfortable cathater in my back and no drugs going to it. If I was disgusted by the guy before, I was ready to bite his head off now.

He was called back and, amazingly, showed up quickly and was appropriately embarrassed for his oversight. But I think that was more for my sister's benefit than mine or my husband's. Although, I did catch the nurse giving him some nasty looks.

After he hooked up the I.V. the anesthesiologist practically ran to exit the room, and I again waited for the relief of the drugs. I got some relief pretty quickly. But just some.

There was still pain. Awful, horrible, bite a leather strap kind of pain. This was not right.

What the hell was happening to me?

To be continued... Again...

We interupt this trip down memory lane...

... So that I can bitch and whine.

(Ooh boy!)

But I promise you'll find out who the mystery man was soon. Very soon. But not now.

- I just spent a half an hour on the phone to my prescription drug insurance company - which sounds exactly like Medco - only to have them tell me my doctor's office answered a question incorrectly on Medco's stupid questionnaire requesting more pills for me, and now I'll have to go the weekend (on top of the two days I just went) without my anti-nausea medication. Please remind me why I switched doctors. Right now I'm really second guessing that decision. But only because they're closer and more familiar to me and I can put a name and face with my anger versus the anonymous drug company with the man with the accent who I had to ask to repeat everything he said FIVE TIMES.

- I miss my husband and I'm sick of all this traveling of his but what do you want to bet within two hours of his arrival tonight I'll be pushing him and his suitcase back out the door because he dirtied up my nice clean house? Seriously. The house is so much cleaner and more orderly when he's gone.

- Just played on my iPod while on shuffle:

All the Way Down - Glen Hansard from the Once Soundtrack
Still Fighting It - Ben Folds
Anna Begins - Counting Crows
My One True Friend - Bette Midler

And I will now go slit my wrists.

- Michael Vick's dogs are getting their own reality show and some celebutard (Could be Paris? Could be Britney?)is making headlines because she's a puppy killer. Allegedly. I have so many posts on these subjects floating around in my head it's giving me a migraine. But I'll have to write about my views on rehabilitating dogs, no-kill shelters and the whole Dog Town on the National Geographic television show, and buying dogs from pet stores soon or I might burst.

- This isn't bitching but if you're not a Patriots fan, hell, if you downright hate them, we're chatting about their inevitable Super Bowl win over at New England Mamas. And if you are a Pats fan come tell me how you feel about the possible (ahem) Rolling Rally interfering with Super Tuesday. I'm taking a poll. It is campaign season after all.

- Speaking of polls, you may have noticed that there hasn't been any ROFL Awards around these parts lately. Or maybe you haven't. But that's my point. Before I bring them back or decide to bury them for good I'd like to know how you feel about the ROFLs, so I made this handy poll to help me decide.




Can't see it, can you? Why the hell can't I get a poll to work in Blogger or Typepad today? It's really pissing me off. If you can help me with this problem please let me know because I'm about to tear my hair out and glue it to my dog's ass. Just for fun.

In the meantime follow this link and answer it that way, will ya? T'anks.

Don't mind that last bit. Except for me ripping my hair out and gluing it to my dog's ass. I might do that anyway, just to stop the deadly smell from coming out of her rear end.

Now if you don't mind I'm going to make myself pancakes and bacon - lots and lots of bacon - before the morning sickness really sets in again and I can't eat anything but Saltines.

Labor

That Sunday in April dawned sunny and warm and earlier than usual for me, a woman who prefers sleeping late to rising with the chickens. I lay in bed alone, since I had forced my poor husband to the guest bedroom weeks before to make more room for all the pillows I needed to support my voluminous shape, feeling the cramp-like pains in my abdomen. Small at first, there was no denying what was happening. I was in labor.

After tip-toeing to where my husband slept - who I was trying not to wake I'll never know - I slipped into the warm bed with him and whispered, "It's happening". There we lay in the growing light, he with his arm around me as we spooned, and we giggled like children on the first day of school. So much anticipation and uncertainty. We were a bit giddy with it all until the first waves of real pain hit me. Maybe he was still giddy, thinking back on it I'm sure he was. I, however, was decidedly not.

Phone calls were made: Doctor, parents, sister. Showers were taken, his quicker than mine since the warm water was helping with the pain of my contractions. And the weight of what was about to happen was settling on me. Showers always help when I'm pondering weighty issues.

The dogs were packed up and driven to the kennel where I was working at the time. My boss decided he wanted to chit chat while I sat there in the front seat, gripping the door handle with every contraction. The contractions were coming faster and faster so idle chatter, never my forte even with those I know, wasn't happening on my side. By the time we convinced him small talk was a bad idea the contractions were only 3 or 4 minutes apart. It was definitely time to go.

How different from just the other night, I thought as we drove away. After a dinner of takeout pizza I had started to feel a few contractions. I was pretty sure I was in labor then, but no matter how many people assure you "you'll know when it's happening" when it's your first baby you'll always second guess the experts. This could be it, right?

Turns out it wasn't.

That Sunday, that was the real thing. I felt every bump and turn on the short drive to the hospital. Every shake of the elevator as it stopped at different floors. We sat in front of the reception desk as the nurse behind it eyed my small-ish belly.

"You're full term?" she asked.

"And then some," we answered, smiling. A difficult pregnancy had left me smaller than normal but it was no big surprise that a daughter of mine would take her sweet time entering the world. No matter she had little room in that womb of her own.

We made our way down to delivery. By this time, the contractions were coming fast and hard. The pain! Why didn't anyone tell me about the pain? No matter that they probably did. Can anyone really prepare you for that feeling? Would I have wanted someone to?

Settled into bed in a delivery room, we answered all the appropriate questions and filled out all the appropriate forms. I was hooked up to machinery that bipped and beeped when finally they asked, Would you like the epidural?

Would I?

Yes please. Can I have two?

We sat and waited for the Anesthesiologist. And waited. And waited. It's a busy day here, we were told. He's swamped unfortunately. Not exactly what you want to hear when you're ready to bite off your own tongue.

That's when he walked in.

To be continued...

Who are you calling Motherly?

Through the grace of God yesterday was a pretty good day - especially when you consider how amazingly crummy Friday was - and today is shaping up to be acceptable too. For the most part.

(She pooped, people. She pooped! And I have you to thank. That Babylax stuff works like a charm. The only problem? Chicky was actually kind of excited to have "medicine in her bum". Who is this child and how is it possible she sprung forth from my woman parts?)

Yesterday morning I shipped Chicky off with her grandfather for her weekly sleepover. I had to stop myself from shoving them out the door, I must admit, but she just had to go. Apparently, three is coming earlier than we had expected. I can't take three. Three is a bitch wrapped up in a dictator surrounded by a pain in the ass. I may not survive three.

After they left I finished a book I had been putting off finishing.

I took a nap.

And... that was pretty much it. I might have eaten a Twinkie or five. Yes indeed, a pretty good day.

That evening I had to go to work but it was just for a couple of hours. Although, how I can hurt myself in such a short period of time is beyond me. I really need to stop pretending I'm not pregnant, I don't have a history of back problems and because of the baby my pelvis is not being stretched to the point of breaking.

