I think it's perfectly reasonable to leave a burning bag of dog shit on his front steps.

I'm so angry I could chew nails. The real ones, not the ones on my fingers.

Yes, this happened years ago but do we really want a man who has such a complete disregard for life that he thinks it's perfectly fine to strap a dog to the roof of his car to be the next President of the United States?

The number of the beast is not 666 but (ortho novum) 777

I don't know what's going on with my body but every time I start a new round of birth control pills for a good seven days I feel like throwing myself in front of a bus. Okay, I kid. Not a bus. A Prius or a Mini Cooper would do the trick.

(Mood swing, thy name is Chicky. Mrs. Chicky. And I like my anti-depressants shaken not stirred.)

(No, not really. I don't take anti-depressants. Maybe I should, or maybe I should just get off the Ortho-Novum. That, kids, is what will really hurt you. Pot? Nah. The Pill, now that's something to be worried about.)

The change in my mood is startling. I've never had a problem with birth control pills before I had Chicky. I wonder what changed?

Hmm...

You don't think it had anything to do with pushing a seven pound baby out of my girlie parts, do you? No, couldn't be. It probably didn't have anything to do with carrying a fetus in my womb for nine months either.

(Oh, the sarcasm. The hormones don't just bring out the happy in me they also bring out the snark. I'm a barrel of laughs to be around.)

I've had my blue periods before, short ones that correspond with huge life shifts: A bad marriage, an unanticipated change in careers, or a death, for instance. All to be expected. But lately they come in short but steady bursts.

I should probably back up a bit. I've always had a problem with fluctuations in hormone levels. Since the age of 17 (when I first started taking the Pill) if I missed a pill and had to double up the combination of the two would send me rushing for the toilet to toss up my lunch.

Knowing this, I knew I was doomed when I got pregnant with Chicky. And I was right. Oh boy I was right. Four months into my pregnancy and my doctor finally, once she realized that the nausea and vomiting were not going away, prescribed Zofran for me. Even the medication normally given to cancer patients receiving chemotherapy treatments didn't completely make me feel well. I love my body. LOVE it.

So now, since the child sprung from my loins (how I wish that were true) and once she was weaned I resumed taking birth control pills and they make me feel like shit. I might have made that point clear when I said something about a Prius and my body lying prone in front of its wheels. Okay, so I'm being a bit dramatic but with my gray mood comes drama. Like soap opera drama, not the good Meryl Streep-type drama.

It's time to do something.

Has anyone else had this problem? Have any solutions for me? Solutions that don't require straight jackets and butterfly nets?

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

Just to show how fecked up I am during these moods, tonight during our normal bedtime ritual Chicky requested that we sing goodnight to Dizzy the cat. Normally she requests that we sing goodnight to Daddy, apples and crackers, but tonight we sang goodnight to my missing kitty. And don't you know that I started getting all teary. I mean really teary. Thankfully it was dark and I don't mind lying to my kid.

"No, honey, Mommy's not sad. She just has a sniffle that's all. And a hair in her eye. A cat hair.

A cat hair.

Waaaaaaahhh!"

Somebody please save me from myself.

Um... Uh... Er... Yeah

From the bottom of my cold, dead heart and all the way down to the ends of my freakishly long toes I want to thank you all for your thoughts and prayers for my Gram. I wish that I could say that they all kick started a miracle, I really do, but they didn't.

Instead of being sent to that hospital 45 minutes away from her home Gram was, instead, sent to Mass General in Boston. Not an easy drive for my aunt, the woman who is honorary caretaker and chauffeur for my grandmother.

(If my mom was still around it would have been her doing all the driving and speaking with the doctors. My aunt calls me often to curse my mother for leaving her. She says it with a smile, but curses nonetheless.)

Gram was admitted this evening and tomorrow they'll do a battery of tests to determine what's going on with the 8 inch "growth" on her pelvis. They believe it's ovarian cancer but the doctors won't commit to that diagnosis just yet.

Oh yeah, and the cat still hasn't shown up. Also, I've learned just how weird some of my neighbors are. Bonus.

So no miracle yet, but those thoughts and prayers could still help. Thank you for them all.

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

On a happier note, Sarah thinks I rock. More specifically, she thinks I'm a rockin' girl blogger. I don't feel so rockin' right now but who am I to argue with my new real life friend?

Apparently, this is one of those pay-it-forward deal-ios. These things always make me feel like I'm playing favorites but in this case I really don't give a hairy rat's ass. Call it a popularity contest, blahdee blahdee blahdee, but I'm of the opinion that there are some rockin' chicks out there in blogland and they deserve to be recognized. Dammit.

1. Blog Antagonist - She doesn't know it but she's talked me off of more proverbial ledges than any other blogger. She's my idol, I want to be just like her if I ever decide to grow up. For now, I'll just consider her my big sister on the web. And the woman can write. If you don't visit her blog regularly you really should because when she's a big time published author us lucky readers will be able to say we knew her when.

