No easy answers

**edited below**

So. Yeah. Knocked up. Preggers. Bun in the oven. Baby on board. Preggo. With child. Damn, Billy Joe, the rabbit done died.

Yeah.

I don't know how I feel about this pregnancy yet. When I found out I was pregnant with Chicky I was so shocked, even though we were actively trying the idea I would actually see a plus sign on my EPT stick never occurred to me until that point. I carried the knowledge around like a really good secret. I was special. I was going to make a baby. Wow.

This time? I took the test while Chicky was eating lunch. I saw the results, called Mr. C at work and shared the news, and then went on with my day. No big deal. We've been through this before.

It's still ridiculously early so I've been able to fight off the nausea and I'm exhausted all day long (Oh My Gaw, I don't remember being this tired) but those are the only indications that I'll be having another springtime baby. There's no excitement. No anticipation. Only dread of the upcoming months of sickness, back pain and swelling.

I am, officially, a horrible human being.

I want to be excited. I want to feel like I'm jumping out of my skin. I want to connect with this baby.

I don't want to feel selfish and undeserving. But I do.

Whether it was the universe or the combination of my husband's super sperm and my slutty eggs (willing to open up wide to the first organism who swam by), something decided that my body would easily accept a fetus. I wish my mind was as open and willing.


** While I was wallowing in my own weepiness (I hate being ruled by my hormones) it seems like I went from being able to fight off the nausea to becoming intimately involved with my toilet overnight. I've been down this road before but I'm hoping there are some nausea fighting tips you know of that I haven't yet tried. And since you're all responsible for making me this weepy, what with your kind comments and all, I sort of figured you'd send some tips my way. I'm weak and woozy. More so than usual. Help me.

The signs are all there, you just need to know what you're looking for

I've said it before - I believe in signs. I think it goes back to my Catholic upbringing. Something about all those saints finding the image of Jesus or Mary in a tree stump or loaf of bread and seeing it as the sign to give their lives to God. I saw a dragonfly. I see it as a sign of good things to come. I may be deluding myself but I think we all need something to believe in and since I gave up religion for the time being, it's going to have to be insects.

Or this! This weekend is National Alpaca Farm Day. It's a little strange that a "day" is actually being held over two days, but when you're living the farm life I guess you can be a little loosey goosey about those things. I don't need someone to hit me over the head with a tree stump with the image of Jesus riding an alpaca on it. If this weekend is National Alpaca Farm Day and I just so happen to have been thinking of starting my own alpaca farm then someone's trying to tell me something.

But I think it's this sign I should be paying attention to:


You don't have to beat me over the head with a stump. Right now you could knock me over with a feather. I guess fate had a plan for us all along.

Thoughts while wondering why Paul Potts singing Nessun Dorma makes me so happy

Yes, that guy. He makes me happy (the sappy Aerosmith song at the end of that clip, however, DOES NOT make me happy). If you laugh I'll slug you.

Try me.

The other day, my friend Jen was in a mood. I'm not going to say a bad mood or a sad mood, I'll leave it to her to decide what type of mood it was. But she was in need of reminding that good things still existed in this fecked up world.

I know how she's feeling.

I didn't read all the comments to that post because I didn't have the time (Time. Now that is a good thing that makes me happy) so I thought I'd make my own list here because I need to remind myself that there are people and experiences - and ice cream - that makes me happy. Happy begets happy. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Here's my list, feel free to add your own:

-Paul Potts (shaddup)
-Watching my cat napping peacefully in a sunbeam (OMG, gag. But true. She's doing it right now and she looks so freaking peaceful)
-A napping toddler
-Naps, in general
-A bottle of good red wine
-The wild boar over pasta in Tuscany (I think it was at Osteria del Cianghale Bianco. Service = eh. Food = really good. I can still taste it). Preferably with a bottle of good red wine.
-Foot rubs
-Being near the ocean
-Mint Oreo cookies
-This song (if there is such a thing as angels, they sound like Alison Krauss)
-Stepping on the scale and finding myself three pounds lighter than the last time I checked. Although, I can't remember the last time that happened.
-Ice cream. With jimmies.
-Puppies (Duh)
-This picture:


-New shoes. Not to be confused with Nu Shooz, they never did it for me.
-Cupcakes
-Bacon

There's many more but I'm having a hard time thinking right now. I'm sure I'll add more later.