This morning I slept until 10am. I would have slept longer but my grandmother called for her weekly guilt trip and woke me up. It's hard to fall back into peaceful slumber when you feel like an ungrateful little shit.

But I really needed that beauty sleep. Not necessarily because of the pregnancy or because my dear husband leaves me regularly to play rising superstar for his company, traveling all around the country pushing their product and leaving me to parent my precious little beast all by myself. No, I have a much better reason for staying in bed so long.

Oh yes, a very good reason.

Remember how I said yesterday was a good day? Yeah, well, not entirely.

Last night after work I stopped for pizza*. After I ordered my small pepperoni - a pie I was going to regret later when I tried to sleep and the heartburn got to me - I sat down with one of those free real estate brochures that are always hanging around places like that. As I was flipping through the book the woman behind the counter tried to strike up a conversation with me - something I usually frown upon since I hate making idle chit chat with people. Especially after 8pm. Or any time of the day for that matter.

After a few pleasantries - all from her because I'm not pleasant, especially after 8pm. Not even to people feeding my cravings - she looked at me for a bit longer than was comfortable.

"Aren't you that woman who comes in here with all her kids?" she inquired.

I shook my head, "No, that's not me. You must have me confused with some other woman."

This happens to me a lot. I've been mistaken for someone's best friend's sister's cousin's friend, told I look just like someone's favorite niece or a long lost best friend from college since I was a teen. So it didn't strike me as odd that this woman thought I was someone else. And I was wearing my standard dog training uniform: Sweatshirt, jeans, and a baseball hat and I had on an older, nondescript parka. I was the proverbial blank slate.

I gave her my most winning smile, "I hear that a lot, that I look like someone else. I guess I just have that kind of face..." You know, familiar.

"Yeah," she interrupted. "Motherly."

Huh?

Motherly?

Did she just say...

Oh, no she DIDN'T.

I buried my face in that real estate magazine so as to stop myself from jumping across that counter and strangling her. All idle chit chat ended quicker than you can say "It's time for Botox". After a few homicidal minutes I paid for my pizza and drove home, checking my face in the rearview mirror the whole way. Motherly? Really?

When I got home I did what any reasonable woman would do - I abandoned my precious pizza and ran to the bathroom mirror. I pulled and I stretched and I poked at my poor, apparently motherly looking face. Motherly? Me? I've always been told I look young for my age, dammit. Especially with a ball cap on! Who did that woman think she was?? Motherly.

Pssh.

They say daughters steal your beauty, but I guess they steal your youth too. And it all happens between the ages of 2 and 3. By the time your kid is a teenager you're wearing knitted sweaters with pictures of kittens on them and calling all your kids' friends "dear". I'm guessing anyway, because I am not going down that easily. I am not giving in to this motherly crap without a fight.

So what's it going to be? Thigh-high boots and a tube top? Purple streaks in my hair and facial piercings? (Hi, T!) Or maybe next time I'll throw my pizza back in that woman's face.

How's that for motherly, bitch?

However, if I did that I'd probably feel bad and rush behind the counter to help her clean up. There, there dear. Mommy's just having a bad day. Please don't cry.

I'm doomed, aren't I?

---------------------------------

*I apologize for not posting any recipes that I've prepared yet. With the hubs traveling I haven't been cooking much. As soon as I can pin him down for more than 10 hours I'll make some real food from your recommendations. Pinky swear. Would this Mommy lie to you?

The (lack of) brains behind the blog

Hi, my name is Tania. It rhymes with lasagna. Now when you think of something warm and cheesy you'll think of me and this here blog. Go ahead and try to get that image out of your head.

If you'd like, you can call me Chicky - my name apparently being so damn hard to pronounce and all (Why hello little thing on my shoulder. What's your name? Chip? Yeah, I thought so.). It's also the nickname I gave my three year old daughter upon her birth. Hence the blog name: Chicky Chicky Baby. Well, that and my tendency to repeat myself, though these days with two kids it's more of a necessity and less of a personality flaw. I know, totally clever.

My kid is totally cool. Much cooler than me. Surprisingly I'm okay with that. Because she may be cool but I can drink a beer and she can't.

I'm also Mom to a newborn baby girl whom I call C.C. See how I did that? Chicky Chicky? C.C.? If you think that's something you should stick around and prepare to be astounded.

This is C.C. She's going through an Emo phase. Listening to lots of Morrissey these days.

Besides having kids, I'm married to this pretty smart guy whom I refer to as Mr. C. He puts up with my baggage and gave me two pretty babies so I think I'll keep him. Plus, he occasionally supplies me with some choice blog fodder.

Not my husband.
He doesn't like me to post his picture. But Jason Bateman and Mr. C do look quite a bit alike. And I get to pretend I'm married to a rich actor.
Hey, a woman can dream.

Now you know the basics, but there's more. Much more.

In a nutshell - I'm a motherless mom, having lost my mother in 2004 to colon cancer. I'm also a wife who is commitment phobic, since I had to test drive one husband before settling on this one. I'm a couch potato with a bad case of wanderlust and a wallflower who after just a glass of wine or two might be found dancing on tables. I'm a lapsed Catholic who enjoys taking the Lord's name in vain and swears like a trucker and a dog trainer by trade who really loves her cat... Or a cat lover who really enjoys being around dogs. Take your pick. I am many woman. I'm also a bit schizophrenic. But don't tell the voices that. They think they're perfectly sane.

You want me at your next party. Trust me.

I hope you enjoy this blog. It was not created to solve any of the world's problems but I hope it will resonate with another parent or two who once had a mind before they had children. I find if I keep a steady supply of alcohol around life still moves along reasonably well. You won't find that nugget in any of the parenting books, I'll tell ya.

All love letters, hate mail, requests for products reviews or advertising, song dedications, pleas for help and crazed manifestos should be sent to Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com.

Smooches,

Tania

This almost made me believe there is a God

There's World War 3 going on in my house.

The evil dictatorship is strengthening, threatening to crush the poor, peace loving Allies, who just want a minutes rest to brush their own damn hair. Soon the evil dictator will rule and the Allies will end up curled up in a ball in the corner, rocking back and forth and probably chewing on their sleeve.

If you haven't guessed yet Chicky is the evil (evil, evil, evil) dictator and I am peace loving Sweden.

And yes I know the Swedes are socialists. But don't they seem happy? It's probably all that cheap furniture.

What was I saying? Oh yeah...

Chicky and I are having the day from hell. I don't like to call kids brats, but wow. She is being one big freaking brat. I even called her a little shit this morning. Quietly. Mainly under my breath, but loud enough to make me feel better.

I don't know what crawled up her ass this morning, but whatever it is it's adding to her constipation...

(Yes, she's constipated. She's proving a point that she will not poop, in her diaper or in the potty, just to spite me. For five freaking days. She's really teaching me a lesson.)

...and making her impossible to deal with. At one point I considered leaving her in one of those Goodwill drop boxes by the side of the road.

After a small demon sprung forth from the back of her head I was really sorry I stopped myself. The lovely people from Goodwill would have cleaned her up and given her to a nice home, possibly somewhere where they don't INSIST ON BREATHING IN YOUR PRESENCE.

And then something nice happened.