2. Mama Tulip - Because we've experienced the same loss we're bound for all eternity. A bit much? I don't think so.

3. Redneck Mommy - T is the shit. She's a tough betch who will undoubtedly kick my ass if I don't keep her in alcohol at Blogher. And did I mention that I'm rooming with that tatooed and pierced freak (says the woman who calls her sister "dirtbag" as a sign of true and deep affection)? Pray for me. I may never return. I may not want to, we may just run away together.

4. Binky of 24/7 - My scrod, another woman who can write circles around me. And I love her for it. She can render me speechless with the smallest of paragraph and.... See? I don't know what else to say. She's just that good.

5. Jenny of Mama Drama and now the Bloggess - She's so fantastic that I may have to move to Texas just to stalk her. You think I'm joking. I'm not that funny. She's that funny.

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

One more thing, if you have a dog who is afraid of thunderstorms or fireworks I have a new post up at Dog Gone Blog about it.

Now, if you don't mind, I think I may just go get drunk now.

The waiting is the hardest part. I hope.

When it rains it pours. Big, heavy, buckets of unfortunate occurrences.

My cat is still missing. Who knew a damn cat could drive an otherwise rational person to distraction?

There's some big doings going on at the Chicky compound that I need to prepare for and Mr. C is pretty much unavailable to help due to work commitments. So the next couple of weeks are going to be a bit stressful.

And worst of all (and I mean way, way worse than all the other stresses that are just buzzing around my head) I just found out that my grandmother may or may not have cancer - and I'm leaning towards the "may" since she's being sent to a much bigger hospital 45 minutes away from her house because the local hospital can't help her - but we won't find out what's going on for at least another few hours if not another day. I don't like this whole waiting thing. It makes a person feel just a wee bit helpless.

Gram had a CAT scan done yesterday after weeks of feeling poor (and not going to the doctor to find out what was the matter because my grandmother is the most STUBBORN woman on the face of this earth) and the results, apparently, were not good. They think it may be ovarian cancer.

My grandmother has already lost her only sister to ovarian cancer years ago. This, I'm assuming, is the outcome she was afraid of. Her reason for putting off the doctors until she finally could not wait any longer.

No one deserves to be ill but my grandmother really doesn't deserve it. She hasn't exactly had an easy life.

She was 17 when she became a mother for the first time and had three more children in rapid succession until, when the youngest, my mother, was one, her young husband died tragically in a freak accident. She was a widow with four kids before the age of 24, can you imagine that? Soon after she married my Papa and had seven more children. Eleven kids in all. She's buried three of them already and one is a vegetable. My Papa died late last year.

So, to recap: Two husbands dead, Eleven children - three dead and one in a vegetative state, one sister dead, oh and a father who died when she was young and a mother who left her - emotionally, anyway - to be cared for by her grandmother. A lifetime of work and toil and sacrifice. She doesn't deserve one more hardship in her life. She deserves to live the rest of her days in peace, surrounded by family and friends, with nothing more to worry about than keeping up on all our birthdays.

I thank you all for the kind thoughts about my cat but if you could find it in yourself to keep one more person who really needs it in your thoughts and maybe even your prayers (if you do that sort of thing) I would appreciate it. My grandmother, though she doesn't know about this online life I have, would also certainly appreciate it. I believe in the power of positive thinking and I can't seem to muster any of my own right now. Gram will probably have surgery in the next day or so, send some good thoughts her way. Okay?

Chicky and her "Gwammy", the happiest I've seen her in a long time.

Oh where oh where has my little cat gone? Oh where oh where could he be?

I've lost my cat.

No, not Nina the Wonder Lump, aka Jabba the Cat. No, Dizzy, the yellow cat, aka The Pisser.

I give new meaning to the term "wet spot".

I haven't actually lost him. It's not like I put him down somewhere and forgot where I left him. He walked out the front door yesterday afternoon and I haven't seen him since. I'm worried, really worried. I miss him, the little shit. I want him home with me where the only thing he has to fear is my foot if he pees in my bed again.

Oh yeah, the cat has urinated where I sleep and I still want him to come home.

The damn cat has pissed on my bed (hence the nickname) no less than 10 times. He howls incessantly when he wants to go out, or come in, and if I don't answer his death screams he rips the weather stripping around my front door to shreds. He's also destroyed a couch and the arm of one chair with his talons, which is preferable to what he could do to my skin if I were to pet him one second longer than what he would like.

But Dizzy loves to snuggle on my shoulder, his purring sounding like a chain saw in my ear. When I'm outside walking with Chicky he'll follow us around our cul-de-sac and then he'll sit on our stairs waiting for us to come home. He's affectionate with my little girl no matter how many times she pulls on his tail or thumps him with a drum stick. He's the dog I always wanted.