After reviewing this list I've decided it's a lot like when you get a fortune cookie and you add "In bed" to the end of your fortune. In this case you can add "with a bottle of good red wine" to the end of pretty much all those items above. Except napping. I don't recommend napping with a bottle of good red wine. Maybe after but not during. That gets messy when you fall asleep and spill your wine.

The happy just keeps on coming

I've been a total downer lately... and today is no different! We're discussing how to help our children (of any age) deal with the death of a friend or family member over here. Come share your experiences and your expertise, if you have any.

There's more upbeat posts at the New England Mamas too. We're not all buzzkills. Though, I am. Yeah.

Um...

Hey, look over there!

(runs away to find the cookie dough.)

On paper wings

I was sitting outside today reading a book, when a dragonfly landed on my bare knee. Normally I would have been freaked out by such a large insect sitting on my bare flesh, but instead I let him lounge there for a moment while I apologized for all of his relatives who were consumed whole and alive for my childish pleasure. Then I slapped my thigh and watched him fly off, good wishes trailing after him.

I haven't been sitting in the sun lately, preferring instead the safety of four walls, but today I had hoped the fresh air and sunshine would make me happy. I haven't been very happy lately. An existential crisis is what my friend Ruth called it, though she was referring to her own. It seems to be going around. Maybe we passed it around in Chicago, like a cold virus.

Aimless is how I would describe myself these days. Aimless and pathless, though not goalless. Goals I have in spades but I have no way of making them a reality. Point A is my sticking point and getting to Point B, C, D and beyond is a circumnavigational route of my own making full of twists and turns. The hilly terrain doesn't bother me but the roadblocks, detours and and potholes do. Don't want to go to grandma's house because I know the big bad wolf is waiting for me, or something like that.

This flitting through life is effecting everything, from my relationship with my husband to my writing (which was never very good to begin with, let's face it) and even my day to day interaction with friends and family. The disjointed feeling hits me even before I wake up in the morning. It seeps into my flesh, like pizza grease into open pores. I'm not a person you would want to be around these days. There's not much joy behind these muddy eyes.

I want the uncertainty to go away. I want to tie it to a big red balloon and let it float up into the clear blue sky. I had hoped the dragonfly would take some of it with her, but dragonfly's have their own agenda and I don't think it stuck to her paper wings.

I read (on Wikipedia of all places) in Japan dragonflies are symbols of courage, strength and happiness. I want to believe it was not coincidence who brought that dragonfly to me. I like to believe in miracles and things happening for a reason. But what I do not know is if my winged friend left for me any of those aforementioned virtues before I thoughtlessly shooed her away.

Taking a break from alpacas to talk about asses and boobs

If you have no interest in breasts then maybe you have a thing for shoes. I have a new review on footwear up at May We Recommend. If you have skinny feet like mine you'll want to learn more about Ryka sneakers, trust me.

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

By now you've heard about Bill Maher's rant about mothers who breastfeed in public, as well as the woman who was asked to cover herself up while nursing her 7 month-old son by an Applebee's manager (App-manager? Managerbee?) and the nurse-in that was organized as a result of, sparking said rant. Not to mention Facebook's claim that pictures featuring nursing infants are obscene and subject to removal from their site without prior notice. And the Harvard medical student who just today was told by a judge that she could not have extra time to pump breast milk for her four month old daughter during her 9 hour exam.