I mentioned that we did, indeed, leave the house for a while this morning. I just had to get Chicky out of the house, if only to legally strap her to a chair for a while. We drove to the one place where you can get legal, mind altering substances at 9:30 in the morning without having to leave the comfort of your car - Dunkin' Donuts - and the man in front of me at the drive-thru paid for my coffee.

I don't know if I was looking particularly hot today - some men like that frazzled Mommy look, with the hair sticking up in weird places and clothes mismatched. But then again some men, okay, a lot of men, search Google for Dog Porn. Eew - but he left enough money at the window to cover my cup of joe.

Now, a woman of rational mind might have thought to leave the couple of bucks she was going to use for her coffee for the next person in line, but I am not that woman. I got so flustered by the unexpected kindness that I muttered something like, "Oh wow, thanks" and then drove off in the wrong direction of my destination. Because I am really good at accepting nice things.

I wish I could say the rest of the day went that nicely but I'd be a lying sack of shit.

(See how I did that? Constipation? Anyone?)

Chicky had three more time outs after we got home. But for one brief shining moment after I took a sip of that gifted Vanilla Latte, life was pretty darn good. And then that moment quickly went away when Chicky threw a Matchbox car at my head.

Bad karma scares the bejeebus out of me so I need to pay this forward soon, like today, or else Chicky is liable to sprout horns, hoofs and bat wings and really do some damage. Any ideas? Or constipation remedies? Please? I'm begging.

Frigarui! Or, why you should never leave your first grader alone with Janis Joplin.

A sure fire way to keep me quiet when I was a kid was to plop me down in front of my Dad's record collection. Not that I was a loud or really rambunctious kid, my parents just had little patience for my blabbering. And now I have a blog. Go figure.

Anyway, I would pour over every cover for hours. If there was something interesting on the other side or, bonus!, if the album had a gatefold, I could be there all day.Sometimes my parents would put on whatever album interested me and then they put a pair of those stupidly large headphones on my head - you know, the ones as big as the cinnamon buns on Princess Leia's head? - and left me there, entranced, listening to Big Brother and the Holding Company or Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

In hindsight, this was probably not a prudent move seeing as I was only about 6 years old. But it sure does explain a lot about the person I am today. Which is to say really fecked up.

Anyone else really craving a Marshmallow Pie? Just me? Huh.

My favorite then and will always be is Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company. Janis Joplin is my idol, man, and how freaking cool was that cover? I own the album now, along with a bunch of others, and to me it's like owning a piece of fine art. I really hope Chicky will get as big of a kick out of them as I did. At the very least I hope she doesn't use them as frisbees.

Album covers, sadly, are a thing of the past. No one gives a damn about a piece of paper in a CD box that will probably be chucked after the songs are downloaded to an iPod anyway. So what's the point in taking any time to design some decent artwork?

Well...

You love it, don't you? You love it so much you want to marry it. And have little album cover babies with it.
(Picture by socialendproduct)

There's this album cover meme going around and that pain in the ass buddy of mine, MotherBumper, tagged me for it. You have to put together your own album cover for a fictitious band.

Duuude.

I may have spent way too much time on this cover.

I may even have a back story for Frigarui and the complete list of album tracks from "If We're Always Doing". In 1967 they might have hit #5 on Billboard with their song "The Murder of Gonzago". Then their bassist might have died in a tragic wheat threshing machine accident while on break from their tour at home in Bulgaria. Then the bassist's 17 year old girlfriend might have tried to sue the band for royalties accumulated after his death and the subsequent trial might have driven them to bankruptcy and forced the band to break up.

But that's for me to know and my therapist to fix.

You want to play, don't ya? Yeah, you do. Here's the rules (copied from MB who copied them from SBB. I know, BFD.):

1. The first title on this page is the name of your band.

2. The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album. Click the "New Random Quotations" button for more.

3. The third picture on this page will be your album cover. You then take the photo and add your band name and the album title to it, then post your picture. Please don't forget to give credit.

** This is rock and roll. Rules are made to be broken!

I suck at tagging people - I suck at tag in general because I run like a wounded chicken - so play along if you'd like. But leave me a comment if you do because this meme rocks.

One fish, two fish, my fish, now a blue fish

Imagine if you will, I'm sure it won't be too hard, that your toddler is bugging you all afternoon to color with her. She doesn't want to color by herself she wants you to stop cleaning the kitchen/cooking dinner/cleaning kitchen again to color in her book with her. Independent play is just not in the cards today.

Finally you get some time to sit down and participate. She hands you a crayon, then she takes that one from you after one swipe to the page and hands you another. Then she shakes her head and takes that one and hands you yet another crayon. Now that young Davinci is happy you're both content and coloring away on your own side of the book.

After a few minutes she looks over at the brightly colored fish you're just finishing. You spent some time on this fish, grabbing extra colors when she's not looking, making the fish orange, purple and green. You're proud of this fish. You're thinking of naming this fish Fred.

When all of a sudden she takes her blue crayon and dramatically colors all over Fred the fish.

"Dude, that was my picture," you tell her.

She looks at you with a face that says Suck it up, Sunshine and declares with all the authority of a young autocrat, "The fish is blue now."

With that she takes the book and all the crayons she can hold and trots away, leaving you holding an orange crayon.

And funny enough, you were really enjoying coloring. The togetherness was nice too but the creative juices were just starting to bubble when they were unceremoniously yanked off the stove. But now she's happily, and quietly, coloring away in another room and all you can do is mutter to the crayon, "Now, ain't that a bitch."

How do you title a post like this?

You guys. Your recommendations for meals have been really great. I'm really looking forward to trying them and like promised I'll post the results. We made those chicken bacon roulades last night so I'll write about that soon and include the pictures of the debacle yummy outcome.

If you haven't added your favorite family meal - and I really don't know what you're waiting for, ahem, it's just my families health at stake here - go here and leave it for me.

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Today is MotherGooseMouse's virtual baby shower! Julie is about to add a little man baby to her family that already includes two girls so if you have any advice on raising boys for her, today is the day to offer it. I wish I had some words of wisdom but I have very little experience with boys... Except to date them.

So, Julie, the only thing I can say is raise a boy who respects women. I've met some real winners in my life and very few of them had any idea how to treat a woman with kindness and respect. With Tacy and CJ around I don't think that little boy of yours will have a choice but it's worth mentioning!

Oh, and teach him about romance. So few men know how to romance a woman. I know this is making you all squeamish since we're talking about your baby boy but someday that baby will be a man. Hard to believe, I know. Teach him the fundamental ways to a woman's heart: Teach him how to cook, how to play an instrument, how to clean up after himself, how to have a conversation and how to fight - the right way. Basically, raise the perfect man. You can do that, right? Sure, no problem.

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And last but not least, I have a new review up at my other blog. I was asked to review the really cool Comfy Easy PC Learning System for toddlers and pre-schoolers. We're obsessed with our computers here in the Chicky household and our little Chicky is no exception. We looked long and hard at different toddler-friendly PCs since we were trying to find the right combination of fun, learning and ease of use. Did we find it in the Comfy Easy PC? Please click here to find out.

(Please? Pretty please?)

Eating my way across the internet

I've gone into great, and at times sickening, length about my battles with food lately. But what I haven't mentioned to you, friends, is that my history with food and the problems that sometimes accompany does not stop at my morning sickness.