Mr. C and I have an idea of what might have happened. 1) He wandered into someone's shed or garage and got stuck there, 2) He's been injured, either by car or neighborhood dog, or 3) He was mistaken for another neighborhood cat who has been lost for the last two weeks and was delivered to that home.

I no longer have the flyer about the other lost cat and I have no idea where that home is exactly so I can't go knocking on their door to find out if they have Dizzy. I can only wait and wonder. And stare out the window like a worried mother whose child has broken curfew.

I miss my cat and I'd really like him to come home now. A cat, I'm all worked up about a damn cat. I feel a little foolish. But I promise, if he comes home I'll stop threatening him with taxidermy. I'll stop telling him he'd look really good as a fur scarf. I won't even be mad if he shows up at my door, clawing the weather stripping at 3am. I just want to know he's safe.

Shame? Me? No.

Hey, it's my dog Lana's sixth birthday today. Why should you care?

Uh...

......

Uh...

Yeah, I've got nothing.

C'mon, what have you got to do that's more important than wishing my dog a happy birthday? Raising kids? A job? Blinking?

While you're over there wishing my dog a happy birthday (hint, hint. What? I don't care if she can't read.) make sure you leave me some of your dog-related questions. I need material or I'm just going to start pontificating on my own. And we don't want that now, do we?

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

Chicky and I just had a playdate with Sarah and her kids. She is as wonderful as you think she is. Seriously. But poor Sarah, I have this habit when I meet someone for the first time of letting them lead the conversation - it's how I gauge how much I'm going to like them, if a person can keep me engaged they're so in - and I totally let Sarah take the conversation and run with it. But she rose to the occasion with grace and charm, even with three kids (!) and a neighbor's kid to watch. I think I will make her my new best friend. If she'll have me. Which she might not now that she knows I'm a mute.

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

Random Chicky picture....


Because it makes me happy.

A bargain hunter's dream

When life was simpler (read: before having a child) I used to love to dig through piles of castoff items at yard sales, state fairs, "antique" stores and the like. I spent my summer vacations in Maine, going from one small store to the next, searching for that something special to add to my already growing collection of antique cameras, candlesticks and Fiestaware. I was on a mission. I was focused. I was obsessed. I was broke... [Read More]

A waste of life

A few weeks ago a horrible act occurred in my hometown. It not only happened in the town I grew up in, the place that helped define who I am today, but it happened steps away from my grandmother's home.

A woman, whose face I recognized from the hallways of my high school, allegedly killed her two year old daughter. The girl was found in her mother's apartment with multiple bruises to the face, neck and torso and could not be revived. I won't go into what the neighbors speculate happened to the girl, but as I sat in my grandmother's living room listening to the rumors I held Chicky in my lap tighter and tighter and the knot in my stomach threatened to evict the lunch I had just eaten. It's just too horrible to think about.

After we become parents news of a child's brutal death affects us in such a way to bring the Mama or Papa Bear out of even the most placid person. But when it happens so close to home, in a neighborhood where I spent a good portion of my formative years playing pickle in the street, where my sister and I and cousins and friends spent our falls throwing horse chestnuts at each other... Well, I don't know quite how to describe how I felt. Violated? Betrayed?

Yes, this does have to do with me. Not just because it happened in a place where I am familiar but because I am a mother. I know what it feels like to want to squeeze the arm of my child a little tighter than is necessary, hoping the pressure will stop whatever tantrum is happening in its tracks. I know what level of frustration a toddler can drive you to. I know the ugly thoughts that can pop into an otherwise rational woman's head when her child is wailing for seemingly no good reason and can not be consoled.

But I can not understand how a woman can (allegedly) beat the life out of her child.

According to the National Child Abuse and Neglect Data System (NCANDS) data for 2004 children under four accounted for 81% of fatalities due to abuse and neglect. They are the most vulnerable because of their dependency, size and inability to defend themselves. And one or both parents were involved in 78.9 percent of child abuse or neglect fatalities.

Deaths from abuse and neglect are often from chronic extended malnourishment, acute neglect - like a child left unsupervised in bathtub who drowns - or physical abuse.

The study goes on to say: "There is no single profile of a perpetrator of fatal child abuse, although certain characteristics reappear in many studies. Frequently, the perpetrator is a young adult in his or her mid-20s, without a high school diploma, living at or below the poverty level, depressed, and who may have difficulty coping with stressful situations. In many instances, the perpetrator has experienced violence first-hand. Most fatalities from physical abuse are caused by fathers and other male caretakers. Mothers are most often responsible for deaths resulting from child neglect."

In this particular case the woman was not well off, the father was not in the picture (he is in jail himself for something unrelated), there is speculation of drug use and previous depression. But abuse, as said above, knows no socio-economic boundaries. It goes back to the saying "You need a license to drive a car, catch a fish, or own a dog but anyone can be a parent". It could happen anywhere, in any neighborhood. This case just happened to occur in a neighborhood I am very familiar with. And it troubles me.