(Gotta love it when a world-renowned medical school won't bend the rules for something like expressing breast milk for babies, something the medical community has been trying valiantly to beat into the minds of new mothers throughout this country.)

I'd rather not link to the video of Maher's diatribe because I don't believe a misogynistic ass deserves any more viewers, especially after he compared mothers - including his own, because I do believe he was birthed the old fashioned way and wasn't, in fact, the spawn of satan and a goat. Though this is still to be refuted - to dogs. I wonder how Mommy Maher felt when she heard that one?

However, there is one part I'd like to quote here:

"Look, there's no principle at work here other than being too lazy to either plan ahead or cover up. It's not fighting for a right it's fighting for the spotlight you surely will get when you go all Janet Jackson on everyone and get to drink in the oohs and ahs of the other customers because you made a baby. Something a dog can do."

Okay, I added that last sentence for emphasis because it really pisses me off, but it's the beginning part that bothers me on a whole other level.

"...being too lazy to either plan ahead or cover up."

Too lazy to plan ahead? That statement really burns my buns. Let me give you two personal examples that poke big fat holes in to big Fat Head's theory.

When Chicky was around three months old she went on a bottle strike. She never really took to a bottle before then but she would occasionally drink from one if I was no where near the house... and the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars. I cried when she refused to take a bottle, almost as loudly as she did as I tried to cajole her into giving Mommy's poor boobs a break. She was a constant nurser, either for sustenance or comfort, and I was always on duty. According to Maher, I should have stayed in doors with the blinds shut, never daring to go so far as my neighborhood chain restaurant for a quick meal because that would have put me into the "too lazy to plan ahead" category. Too lazy to force my kid to take a bottle or too lazy to let her scream in hunger? I'm not sure which. Perhaps he could tell me.

Maybe he could tell me how I could have gotten my grocery shopping done (nursed there), gone to coffee shops with my girlfriends and their infants (nursed there too) and kept my sanity in check until Chicky finally took the bottle again when she was almost 5 and a half months.

I'm sure he wouldn't have an answer for that, just some funny joke about how I was a new mom and I wasn't entitled to my sanity and how I should suck it up and stop thinking I deserved a medal for having a baby.

Here's another for instance: One month into Chicky's bottle strike we took her to the Cape to spend a few days at my sister's house. Now, again, according to Billy Boy I shouldn't have dared leave my home, but my husband, who works around the clock to keep selfish, lazy ol' me fed and clothed and stocked with bon bons and the Soap Network, really wanted a vacation.

I was a new mother and still very unaccustomed to nursing in public the "proper" way. I had yet to get a handle on how to keep a squirmy infant, who at that moment had learned that popping off of Mommy's nipple to give her a quick smile was really super fun, under a blanket. One day we all decided to take the ferry to Nantucket for the day (I know, I was really pushing my luck) and it was hotter than a witches tit.

I spent more time on that damn outing trying to find inconspicuous places to nurse my daughter. It was easily 90 degrees outside so throwing a blanket over her head made us both miserable. Very miserable.

But I did, not because I had any sense of decorum or because it was the "right thing to do" but because I was embarrassed.

I was embarrassed because I'd heard too many people like Bill Maher tell me that women who breastfeed in public are obscene. Now I am more embarrassed that I allowed myself to be bullied into that position. I so badly want to go back to that day and do it all over.

The sadness and frustration I felt on that day brought me so near to tears that I really don't know how I didn't break down in a big sobbing mess in front of Lilly Pulitzer. Chicky was hot and cranky. I was hot and cranky. My husband was hot and cranky. And the day culminated in me desperately searching for any quiet shady spot on that damned island to nurse my screaming daughter, which I eventually found in a garden in front of a museum after an hour of aimless wandering. Even then it wasn't private enough for me, and Mr. C and I bickered. We bickered because I couldn't get over my hangups. He was disappointed that I couldn't feel comfortable nursing, the most natural of all acts between a mother and a child.