I love food, I really do. But that was not always the case. When I met Mr. C and we began dating a whole new world of interesting tastes and textures opened up to me. (Watch the dirty minds, people. I'm talking about food here.) We visited restaurants and cooked meals that I had never tried before. But before that I was always apathetic when it came to food. It just wasn't a big part of my life. I ate because I need to, not because I wanted to, and that's not exactly what anyone would consider healthy.

My mom was not a great cook and since she and my dad had little money when I was growing up the food that was prepared for us consisted of mainly overcooked lesser choices of meat and boiled vegetables from a can. The things my mom excelled at, lasagnas and casseroles mostly, were filling but never what you would call nutritious. Green was not a color we saw on our table very often, and if the vegetable started out green after my mom got to it it ended up a sick grayish color.

But you know what? When you're skinny and you come from a family of thin people, nobody makes much of a fuss.

When I was a teenager I lived like most teenage girls do - picking at food or grabbing things on the run. McDonald's was a way of life. Potato chips and a Coke from the cafeteria at school was also common. And that was when I remembered to eat. I remember several occasions when my mom would stop me as I was running out the door to ask when my last meal was (uh, Mom? I love you but if you have to ask...), commenting on my gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. For the love of Pete, I worked at a donut shop surrounded by tasty fattening treats and I could still go two or three days in a row ingesting little more than soft drinks.

Damn those were good years. I miss my size zeros and my 20 inch waist. No, really. 20 inches. Wrap your head around that one.

Come to think of it, I don't really miss those days at all. I would have to wear two pairs of pants just to get the shape of a pre-pubescent boy. When all the other girls were getting boobs and hips I was concave. Let me tell you, that really gets the boys beating down a girl's door.

It would take me a whole other post to explain what that did to my identity and how I felt about myself but that's not what this post is about.

I was not raised to be a great cook but given the fact that my husband, who is a really good cook, is hardly ever home to prepare a meal that doesn't come out of a bag I've had to improvise. Believe it or not as a mom you're actually expected to make healthy meals for your kids. Who knew? I always thought I could throw some dry kibble at them and they'd be fine.

This is not a New Year's Resolution but a life's resolution - I WILL become a better cook. I am already a slave to the food blogs so I think it's about time I start putting them to good use. It's time to set aside the large cookbook collection I have for a moment. I want to eat my way across the internet.

But I need your help to accomplish this.

Help me become a better provider of healthy foods for my family. Tell me, what's your favorite food blog or cooking website? Tell me your favorite family friendly meal. Point me in the direction of a specific recipe that you've particularly enjoyed.

And in return every week I will post a new recipe that I've found through your suggestions (with a link back to your blog, naturally, and a link to the website/blog it was found on) with pictures of the finished product and a report on how my family liked it. I will try at least one recipe based on your suggestions per week.

I think the pictures of the process alone will be worth their weight in gold. Remember that I said I'm not a great cook. Imagine the comedy! Imagine the number of times I'll need to use the fire extinguisher! Imagine the number of times I'll write "And then we called for pizza delivery"!

I've found so far that the best recipes I've prepared have come directly from other bloggers. I've prepared enough dinners found on sites like Epicurious - as a matter of fact, I'm making this one tonight. I'll let you know how it goes - but I like reading about real life people making real food.

My only request, besides all that information about blogs and recipes and things you'll be leaving for me, is that the food be family friendly. Chicky will try a lot of foods but recipes like Spicy Prawns in an exotic curry sauce probably will not look nice thrown against my kitchen wall.

So what do you say? Can you help a mother out? Please don't leave my family doomed to a life of boiled potatoes, waxy string beans and tough pepper steaks like my mother forced upon us. Let's break the cycle of food abuse together.

My family thanks you in advance. The pizza place down the street, the local Chinese restaurant, and Taco Bell, however, do not.

(Not so) Little Pink Houses

Oh boy. If you're tired and out of shape, slightly nauseous and frustrated from fighting with your perscription drug insurance company, carrying a growing belly, running after an excitable toddler, nursing a sore back, fatigued from an iron deficiency (pretty sure that's what the constant fatigue is from, it is not a thyroid problem as the test has shown), and dim of brain to the point where spelling "deficiency" and "nauseous" necessitates a spell check, exactly what you DO NOT WANT TO DO for an entire afternoon is look at houses with a Realtor. For Realz.
But that's what Chicky and I did yesterday. Three houses and an evaluation of our home in four hours. I've had almost a full day to recuperate but I'm still typing this with one eye open.

We're house hunting, as I mentioned the other day. I did mention that, yes? Ooh brain. Wheeeeee.

Over the weekend we even put a refundable deposit down on a piece of land in a nice development. But I think we'll be getting that deposit back because I don't think it's the right time to do this. Something feels... Off. And if I can't pull off a busy afternoon house hunting without needing a two hour nap the next day (Did I mention I stopped writing this to nap? Sometime after my brain went Bzzzzzt and shorted and sparked like our microwave did the other day. And that Chicky is still sleeping and has been for three and a half hours? Clearly we need to add some cardio or weight training to our every day routine) getting a house built right when I'm about to pop out a baby probably isn't the best idea.

And I think my priorities are messed up. One of the houses we looked at was pink - yes, the outside of the house was pretty, pretty princess pink, complete with crystal chandeliers, throw-up-in-your-mouth pink walls in almost all the rooms and shit like that - and I thought Yeah, we can do something with this. Or the other home that was lousy with square footage and I caught myself saying Too small, way too small. Too small? Who the hell do I think I am? Imelda Marcos and I need a separate room for my shoes?

A woman who clearly should not be making this big decision right now, that's who.

(Um, my shoe collection has gotten a bit out of control. It would be easier to just move it all to a separate room than try to organize it.)

So I think we're going to stay here for another year or two. Totally anti-climactic. Sorry. But as everything else in my life, everything is subject to change at a moment's notice. We might find our dream house due to my obsessive Realtor.com searching. Our dream house in our price range sans bubble gum pink walls. Or Mr. C could get transferred and move us halfway across the country. And I could have a major aneurysm and my eyes could pop out and roll down the hallway from the stress of it all. It could happen.

These are the most precious of all my days

I find myself these days, more often than not, begging Chicky to hurry up. Stop playing with that toy and come over here. Quit stalling and finish your dinner. Please come over here and let me help you with your shirt. You can shake your naked booty another time, just sit on the potty and pee already.

My stress level rises and I raise my voice much more often than I'd like. We're always late for every appointment no matter how early I start the process of leaving the house and that bugs the hell out of me, even though I am a habitual procrastinator myself and am known to be late regularly.

But when there's two willful females living in the same house, something has got to give. And someone's idea of an appropriate timeline is going to be squashed. When one of those willful females is not quite three years old it's the other's timeline that gets heaved out the window, and even if it is met there is no thrill of victory since the not-quite-three year old is not going along willingly. There is no winning, only losing. Losing time, losing patience and losing your cool.

I want so desperately to slow down and enjoy those booty shaking moments more often. I need to learn more patience than I ever thought I could possibly need. But until I do, I'm failing. Or should I say I feel like I'm failing. I know I'm doing the best job I can but there are those days when that's just not enough.