My grandmother did not know of any prior abuse. She didn't know the woman and her child as they were relatively new to the neighborhood, and never saw anything out of the ordinary. The woman's friends all called her a "loving mother", though some changed their tune after being present at the arraignment.

But I'm willing to bet that if there was prior abuse someone knew about it.

If you know of a child being abused, or you suspect that one is, please contact the appropriate authorities. Call your local Child Protective Services (CPS) agency. This site has a list of hotline numbers by state. Or contact your local police and they'll point you in the right direction.

Or if you are close to someone, a mother or a father, who is close to the deep end help them get help.

I'm not an expert on this subject, just a concerned parent. If you know of any information that might be helpful to someone in this situation please add it in the comments and I'll also add it to this post.

More Kate than Audrey

I haven't worn skirts with any regularity since it was fashionable to pair baby doll dresses and combat boots. I may have been a skirt wearer before but it's not who I am now. My husband is not pleased, he likes me in skirts, but I just don't feel comfortable in them. It's as if I'm wearing someone else's skin.

I am a child of the 70's so skirts - mainly denim jumpers with patchwork flowers in psychedelic patterns - were part of my regular wardrobe growing up. But then my parents sent me to Catholic elementary school, an institution where girls were expected to wear a skirt or dress every day and the boys (such the little gentlemen) would try everything short of pining a girl to the ground to look up said skirt. Though there were occasions when they tried that too, but let's just say I went to school with some tough little betches so it didn't happen often.

These little adventures in exploration were not fun for a burgeoning young lady on the cusp of puberty. After all, a girl does not want her first crush to find out that she still wears Wonder Woman Underoos. Our only guaranteed solace was those cold winter days when the girls were permitted to wear pants... But only if they wore a skirt over them. What that achieved I have no idea, but it did stop the boys and their quest for more insight into the female form.

Through high school, when every boy was trying to get up some girl's skirt, until college and the baby doll dress phase I did wear whatever was fashionable at the time - Madonna inspired mini-skirts, rocker-chic jean skirts, nouveau hippie wannabe peasant skirts - but as I grew older I became less interested in fashion and more interested in...

Well...

The state of my legs.

I was always the skinny girl with the stick-thin stems but there comes a time in every woman's life, whether she was super skinny or not (and yes, even Kate Moss if she laid off the heroin - allegedly) when time catches up with you. Or more to the point, with your body. I think I'm more self-conscious now than I was when I was 16, if that's possible. I think I'm just more aware. With age comes awareness but there also comes spider veins, cellulite and, the worst thing possible...

My Mother's thighs.

It's as if on the day of her passing she reached down from the heavens and said, "My daughter, my first born, the one who least resembles me in any way, to you I leave my legacy. That which has been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. I bequeath to you... Saddle bags."

Poof.

So much for those skinny legs that go all the way up.

I could still wear skirts, but they have to be very structured or extremely flowy. Any hint of lycra and I'll be bulging out every which way. A good pair of pants keep everything contained. I feel confident in a good pair of pants. And I can emulate my hero Kate Hepburn with my own affected New England accent saying I don't give a damn to the establishment. Although, there is no establishment like Kate's in the new millennium. Not exactly striking any blows for feminism with my ripstop capris now, am I?

Soon there will come a day when I won't have to worry about a toddler trying to hide under my skirt and I can go back to wearing something a little less casual than blue jeans. One day I won't care as much about the size of my thighs and I can just be me. But for now I'd like to run and jump and frolick without having to worry about flashing anybody a shot of my knickers. I'll leave that for the young Hollywood elite and their penchant for panty-less partying. I've reached an age where, though I don't particularly care for the look of my legs (and I haven't even mentioned the large strawberry birthmark on my left thigh) but I'm okay with letting everyone know that I have better things to do than shaving my legs every day. Verbally. (Doing my best Katharine Hepburn impersonation) I don't have to show you, you can just take my word for it.

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This post is a part of the Parent Bloggers Network and sk*rt - the new social bookmarking website for women, and the men who want to get into their heads - blog blast. I recommend that you check out Sk*rt and maybe bookmark some posts that you enjoy or some of your own. And, if you are so inclined, please vote for my post over there. It could win me some cool stuff. There's no Thigh Master on the list of prizes but I can get past that.

Catch a falling star...

...and put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away.

Maybe I should just have those initials tattooed to my forehead

The Early Intervention people came yesterday.

Not only is Chicky fine and developing at a normal rate but she assessed higher than her age on all the tests, especially on the Receptive Language test where she was assessed at 35 months. Thirty five months. And that's because 35 months is as high as the test goes.

(Which is really nice to know because now when I wonder if Chicky is listening to me and ignoring me or just doesn't understand me I'll know she understands me just fine. Oh yeah, she understands what I'm telling her. She's totally busted.)

My kid is smart. I, however, feel like a moron. A big one.

The "test" - a profile, an assessment really. "Test" sounds so 9th grade - was just getting started when the woman assessing Chicky took out a laminated sheet of paper with pictures on it and asked Chicky to name everything.