It makes me spineless for not feeling comfortable enough to stand up for myself and my child but lazy? In the words of my daughter, "No way, Jose."

If I were to have a second child I would like to think I'd be a lot more comfortable nursing my child in public and woe to the person who dares tell me I'm "lazy" for not forcing my child to take a bottle (one that's probably hazardous to his or her health) just to make that person feel more comfortable. I am not lazy. I am a mother who would be doing the best thing for her child and I'm extremely resentful that someone who doesn't have a pair of tits would dare to tell me otherwise.

You, Bill Maher, are a boob. Do us all a favor and go cover yourself up.

If you can't find the answers you can always buy them from Wal-Mart

An alpaca farm? Really? What the hell was I thinking?

I know exactly what I was thinking...

"Oh my God, I'm thirty-five and I have no idea where my life is going or which direction I should turn or if I should have another baby or if I should be happy with the one I've got or am I going to get off my ass and start my own business and stop talking about it already and can I do that with a new baby and a pre-schooler but if I don't start my own business what the hell am I going to do with my life?????"

All silliness aside, I am at a major crossroad in my life. This is definitely one of those times when I wish someone could take me by the hand, treat me like a five year old, and tell me what to do. What's the right path? What is the right decision? Are you there, God? It's me, Mrs. C.

God wasn't listening, so I asked the Magic 8 ball if I should have another baby. It said, "No way!"

I asked it if I should start my own business. It said, "Ask again later."

I asked it if I should hide under the covers with a bag of M&Ms. It said, "Yes."*

You don't have to hit me over the head with a brick twice. If you're looking for me, you'll know where to find me.


*The questions and answers asked of the Magic 8 Ball are real. They were not made up for comedic effect. The Magic 8 Ball is all-knowing and all-powerful. We used to have religion, now we have plastics.

If you have problems of your own that require real answers, consult the Magic 8 Ball.

Warning: Side effects may include - dizziness, vomiting, diarrhea, changes in mood, Oprah and Dr. Phil marathons, self-flagellation, chocolate binges and alcoholism. If you experience any of these symptoms, get your head out of your ass and take control of your life. It's a toy. If you're allowing the Magic 8 Ball to control your life, perhaps you should also consult a psychiatrist.

He'll come around once he realizes the brilliance of my plan

"Honey, let's move to Western Mass. and start an alpaca farm."

[silence]

"C'mon, it'll be great! We can raise alpacas and sell their fur! And I can finally start breeding dogs! You know I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

[uncomfortable silence]

"Maybe we can add a small boarding kennel to bring in some extra cash! And I could still teach dog training. I could do house calls or I could build a training facility right on the farm!"

[crickets]

"This could really work! If you get that new job you'll be traveling a lot anyway, so it's not like you have to be in an office. I bet they'd let you work from home."

[pin dropping]

"Wouldn't it be great to live in a place where we wouldn't have to worry about our neighbors being able to look right into our bathroom from theirs? I'd like to be able to sit on the pot without having to make sure the neighbor's kid isn't watching me wipe my ass."

[chirp chirp chirp]

"Clean living! Fresh air! Wide open spaces! Okay, sure, I don't know anything about raising alpacas, but I could learn! How hard can it be?"

[Grunting]

"I knew you'd like the idea! Chicky would really benefit from farm living. It will teach her the value of hard work. And how many kids do you know who can say they've helped birth a baby alpaca or a litter of puppies before they entered kindergarten?"

[Gets up and leaves the room]

Yelling: "This isn't going away! This isn't just a phase! When I'm a famous and incredibly wealthy alpaca farm owner, slash, dog breeder, slash, dog trainer, you'll be sorry you didn't jump on board when you had the chance!!"

[Sound of football game from bedroom]

To the dog: "He likes the idea. He just needs to get used to it. You'd like to live on an alpaca farm, wouldn't you?"

[Licks the places where his balls used to be, gets up and leaves the room.]

Where's Jake Ryan when you need him?