These days are precious. I may have another almost-three year old again but it won't be Chicky. I'll never get these days back and I fear my memories of this time will be filled with Come Here's and Stop That's and Are You Listening To Me's?

The other morning my husband woke me up out of a sound sleep at four in the morning in a panic. He was due at the airport in less than two hours and his car door wouldn't latch. I would have to get up and drive him.

He woke Chicky as I muttered to myself, "I'll wake up and this will be a dream. I'll still be warm in bed. This is just a dream." We all got packed into the car and while Mr. C went to turn off his car he attempted to latch the door one last time. And of course, it worked.

So off to bed went Chicky and I while he drove away.

By 4:30 am she and I were rocking away in the chair in her room. The space was warm and dark and while I stroked her hair to help her calm down enough to go back to sleep she reached up to stroke mine.

She was well on her way to being calm enough to put back into bed, but in the last minutes of that dark morning I chose to continue rocking her warm body instead of rushing back to my cooling bed. It had been months since we had rocked in the stillness of her bedroom. I had forgotten how much I loved that time together.

There will be other times to sleep but few when she'll allow me to cradle her in my arms like the baby she once was. In that moment I had no desire to hurry and rush or admonish her for not paying attention when I was speaking to her. We sat and rocked in silence and every once and a while she would look up and smile at me before laying her head back on my chest. And in that moment there was no stress, only peace.


*With apologies to Duncan Sheik for stealing his lyric for the title of this post.

S-no-w more, please

Question - What's more fun than trying to stuff an excited toddler into full snow gear?

(Besides a root canal or trying to bathe a cat.)

Answer - Watching a pregnant woman trying to stuff her spreading ass and growing belly into her pre-pregnancy snow pants.

Good times.

No matter what I did I could not make Chicky forget that 10 inches of snow had just fallen outside. I even tried "A Charlie Brown Christmas", y'all. And if there's anything that makes a sane woman (relatively speaking) want to drive ice picks through her ears it's those orb-headed implings and their freakish dancing almost a month after Christmas.

Chicky was having none of it, however, so outside we went. After the aforementioned stuffing of the pregnant belly into stretchable nylon, of course. Glad there wasn't anyone else around to witness that.

After the fiftieth time Chicky fell onto her back into the snow and flailed there like a turtle on its shell I was ready to be done. But was she? Noooo. She was ready and raring for more. We had already attempted to make a snowman - which came out more like a snow nipple, wish I had the camera for that one - and thrown at least a hundred snowballs at the dogs. I mean, what more can you do with a basically immobilized toddler in deep snow?

Ooh, I know! Soccer!

The darn kid somehow found a soccer ball buried under the snow and we kicked that around until Lana, the black lab, stole it and ran off. I guess I need to teach that dog to share now too. Sure, I'll just add it to my list of parental life wisdom to impart to those smaller than I.

Ooh, I've got another one. Question - What's more fun than stuffing a toddler into full snow gear?

Answer - Trying to get a fully outfitted toddler in the full throes of a tantrum back into the house and undressed without A. getting kicked, B. getting hit, and C. losing your temper to the point where you're simultaneously yelling at each dog for being little shits and desperately trying to keep flying snow out of your eyes from a very pissed off two year old. And then trying to get your pregnant belly and pregnant butt out of snow pants.

And by "you", I mean me. You can guess what happened but let's just say it wasn't pretty.

She's sleeping now. The dogs are sleeping too. And as soon as I hit Publish I will be sleeping and this morning will be nothing but a memory. One I'm sure the publishers of those cute baby books never had in mind for the pages of their journals.

Perfect blog fodder, though, I just wish I had pictures. Good times, good times.

The heavy rain outside is not helping matters either

The people have spoken. There will be no dog porn... Today. But it could happen at any time. Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Or the day after that. But it will happen. Oh yes, it will happen.

Because it cracks my shit up and that's the purpose of a blog, oui?

And it's not so much porn as it is written erotica. Sort of. Just rest assured that there's no video. Possibly some pictures though.

You're off the hook today but not necessarily because you begged and pleaded for me not to post it but because I am tired as hell and need to keep this short. I had figured that by now my fatigue from pregnancy would ease up a bit, but it hasn't. Take yesterday for instance. Yesterday morning, all morning long, I was so tired I nearly wept. The night before when Mr. C called from the road I did. I think it was the exhaustion mixed with the longing for Twinkies that pushed me over the edge.

So my doctor is having my thyroid checked. I had the blood test done the other day and now I just have to wait for the results. But I don't think it's going to come back as anything. I fit so few of the symptoms, it's really a long shot.

I don't know what my other options are if this constant tiredness isn't a thyroid problem. You don't think I'll actually have to start exercising and eating better, do you?

*shudder*

I'll happily do yoga but you'll have to pry the Twinkies (and the Cocoa Pebbles, and the mint chocolate chip ice cream) out of my cold dead hands.

Come on, I'm promising you dog porn in return

Apparently it's Delurking Day. I love comments as much as the next guy, or girl, so today is the day to come out from behind that computer screen and say "HI!" *waving*, or "First time commenter, long time reader". You know, something like that.

I feel like Lucy Van Pelt on days like these. Comments, comments, comments! The beautiful sound of plinking comments. Because that's what comments sound like to me. Plink.So delurk already. If only just to say hi. Or to compare heinous hangnails (I've got one on my thumb right at this very moment that hurts like a bitch). Or to tell me whether you're a cat person or a dog person. How about to tell me you're going to send me boxes of Twinkies? That would be cool. And I, in turn, promise you a pornographic dog post for tomorrow. You know your interest is piqued now.


Thanks to Rude Cactus for kicking this off and Greeblemonkey for the fantastical image.

Don't fence me in

There's something about that weird pregnancy stupidness that makes women think we can do things we can't or shouldn't - like last night when I thought I could physically move a very large labrador retriever and ended up hurting myself, or the first time I was pregnant and believed I would go back to work and take the baby with me a few days a week, because everyone knows that babies just sleep all the time and never need to do things like eat or have their diapers changed at inopportune times - or forces us to make decisions we wouldn't otherwise make - like choosing wall to wall carpet in a color we'd soon regret after the pregnancy hormones settled down. Sarah knows what I'm talking about. I bet you have your own story.

Right now - well not right this moment but for the past few weekends, oh you get my meaning - Mr. C and I have been house hunting. Again. I don't love the house we live in and it's not pregnancy brain that's making me feel that way. This itch has needed to be scratched for some time. There are things I hate about our home, like the lack of an actual dining room and the location, and things I love about it, like Chicky's bedroom and, um... Yeah, that's about it. It's time to move.

We want to purchase a new house in the same town. We want a neighborhood where people do more than just wave to each other, begrudgingly, and a place where when Halloween rolls around the neighbors don't turn their lights off and pretend to be out.

Yeah, lady across the street. I'm talkin' to you. I know you're home, for chrissake. Stop being a cheapskate and buy some damn candy.

We want a feeling of community and more kids for Chicky to play with. In a nutshell everything we didn't know we would want when we bought this place. We weren't even married when we moved here and kids were at least a couple of years away. I KNOW. A whole two or three years! That's SO far away. Did you know that two or three years can go by really fast? Neither did we.