"Ball. Chair. Doggie. Car. Hand."

No hesitation at all. It was like she had seen that paper a hundred times. That was when I looked at Mr. C, who with head bowed was silently vibrating from laughter, and knew our child was not delayed in any way.

Do I feel like an idiot? Oh, just a tad.

Do I feel like a helicopter mommy? You betcha.

Am I relieved to hear, from experts, that my kid is progressing nicely? Relieved and thrilled.

I will now wear a scarlet HM (for helicopter mommy) pinned to my shirt as my penance. But I'm okay with that act of attrition because I was doing what I thought was right for my kid.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.









Okay, do you really believe that last line of crap? More importantly, do you believe that I believe that last line?

Yes, I did what I thought was right but I still felt horribly embarrassed to take up the time of the wonderful EI women who came to our house. But I'll get over it. Eventually. With lots of therapy.

Alright, I'm done.








One more thing.

The women from EI really were great. I can't stress that enough. They made Mr. C and I feel completely at ease and there was not even a smidge of judgment in their eyes. They were very professional and extremely kind and I think I will now put them on my Christmas card list and send them both humongous fruit baskets.

I'm done now.









Okay, really just one more point.

In the past two weeks since I made the appointment Chicky has made astounding progress in her speech. She went from saying just a few things clearly (and a lot of things that only I could understand, and even then it was pretty sketchy) to stringing together two and three word sentences. Her language quite literally exploded. I know everyone told me that would happen but I really didn't believe it. Now I do.

I should have known this would happen because this is exactly what happens when I bring my car to the mechanic. As soon as an expert is brought in the freaking problem stops.

As a matter of fact Chicky is sitting next to me making up words to the tune of "Mary had a little lamb", involving her blanket. Or bucket. Or maybe pocket. She's not going to be a great orator any time soon but I see great things for her in the future.

I'm done now. Really.







I'm so embarrassed.

Responsible dog owners make good neighbors (a good fence doesn't hurt either)

Neighbor problems are not my favorite thing to tackle, on my blog or in my life offline, but tackle them we must. Julie has a neighbor problem of the worst sort - a neighbor who won't, either by choice or incompetence, control her dog. The dog suffers, the neighborhood residents suffer, and, most importantly to me, the neighborhood kids could be in danger. [Read More...]

Let's get nekkid

Chicky has a new habit. She likes to get naked ("I nekkid!").

It started soon after this incident so I think the natural toddler curiosity about her body phase coincided nicely with seeing me sleeping in the buff.

She likes to pull her pants down - which is easy to do now that it's shorts weather - and run around trying to choke herself with her own shirt by trying to get it off by herself, but she especially likes getting naked in exchange for attention.

For instance, at night when she doesn't want to go to bed she'll wait until I put her in her crib and leave the room and then she'll strip herself down to nothing more than what the good lord gave her and wait for one of us to come back to get her dressed.

(We have a video baby monitor. A blessing and a curse? Oh yeah. The damn kid has figured it out.)

I reenter the room, "Mommy, I nekkid!"

"Yes, I can see that." I pick her up and give her butt a squeeze, because wouldn't you? Then I get her dressed again, deliver her to her bed, and leave her with this admonishment:

"Hey, when you're in bed at least keep your pants on."

I didn't think I was going to have to say that to her until she was at least 16 years old.

More than me(me)

(I will warn you now - this post is long. Sorry but it's about my feeeelings and I tend to ramble when it comes to my feeeelings.

If you've already read this post then you know that that last sentence is totally laughable.

If you haven't you'll just have to read to find out why.)



I've been composing this post in my mind for days, mentally writing and then discarding each draft. Not one word actually made it on to the computer screen in front of me until now - such as they are.

Julie tagged me for the "Evolution of Blogging" meme, or more specifically the "Evolution of your blogging" meme. At first I was thrilled by the idea - finally, a meme that had nothing to do with how I fell asleep every night (rubbing my ankles together like a cricket, just so you know) or what was in my bag (diapers and cracker crumbs mostly) - but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what this particular meme meant to me (and, yes, I was over thinking - again), the more terrified I became of the question how has my blogging changed and evolved.

I don't know if it's evolved. To the contrary, I think it may be going the other way. Because, you see, if you think about it I don't really talk about me on this blog.

(Go ahead, mull that one over for a minute. I'll wait. But first read the next paragraph.)

One of the things that fascinates me about blogging is the perception we have of those we read on a regular basis gathered from the nuggets of information that can be gleaned from one's blog. I've never met many of you but I have a mental picture in my head of who you are: what you sound like, how tall you are, how you walk, hell even how you laugh. It's all crap, I'm sure, and when I finally meet some of you this summer in some cases my mental image will be shattered. Yes, I have drawn assumptions. Will I be disappointed? I don't know, but that could certainly happen, and you, in turn, could be disappointed when you meet me.