Yo, it's my birthday.

I'm gonna party like it's my birthday.

Which is to say, not at all. My husband is 3000 miles away so it's just me and Chicky. And the dogs. Maybe I'll throw us a bacon party. That will make everyone happy.

Bacon makes everything better.

We'll be like the pigeon in the Mo Willems books, except instead of a hot dog party we'll have a bacon party. And of course we'll invite Knuffle Bunny. Because nothing says a swinging good time more than a children's book about lost bunnies. I hear copies will be handed out at Diddy's next party.

And cupcakes! We can make cupcakes and gorge ourselves on frosting.

Bacon and cupcakes. Two great tastes that don't really go well together. But we're going to try it just to make sure.

Yeah, so, 35. I'm 35 years old. I wanted to write some grandiose post looking back on the last five years since I entered my thirties but it's really kind of a downer. Lots of death, lost jobs, a bit of depression, a butt load of uncertainty and self doubt. In other words things I'd rather not think about today.

I met my girlfriends and their kids at the park this morning and they brought me a coffee cake with "Happy 35th" and my name written in frosting on the top. That was nice.

My Nana left me a birthday message on my answering machine this morning, complete with music from her amazing singing birthday candle. That was nice.

Mr. C just called and sang the first two words of "Happy Birthday" to me. That was really nice. For about two seconds, until he told me he went to a totally nude strip club last night. In his defense I know he hates those places. It was "business". And I'm sure a lot of "business" is done in places where women flash you their coochies. I wonder if I should be worried about the flowers that were just delivered.

Where was I? Oh, my birthday. Yeah...

It's 78 degrees and sunny today. That's nice too.

Bacon and frosting and flowers and cake and musical candles... I should be happy right? Yeah, not so much.

I don't know why I always feel so blah on my birthday, it's not like traffic cops and mail carriers are going to stop what they're doing and serenade me from the street, complete with a dance routine and jazz hands. Though how cool would that be?

I think it started way back when I was 16 and nobody wished me a happy birthday until well after I had returned home from school. I shit you not, I was Molly-freaking-Ringwald for a good ten hours.

Or maybe it started on the day I turned 13 and my mom made her famous shoe leather steak and I choked on a bite, necessitating a maneuver cum Heimlich at the hands of my father. I still eat my food in really small bites.

And you'd think being that my birthday is on the thirteenth that the ones falling on Fridays would be horrible. Nope. Just the opposite. Those are always the best ones. Today is Thursday. So what does that tell you?

Screw it, I'm going to make my own party. We will have the aforementioned bacon and cupcakes party (but not together because the more I think about it it's really making me nauseous) and I'll cop a squat on the couch this evening and watch John Hughes movies. I've already been listening to albums from my youth for the past 24 hours and I will continue to do so even if my air keyboard solo during "That was Yesterday" only got me eye rolls from Chicky. She didn't even like my Lloyd Dobler impression during "In Your Eyes". I suppose something is lost when you're holding an iPod dock in two hands instead of a boom box.

But for now I'll just take a nap and hope to dream about Jake Ryan whisking me away to private birthday party for two in his little red Porsche. I won't even feel awkward about thanking him for getting my undies back.

Bath time with the Chickys

"Honey, can you please sit down on your tushy."

Chicky gives me a quizzical look and sits down.

"Tushy?"

"Yeah, your tushy. That's another word for your bum."

Pops up out of the water and smacks her butt. Hard.

"Dis?" Slaps it again.

"Yes, that," resisting the urge to pinch it.

"No, Mama, not Chicky's tushy. Dats Chicky's booty."

Proceeds to wiggle her butt while singing:

"Sake, sake, sake. Sake your booo-ty. Sake your booooo-tyyyy."

I'm so proud.