Our focus lately has been in new developments in areas around town that used to be horse farms or beautiful open land. They have names like This-Used-To-Be-A-Bucolic-Pasture-But-It-Was-Just-Going-To-Waste Estates and There-Used-To-Be-An-Apple-Orchard-Here-But-Then-We-Got-Greedy Manor. Beautiful grand houses are being built on teeny parcels of land. Or at least in my mind they're teeny parcels of land. But that's the way of this area. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Right?

Eh, not so much.

The first home that I ever purchased, with my ex-husband, was on two acres and abutted conservation land. I had more space than I knew what to do with and I thought that was the way everyone lived... until I moved from the sticks and got a fierce reality check. This is Massachusetts, Baby. If you want to live within 50 miles of Boston the land does not come cheap. As a matter of fact if you could promise your first born or a vital organ you might not have to mortgage your life away. But don't count on it.

Is it pregnancy brain that's making me consider buying one of these homes? Mr. C is enamored with these homes but he grew up in a town where the yards were the size of postage stamps. I've reasoned with myself that the backyards aren't that small. We'll be closer to parks so we'll be using those more, why would we need a huge backyard? It just means more maintenance. And the houses are large. It will be nice to have a family room we can actually use and a kitchen that will accommodate more than one person in there at a time. And we're in New England, for chrissake, we get nice weather like 30 days out of the year.

I'd feel better knowing we made the biggest financial decision of our lives with my head as screwed on as straight as it could be. Under the best of circumstances my brain is slightly skewed, so pregnant brain... Whew. It's scary. And don't even get me started on the cost. That's another post for next time. But let's just say it involves a lot of money and a huge chip on my shoulder the size of a small mountain. And an eye that won't stop twitching from the stress. And an ulcer in the making.

I can't have it all. I won't be able to have my 10 acre alpaca farm/dog kennel in a town within reasonable driving distance to civilization and that perfect trick-or-treating neighborhood. But I've never been very good at giving up on something that I want.

And right now I would like a Twinkie. I don't have any Twinkies and Chicky is in bed so I can't go out and get any and you have no idea how much that's pissing me off.

Me blogger, you read - and get food for my belly

They say pregnancy makes a woman's brain dry up and blow away like fine powder, leaving her stupid, stumbling and drooling on herself.

Okay I said that. But it's true! I have so much to write about and no brain power to help me harness all the thoughts. The only constant thought in my head that doesn't buzz around like a fruit fly is "Sleep, sleeep, sleep. Poppies, poppppies, poppies. Sleeeeep."

Zzzzzzzzz.

I wrote something about politics over at New England Mamas today. That should tell you something about the state of my brain since politics is not my forte. But the New Hampshire primary is tomorrow and I felt it was important to try to get some words down into some semblance of a sentence or paragraph about it. Because these days the only coherent words that come out of my mouth are,

"Pregnant woman hungry. Must have barbecue NOW. Need to eat. Get out of way" And then there's some grunting and burping.

And that's important and all but soon no one will want to make small talk with me.

So please, go check it out.

Someday people will start believing me when I speak

Before I had Chicky I was convinced I wanted a boy. I grew up a tomboy and still enjoyed things like sports and a good noogie from time to time, so naturally I would have a boy.

And even though I knew from conception that my baby would be a girl I was still surprised when we got the ultrasound results. A girl? Me? Really? Uh, what do I do with it?

I've gotten used to having a girl, I will admit. I love my girl. I love almost everything about her. I could do without the crazy mood swings and the teenage angst that is sure to come our way, but the girl clothes? C'mmmon. How can you not love a pair of boots with fuzzy pom poms? I only wish they came in my size.

Way back when I predicted another girl child for the Chicky family. Apparently everyone else in my family was convinced it was a boy. Which just goes to show you that you should always listen to the mother.

We had our ultrasound today. It's a GIRL.

We've already begun saving for things like the latest fashions, weddings, and the therapy that will have to happen because there will be three stubborn females living in one household.

Because blasting "Whoomp! There it is" from the car stereo just isn't cool anymore.

There once was a time when I was familiar with new music. And not just the popular top 40 tunes - though as a DJ that's a majority of what I played when my boss was around to listen, when he was out of range it was a completely different story - but the good music. The up and coming artists that few had heard of but whose reps were trying so desperately to get air play for.

Hey Bossman. Remember that time you wouldn't let me add that new group to our playlist? What were they called? Oh yeah, right. Belle and Sebastian. You were right, they were never going to catch on.

And I wonder if he remembers when he first hired me out of college how I had to fight him on this little album from a relatively unknown Virginia band - Crash. Yeah, that Dave Matthews Band. No future ahead for them, huh?

Dumb ass.

Back then I had music reps throwing CDs at me. We were a teeny, tiny radio station that barely got any play outside of our front door, we barely had enough wattage to power a hair dryer, but we had a decent relationship with most of the major and minor record companies. They felt charitable and, hey, even if only five people listen that's still five more potential buyers of their bands' albums.

Today is a long way from then. Light years. Today I have no idea who half of the bands are on everyone's year end lists. So many lists! So many opportunities to feel like a musical dumb ass. My christ, I'm turning into my old boss.

So please help a woman out. What were your absolute favorite albums, artists or bands of 2007? And please tell me why. I could go to Rolling Stone and start downloading their faves off of iTunes but I'd bankrupt myself. I want to hear from real people, not music critics, why you love these songs. Let's face it, some music critics are - um - influenced in ways. The way I see it, if you paid for the album and continued to love it whether or not anyone was waiting for you to write something positive about it then those are the albums I want to know about.

I do have some requirements:

- The songs must be suitable for playing in front of my two year old since I do the majority of my listening in the car or while I'm making dinner/cleaning the house. She doesn't have to like them, but every other word can't be "f*ck this" or "c*cksucker that". Know what I mean? That pretty much leaves rap out.

- Do not, and I really mean DO NOT, recommend anything from the country charts. It's not going to happen. I'm intrigued by Lucinda Williams' latest album, and I suppose she could be labeled as country, but she's Lucinda Williams. 'Nuff said if you ask me.

- If you're wondering where my musical tastes lie these days, a few of my favorite downloads from this year were from Iron and Wine, the new Robert Plant/Alison Krass album, and the music from the movie "Once". Especially that last one. Those are some pretty mellow examples but I'm fairly mellow these days (see the first requirement). However, if you have an opinion on the new Linkin Park album I would like to know about that.

- The music doesn't have to be radio-friendly. I like the indie stuff. It makes me feel young and hip. (I don't want to hear that no one who is truly hip actually uses the word "hip". They probably don't use the word "groovy" either. Lalalalalala.)

My credit card thanks you.


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Due to the holidays and my general laziness the ROFL Awards are being postponed this month and will be picked up again next month. That means you get to nominate funny posts from either December or January! I'll be bugging you all about that again later. Oh yes, there will be bugging.

If you don't want to see me whine...

...Then you can come see what I wrote about over at the New England Mamas today. But come only if you're a real sports fan. Only if you love at least one team, I don't care what sport, so much you're willing to bleed their team colors.