(It's okay. Just keep it to yourself and I won't be hurt.)

(I wound very easily. Have I ever told you that? Probably not.)

From reading this blog, having never met me, you know that I like a good joke. You know that I love wine. You know that I work with dogs and I have two of my own that drive me crazy, that I have one (devastatingly adorable) toddler whom I love, and that I have a husband who occasionally does stupid things but whom I also love. You know that I lost my mother to cancer and I miss her very much. You know that I can overreact to things and then overreact about overreacting. And you may know that women, as a group, usually freak me out. But is that it? Is that all of me?

I'll answer my own question: No.

The reason why you, as a reader, don't know more about me from this blog is because by nature I am an incredibly guarded person. I really do not share that much of myself with others. I keep my cards close to my vest, I rarely wear my heart on my sleeve... Blahdee blahdee blahdee.

Which leads me to the evolution - or the de-evolution of this blog.

(And for the record I know the opposite of "evolution" is "regression" or "deterioration" but that seems a bit extreme, don't you think?)

(And and... Don't you think it's about time I got to the reason for this post? I mean c'mon... get to the point already.)

When I began Chicky Chicky Baby I had hoped that the (perceived) anonymity of the internet would help me open up about certain pieces of my life - and it has, a bit, but it has also made me more aware of what I talk about and, in turn, even more guarded. For one reason - I let my husband read this blog. And then I shared it with my sister. The two people, besides Chicky, who mean the most to me in this world now have access to my inner-most feelings. And speaking of Chicky, she could read these posts one day. Do I really want them to learn certain things about myself - things I might not feel comfortable bringing up to them in person - through a blog? Where complete strangers can read it first? Uh uh, don't think so. That's not fair.

And I will not even think about other parts of my family or friends who may stumble upon this one day. I've said a more than a few embarrassing things but so far nothing too damning that I couldn't recover from.

But I have to admit, I sometimes long for total anonymity. I do wish that no one I knew had learned about this blog. Not that I would share stories of elicit affairs or second lives (if you knew what my life was really like right now you'd laugh at preposterousness of that last statement. Affairs? Who has time or energy for affairs??) but because I really have no trouble with people knowing that my life is messy. To what level of messy is what I have trouble with, but I would like to learn how to open up more. Therapy without the co-pay.

And lest I forget, for some reason there are people out there who seem to like this blog. People (you?) who read what I write on a regular basis. How bizarre is that? I'd be lying if I said that my stat counter has not affected my way of writing one bit.

I'd like to open up more. I'd like my voice, my true voice, to be heard through the din. But not now. At least not today.

The bottom line is I have to remain true to myself, on this blog and in real life. If I'm not going to sit on a playground picnic table and share my innermost thoughts and feeeelings with you then why would I on an internet page?

However...

(I said bottom line, but I didn't really mean it. Do I ever?)

I know that being guarded is not necessarily healthy. I've made things very difficult and unpleasant for myself these past few years in the name of privacy and I need to fix that. So you may just find yourself on my site one day learning about any manner of juicy details about me.

Especially if I'm drinking and blogging. I've been known to do some silly things when I've got the drink in me.

Just don't tell my husband or my sister that.

Shit, I guess I just did. Hey! Maybe I'm evolving!

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Now I have to tag people for this meme. This is the part that I hate the most, even more than talking about my feeeelings (whoa whoa whoa Feeeelings). Let's see, who can I piss off with a tag... How about Redneck Mommy, Motherbumper, and Jen. Have at it, betches.

Sure, now she learns how to speak

On Wednesday Mr. C and I took Chicky with us to a local liquor store. As we walked through the automatic door Chicky took one look at the impressive display of booze in front of her, drew in her breath and said,

"Oooh, Mommy's wine! Mommy's wine!!"

I don't know whether to be scared, embarrassed or proud.

And yes, that was a two word sentence she made. I don't think I'll share this story with EI.

Paging Dr. Freud. Dr. Jung? Dr. Doug Ross??

I found out today that my ex-husband is divorcing his second wife. Or she's divorcing him. Either way in the game of marriage he'll be a two-time loser and I don't know what to think about that. I'm conflicted.

On the one hand I don't wish him any ill will as he is, and always has been, a really good guy. Mister Excitement? No. Mister Always-Has-The-Right-Thing-To-Say? Uh uh. But Mister Would-Give-You-The-Shirt-Off-His-Back? Oh yeah. And he doesn't deserve to be divorced twice before his fortieth birthday.

However...

(You knew that was coming, right? C'mon, even if I hadn't set you up with my previous comment about being conflicted you had to know that if I'm talking about my ex it isn't going to be all sunshine, ponies and rainbows. Or rainbow colored ponies who shoot sunshine out of their asses.)

He married a twit, plain and simple. No, not me - although, I'm sure he has called me worse than that in his darkest moments and probably out in broad daylight too - but the woman he married after me. I believe their relationship was a knee-jerk reaction to our break-up. I don't think he was really thinking straight when he decided that she was going to be The One.

(If you've ever been divorced and remarried you know that you never, ever (ever ever ever ever ever), want to go through that again. So, if the first one doesn't take then the second one should be the charm. Right? Right??)

(I've already told Mr. C he'd have to do something really horrible to get rid of me 'cause I ain't goin' nowhere, baby. Uh uh.)

So, about this woman. She's got three kids by two different guys - none of them being my ex's - but that's not what makes me think she's a twit. Entirely. It's the other small tidbits of information that I know about her, combined with the kid thing, that made me scoff when I heard they were getting married in the first place. Tidbits of information that I will not share here on this blog because I? Am a lady.

Stop laughing. I always cover my mouth when I sneeze and I almost always feel horrible when I take the Lord's name in vain.

But Jesus H. Christ...

When you marry someone, you profess your undying love and devotion to someone, even if you're fibbing a bit, you hope that the other person is happy in their decision to legally wed you for ever and ever, Amen. You'd like to think that because they picked you their taste is impeccable. You're a catch, dammit.

And by "you" I mean "me".

I'm a catch, dammit.

I may not be sushi-grade tuna but I'm choice salmon. Haddock? Scrod? You'd be lucky to serve me in your restaurant and not as an early bird special.

What was I saying?

My ex went ahead and married this woman and it didn't work and I feel badly for him - but I wonder why, if he had such great choice in women (women that would rip his heart out and stomp on it, but still) why he chose her?

And why am I concerned about this?

Because I care? Sure. Because I was right about their marriage? Okay, yes. Because it's one more thing to question about my twenties and the choices I made?

Uh.........

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And, yes, I'm avoiding the meme that Julie tagged me for. Mainly because it's freaking me right the fuck out. But I will get to it soon, pinky swear.

Also, thank you (again and again and again) for all your kind words and encouragement about Chicky's appointment with EI (didn't I already say that once?). I especially thank those of you who sent me private emails with stories about your personal experiences and those of you who said you had the same fears about your kids but haven't yet contacted the experts. I promise to keep you posted.

(Yeah, like I have a choice. My insecurity trumps my good sense. And my pride.)

Oh! (Christ this is getting long) If you have any interest in how old I think your kid should be before getting a puppy you can go here. Or not. Eh, whatever. I'm flexible.

Let's get ready to RUMBLE

During my junior year in high school my best friend J. and I were entrenched in the fight of our lives. A war, if you will, of epic proportions. A race against time and convention. A battle against good and evil. A battle royale the likes of that has never been seen inside the rounded - yes, rounded - walls of our institution of learning:

J. and I versus our friends Chris and Peter (not their real names) to see who could get from our classroom to the cafeteria and through the line with our food first.

In one piece.

Three days a week J. and I had a class with Chris and Peter in the period before lunch. For some reason - a reason that still eludes me to this day - each of us felt the need to be the first to purchase rubbery hamburgers, overcooked mac and cheese or, the Holy Grail of cafeteria food, pizza.

Oh, yes. Pizza Friday.

Let's get it on.

This was a tag team competition: the girls against the boys. As soon as the bell rang to release our weary bones from the confines of our Biology class the four of us would sprint to the door. I'd tag J. - who would invariably take the lead, as she was a far faster runner than all of us - and Chris would be fast on her heels as I grabbed Peter in a full Nelson and wrestled him into submission before throwing him to the side to gain third place.

Soon Peter would come from behind and - wham! - toss me into the wall of the hallway, pass Chris and determinedly grab at J.'s shoulder in an attempt to slow her progress. Much batting and punching and, if memory serves, a few noogies would ensue. Meanwhile Chris and I would bring up the rear, furiously pushing at each other trying to get to the leaders. If one of us could get close enough to slow the leader our partner could take the lead, almost insuring victory. If only I hadn't worn my white leather boots with the fringe!

Gaahhh! The Vice Principal is camped out in the stairwell waiting for us! (Our reputation had caught up with us) He tells us to slow down or we'll get detention for running in the halls.

(In hindsight, I know he was smiling while he said it.)

We turn into well-behaved implings. There's much grinning and "yes, sirs", "no, sirs", and "oh no, sir, we would nevers" as we practically tip-toed past the man who had the power to destroy our potential college dreams.

But as soon as we're our of his sight the fight resumes. And now the four of us are even. A body slam here. An ear tug there. Hair grabbing (they fought like girls), tripping, a well-timed swipe at an armful of books that sent papers flying and left the unfortunate recipient scrambling on their knees to gather everything up. We were merciless.

And for what? Less-than-edible cafeteria food?

No, it wasn't for food, it was for honor. And for bragging rights, but mainly for honor.

Those were good days. Most definitely one of the highlights of my illustrious (snicker) high school career.