Or come over if you hate the Patriots and you want to have a good shot at me. Whatever. I'm ready for it.

Or you could just stay here and find out why I'm not too happy with my Dad. Your call.

I hope they don't expect me to throw them a party

Since we're in that weird limbo between Christmas and New Year's I've had lots of time to catch up on my sleep sit on my ass think about all that transpired on Christmas Day.

Besides all the gift giving and food eating something else pretty big happened. My Dad got engaged to his lady friend, the woman who he's been living with for some time now. Only nobody thought it was important to actually tell us about it.

After we arrived at my Nana's house on Christmas Day the usual greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, and my Dad's lady friend (I refuse to call her "girlfriend", though my Dad may act like a juvenile it's been a long time since either of them were children and could be referred to as "girl" or "boy") showed us her Christmas present - a gold band with three equally sized small diamonds in it. I do remember noting that she wore it on the third finger of her left hand but there was little about it that screamed "He proposed!" and she didn't offer any information, so I said "It's beautiful" and left it at that.

My sister did the same.

Mr. C did the same.

None of us wanted to assume anything so nothing more was said. Until later in the day when I heard her mentioning something to my father-in-law about my Dad asking her to marry him the night before.

Wha'? Marriage? HELLO. Offspring of the groom-to-be over here.

That's right, my Dad never thought it was important to mention to his daughters that he had gotten engaged or that he was considering getting engaged. We were supposed to figure it out for ourselves. My Dad, he puts the "ass" in "classy".

I will admit that I never thought they'd get married. I thought they'd be one of those couples that just stayed together for years and years, living together and enjoying each other's company.

However, I would have been perfectly fine with my Dad buying the ring on the sly and then proposing, without consulting my sister or me beforehand -

Though, if he would have told us before hand I could have helped him find a much better ring. Heh -

But to stay silent about it and let the information come out like it did? That kind of hurt.

I don't expect this wedding will happen anytime soon so I've got lots of time to lick my wounds. And really they're more like annoying scratches that itch while they heal. I'll get over it. If Dad's not going to act as if it's very important then neither will I. So there.

I obviously got all my maturity from him.

We interupt this nap to bring you the following random thought. Just because I thought you should know and because Twitter is broken.

I've been feeling the baby fluttering for a couple of weeks now - which is very cool, especially since the early flutters are so much more preferable to the late kicks and jabs to the kidney - but today I'm sitting on my couch, listening to Chicky sing off-key in her crib,

(the singing that will soon turn to violent kicks to the side of the crib and a resounding "MAAAAA! MOOOMMMMM! MOMMMMYYYYYYY!" So even though she sounds like she's choking a cat, the singing is SO much more enjoyable.)

and baby-to-be has gone from gentle backstrokes in my womb to full on Mary Lou Retton-style gymnastics.

I bet if you held your ear to my stomach right now you would hear this:

"WEEEEEEEEEE! Thanks for the chocolate and that small vanilla coffee, Mom! That feels GREAT! WEEEEEEEE!"

Considering Chicky's vocal stylings have just reached a crescendo and the crystal in my dining room, a full floor below Chicky's room, is threatening to crack, I'm willing to bet the baby's joyous shouts would be off-key as well. But I'm their Mom so it all seems perfect to me. I give them both a "10".

This sappy moment is now over. The baby has gone still and Chicky has stopped singing and started screaming. I need to put a stop to it or we'll have to replace our new windows. As you were.

The day after the day after

A whole week away from blogging to enjoy the Christmas madness merriment sure does a body good... Except all that time away will be for naught when the actual holiday whups your ass, leaving your poor body sick and tired and your toddler's body beaten and bedraggled.

And by that last part I don't mean to insinuate that we beat our child. But have you ever seen a toddler high on fistfuls of White Trash snacks who hasn't napped in a couple of days? I always thought it was a saying but they literally bounce off of walls.

We're both slightly sick and very over tired so all stories and pictures from Christmas will have to wait. But, oh, I have stories. Stories of excess and surprise engagements and hour long violent tantrums.

On second thought, I think I might skip that last story. Some things don't need to be relived.

Before I go rest my heavy head I realize that I neglected to mention before my mini break that my quad screen test came back all clean and healthy. No problems there, as far as we can tell, which means we'll probably be skipping the amnio and live in blissful oblivion until the end of May. That's all I really wanted for Christmas anyway.

So internets I leave you to watch Elmo's Countdown to Christmas for the bazillionth time. I hope all your holiday celebrations were worth the stress of mall trips, shipping charges, long lines in the post office and staying up late to put together ridiculously large Christmas presents that your kids played with for 20 minutes before they moved on to the boxes and bows. Which as everyone knows are way more fun to play with anyway.

A Very Chicky Christmas - 2007

Dear Santa,

It's been a whole year since I last wrote to you, pal, and you NEVER WROTE BACK. I think I mentioned that when I finally got to meet you a few weeks ago but, you know, I'm two and a half and I forget things. I think you laughed about it. That much I remember. I don't like to be laughed at, buster. So you just wait and see what I leave for you in your plate of cookies this year.


You can make it up to me, Santa. Remember how I asked you for a doll house? Yeah. I'll be expecting that under my tree. I'd also like a monkey, a purple cow and Raffi tied up with a big red bow. Not a Raffi CD. I want the man himself so he can sing to me whenever I demand it, which is often according to Mom. She's been trying to get me to listen to other types of music this year - she calls it my "musical education", whatever that means - and I've gone for some of her tricks. Johnny Cash is pretty cool, I like him a lot. I like some of that Beatles stuff too, even though bugs usually freak me out. I'm not buying the rest of it though. Could you talk to Mom about lightening up on the weird music and concentrate on more "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star"? Oh, but don't touch the Macarena. I like that crazy groove.

And I expect the monkey and the purple cow to be real, not stuffed.

It's been a crazy year, Santa. Mom spent a lot of time either sleeping on the couch or coughing. Daddy said she wasn't coughing but that she was "throwing up". I don't know what he was talking about because I was always asking her to play ball with me and she always said "Don't throw the ball in the house". Maybe she and Daddy are playing ball after I go to sleep. They always seem like they're in such a hurry to get me to bed at night.

Whatever, all I know is that she's now telling me she has a baby in her belly. How could she have a baby in her belly when she was always coughing everything she ate into the toilet?

Hey, wait just a minute... Do babies come up from the potty?? Do you think a baby jumped up from the potty and into her mouth while she was coughing and then she swallowed it?? That's it. I'm never using the potty now. I don't need some baby growing in my booty.

Regardless of how that baby got there Mom says I'm going to have a baby brother or a baby sister next year some time after my birthday. I'm not too sure what she means by "brother" or "sister" - I mean, my vocabulary is getting better but it's not perfect - but I think there's a little boy in there. If you ask me tomorrow I'll tell you it's a baby girl. Ask me the next day and I'll tell you it's a kitten. Try living in my head for a while, big guy. It's WILD.

Onto the presents!

I mentioned I wanted a doll house, right? Never hurts to say it two or three times. Or twenty-five times! I really like to repeat myself over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

I never got that Elmo doll from last year. Hint, hint.

How about a dinosaur? He can sleep in my room with me.