Recently I met up with my old friend Peter at the home of a new mom friend in my new home town (What are the odds? He's her brother in law! Not even joking about that one.) and we reminisced about the bumps and bruises we gave each other in the name of "honor".

Okay, and pizza too. C'mon it was pizza, people. Pizza.

We had a good laugh and compared notes about our old high school friends.

Have you heard from Chris? - No, haven't talked to him in years. I hear he's in California.

Are you still friends with J.? - I was in her wedding but we've lost touch.

Remember that time I threw you into the wall in the stairway and you fell down a few stairs? - Yeah, that was a good one. I still have a scar! You deserved to win that day.

The food itself was inconsequential. The camaraderie through combat was far more important. And I really miss those days when the race was more important than the prize - especially since "the prize" was lukewarm tater tots and Shepard's pie.

Mmmm... Tater tots. Yes, friends come and go but we'll always have our memories... And our tater tots.


Yes, there is life after tater tots. Check out School Menu and its parental counterpart Family Everyday, two sites that work together with School Food Services Directors to provide and promote healthy eating and physical fitness for kids and their parents.

Obsess much?

I recently spoke with Early Intervention to schedule that appointment for Chicky's I-don't-know-if-she's-speech-delayed, but-she-could-be-oh-my-scrod-she-could-be, but-she-might-not-be-and-I'll-look-like-a-schmuck, but-what-the-hell-it's-covered-by-insurance appointment. Did you know they send a team to your house evaluate your kid? A team?? As in more than one?? So it's not just one person who will think I'm a raving lunatic but I'll have a full audience of people to witness my psychotic break when they tell me my child is fine.

Oh, that's wonderful - hee hee! - I'm so sorry to make you come all the way out here - hee hee! - You were so good to take time out of your busy schedules of taking care of real kids with problems to indulge my panic attacks - hee hee!

No, no, I didn't mean problems - hee hee! - but issues. No! Not issues but very fixable delays - hee hee! - I'm sure only slight delays as all children are wonderful and perfect and no one is different and let's all join hands in a circle and sing "Kumbaya" and "He's got the whole world in His hands". He's got the itty bitty babies in His hands, oh the babies, yes the babies, the wonderful not at all differently-abled babies...

This breakdown will also occur if my child is, in fact, diagnosed with a speech delay, which honestly has not even occurred to me since I've been too busy obsessing over the disapproving looks I'm sure to get from the over-worked/under-paid people from EI.

And the great news is that I have another week and a half to obsess about this! Our appointment isn't until next Friday! Hurrah!

If you're looking for me I'll be curled in the fetal position under the covers, probably with a bottle of vodka and a blankie for comfort.

Not that I'm concerned for what might happen if Chicky is diagnosed with a speech delay. I'll handle it. We'll handle it. I'm more concerned about looking like a helicopter parent who hovers over every move her child makes, diagnoses every sniffle as cancer and makes all her child's meals from scratch with organic ingredients - which is so not true since I'm fairly certain that individually wrapped slice of American cheese-food I just fed her is in no way organic.

My dog ate my homework... and my shoes, and my couch, and my landscaping, and my...

I could go on forever about all the reasons your dog might dig or chew but the bottom line is this: They're dogs. They dig. They chew. Sorry, but it's part of their inherent dogness. But those behaviors don't fit in with our lifestyles so we need to learn how to correct them. Or better yet, stop them before they begin. [Read More...]

May ROFL awards

I don't know what it was about May but I am in serious need for some funny and I hope you are too.

My nomination for a May ROFL Award needs to be read to be appreciated, because if I told you that the post was about a conversation between a Jug 'O Pee and a container of orange juice you'd probably want to check my medicine cabinet for opiates.

I'm nominating The New Girl's latest post What You Missed While You Were Sleeping (yes it's from two days ago and that, my friends, is procrastinating at its finest) for this month's ROFL Award. That lady is fuh-uh-uh-nee. And very pregnant. Go give her some love.

Here's the list of nominees for May's ROFL Awards. Please support your local blog humor and take a gander at some of these witty posts.

(As always, if you'd like to be added to the ROFL email list to get notifications and information about upcoming awards please email me at Chicky Chicky Baby 2 at yahoo dot com or my partner in slapstick Metro Mama at Metro Mama at hotmail dot com.)

Congratulations to this month's nominees!

Metro Mama awarded The Kids are Alright

Slouching Towards 40 awarded Where's My Cape

Mommy Off the Record awarded Mama Tulip

Marcia's Take Charge Blog awarded Ali la Loca

Oh, The Joys awarded I Am Bossy

Not So Sage awarded Under the Mad Hat

Polliwog's Pond awarded Absolutely Bananas

I Obsess and Under the Mad Hat awarded Mary Murtz

Mrs. Incredible awarded Kevin Charnas

Queen of Mayhem awarded Mom O Matic

Cheaper Than Therapy awarded Jonniker

A Child is Born awarded The New Girl

Fenicle awarded Oh, The Joys