And a new pair of rain boots. I wear my old rain boots almost every day around the house and Mom says they're two sizes too small for me. Eh. Doesn't bother me one bit. Especially since I usually have them on the wrong feet anyway.

My Mom says she really wants a glass of wine and for Daddy to put the Blackberry away. Daddy wants Mommy to get a job but then says we all know that isn't going to happen any time soon, so I guess you can forget a gift for him.

Oh, and the dogs would like more Girl Scout cookies.

Just to warn you, Santa, now that Mom has told me you come in the night when I'm sleeping to drop off the presents I fully plan on staying awake all night so I can say hello. I love a good petting zoo and I want to feed that reindeer of yours with the freaky red nose.

Word to your mother.

Love,

Chicky

This story could make almost any Red Sox fan cry

Remember when my dogs broke into my closed pantry and ate my Girl Scout cookies? That was a pretty bad day. But this story is much worse.

"Given my chosen profession as a dog trainer I love a good dog story in the news, but this one almost broke my heart..." [Continued at New England Mamas]

Oh yeah *head slap*... THAT's why I married him

No matter how cute my little bump is, I'm still pregnant. Uncomfortable, irritable, clumsy and pregnant. So tonight after bathing Chicky I decided to take a bath myself.

It's been freezing here in the North East and I'm always cold anyway (please keep your frigid jokes to a minimum), the thought of a nice warm bath sounded really good. Even if I couldn't have my customary glass of wine while I soaked.

I ran the water, grabbed some jelly beans and stripped down to my birthday suit.

With my handy rubber ducky thermometer floating in the tub I felt comfortable with the temperature of the water - my last OB-Gyn told me never to take baths while pregnant, and that's another reason why I switched doctors - but it still seemed on the cool side to me. However, the cold air in my bathroom forced me to make the decision to get in anyway. Pregnancy boobs hurt under the best of circumstances. At that temperature I thought my nipples were going to fall off.

The first minute or two was fine. I had my book. I had my jelly beans. I was happy. Then I noticed the water had gone from just warm enough to a little chilly in that tub. Then it got a lot chilly. Then my nipples were really threatening a revolt.

"Hooooneeeeyyy!" I called to my husband.

After a few seconds, "Yeah?"

"My water is getting coold." Wow, I can be whiney.

He thought for a second. "Well, we just gave Chicky a bath and you ran the dishwasher right before that. And I just washed some dishes in the sink..."

"So what you're saying is we have no more hot water in the tank?"

"That's what I'm saying."

Sigh. "Okay. I really don't want to get out so soon. Maybe I can stick it out for another couple of minutes until the water heats up again."

(Fool)

He went back to his computer, I went back to my book.

Another couple of minutes went by and still no hot water.

"Hooooneeeyyyy!"

After a few seconds, "I have water boiling on the stove for you. You relax and I'll bring in the water to heat up your bath."

Come on, say it with me. Aawwwwww.

"Aw, hon. That's so nice of you."

"Yeah, I know."

So he brought me two separate pots of hot water from the stove to heat up my bath, just so I could languish in my own type of sensory deprivation tank. And I didn't have to ask. I was going to, oh yes I was, but he beat me to it. Sometimes he can be the greatest guy.

But I can't help but wonder what his ulterior motives are. I think it was to keep me in that bath longer so I wouldn't keep forcing him to get up to fetch me bowls of ice cream.

Get in my belly!

Those are just a sampling of the foods I have to have in my house these days. Normally I would never have most of those items in my house so I have to say I like these pregnancy cravings. Scratch that - I freaking love pregnancy cravings. Love with a capital S-U-G-A-R and S-A-L-T. And while we're at it a capital F-A-T too.

I need bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream and big glasses of cold filtered ice water with lots of ice cubes. I need pigs in a blanket from my grocer's freezer section and ham salad sandwiches with cole slaw on the side. I need burrito supremes from Taco Bell with lots of mild sauce. I need my house to smell of pumpkin pie or snickerdoodle scented candles constantly...

Ooh, snickerdoodles. I know what I'll be making tomorrow...

I need all of these things. It's almost primal. And woe to the person who gets in my way if I'm trying to put them in my shopping cart. I'm really surprised I haven't bitten someone yet. I've growled, but I haven't bitten.

I can't even explain how good it feels to eat. I don't think I could accurately describe the pleasure I take from eating some days, but I'll try. Oh yes I will.

As one example: I had a grilled cheese sandwich soon after my nausea started to abate, a very simple bread and melted cheese sandwich, and I swear to God (har) eating it was a religious experience. I seriously believe I saw Jesus in that grilled cheese. And then I ate Him and licked the plate clean. How's that for having the spirit of the Lord in you?

Those of you who have experienced Hyperemesis know what I'm talking about. Those of you who haven't should consider yourselves lucky. But imagine this - You live in a house full of food. Your refrigerator is full, your pantry is full. You have people offering you home cooked meals. You feed others (in my case, Chicky) but you, yourself, can not eat. Even though the Food Network makes you salivate - when it's not making you vomit - you have zero desire to eat. And even if you did have a smidgen of desire to put something edible in your mouth, like say water, you would almost instantly throw it back up.

I, for lack of a more suitable term, was starving. Literally. Do I deserve to eat Skittles and French Fried Onions until they're coming out of my ears. Uh, yeah.

It's over now for the most part, the sickness and the starving. I still have some not-so-great days and medication is still necessary, but as you can see from the picture I'm not hurting as much as I was a few weeks ago. That bag of chips? It'll be gone by tomorrow. And is it me or do they not make boxes of Crunch 'n Munch as big as they used to? That box is empty. Hell, it barely made it home from the grocery store this morning.

Now, lest you think my days are one big bacchanalia after another, but without the wine... Okay, it's sometimes true. But for the most part I don't really eat much because my poor stomach is still adapting to having real food in it.

If eating like a pig on occasion doesn't make you hate me just a little, well hold on to you hats. Due to my months of not eating and then sporadic eating binges, if this pregnancy is like the last one no one will know I'm pregnant and since it's winter most people won't until I'm at least 7 months. I, friends, am a skinny pregnant woman.

I know what you're thinking - Poor woman gets to eat whatever she wants and still looks skinny. Let's spread nasty rumors about her and the school nerd and not let her sit at our lunch table. But for every silver lining there has to be a rain cloud of bitchiness.

As I understand it one of the perks of pregnancy is having people give up their seat for you and help you with your groceries and shit like that. Last pregnancy I didn't get any of that special treatment. Not once. I want special treatment, dammit! Is that so much to ask for all my pain and suffering? I'm breeding future Democrats here, for chrissake.

So try not to hate me too much. Sure, I'm 17 weeks pregnant and I can still wear size 4 jeans still buttoned (no elastic band through the button hole here) during my second pregnancy. And I live on a steady diet of high fat, high calorie foods but have only put on three pounds since Thanksgiving...

Nah, go ahead and hate me. I'll just drown my sorrows in another bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream. And I may not have strangers carry my bags for me but I'm banking on walking out of the hospital after delivery in at least my size 6's. I can live with that.

T.B. Wams @17 weeks
Objects in picture may be smaller than they seem.

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Thanks so much to Izzy for the fantastic job she did on my blog. Ain't it purdy?