Somewhere... over my ovaries, skies are blue

** I've got a new review up at May We Recommend. Nina Garcia - The Little Black Book of Style. Did I like it? Did I hate it? Did it convince me to lose the mommy uniform? **


Apparently, a certain Redneck really wants me to get knocked up because this is the video she left for me on my Facebook page.

Go ahead, I dare you to watch it and not get all teary. And then tell me your internal lady parts don't ache just a little. And, no, I'm not mentioning you men, because if your external man parts were aching I'd really be concerned.

It's too bad my husband is away on business because we would so be making babies right now.

I should just put down the M&Ms and write this post already

On the left, information on different IUDs. On the right, a prescription for prenatal vitamins.

Einy, Meiny, Miny, Mo. Catch a baby by the toe. If it hollers let it go. Out pops...

In the spring, Mr. C and I decided to "revisit" the idea of having a second baby, but only after I cavorted drunkenly at Blogher and sowed some Quaker oats.

The term "wild" does not pertain to me anymore, sadly. I'll probably be churning my own butter soon. But I digress.

Due to a baggage snafu, and some poor packing on my part, my birth control pills were left behind in Boston while I went on to Chicago for Blogher. (Hello, Dr. Freud) I decided that was as good a time as any to stop taking them. Step one of get me preggers was in action.

(And I feel fantastic, by the way. No more wanting to throw myself in front of a bus! I highly recommend chucking your birth control pills if you can.)

My weekend in Chicago is nothing more than a blurry memory now, so we could not avoid the discussion any longer. We had to have the talk.

Dum, dum, duummmmm.

And...

Yep, still can't decide. Neither one of us. Stick with our one and only or become part of the American dream and strive for that 2.3 kid demographic? No freaking idea.

I'll be honest, the idea of having a second child scares the beejubs out of me. It took many, many years to get to the point where I could deal with having Chicky. I'm just not a kid person.

Actually, let me rephrase that. I'm not an infant person. I do love babies - the smell of slightly dirty baby head, tiny little baby shoes, that soft, smushy feeling when a baby falls asleep in my arms - but the rest of it? Eh. Not for me, thanks.

Not to mention my pregnancy with Chicky was a nightmare of epic proportions. Saying that I was nauseous for my entire pregnancy doesn't really do it justice. I was projectile vomiting for at least three months before my doctor took pity on me. She prescribed Zofran which, for those of you who had blessed pregnancies and never got sick (bitches), is an anti-nausea medication typically given to cancer patients going through chemotherapy. It helped. I was able to eat again, so that was a plus. But I was always in a state of constant nausea.

Hey, it kept me really thin. That's a plus I suppose.

There were more complications, but I'm really tired of bitching about my heinous pregnancy. It's not just carrying a kid again that scares me. It's not the fear of sciatica, extreme exhaustion, and constant puking. It's not even the fear of having another colicky baby who never, ever sleeps. Ever. It's the fear of throwing my life into complete upheaval that makes me want to hide under the covers until I go through menopause.

I like my life the way it is, okay? I said it. So there. I'm happy with one kid.

I've always felt like I was missing the necessary gene that made women all baby crazy. All my life I've felt inadequate due to my reluctance to have kids, like I'm less of a woman somehow. Now that I've taken the plunge and had a kid of my own I'm genuinely happy to be a mom. Chicky is amazing in every possible way and life wouldn't be the same without her.

I'd scream less, but that's besides the point. I'd love less too.

I have love in my heart for a second, but I'm content with the way things are now.

One is portable, two is a field trip.

One is manageable, two is a second mortgage.

One is amazing, two is... Well, I don't know what the comparison would be. My sister and I have an amazing relationship. Mr. C and his sister do too. It's hard to find fault with baby number two when you've got nothing but good experiences to base your decision on.

And if I'm not being so selfish as to worry just about myself and my relationship with my husband, there is Chicky to worry about. I've said having a second child for the benefit of the first is no reason to get pregnant again but Chicky is just so damn maternal and nurturing. She's got a lot of love to give too.

Chicky, my little monkey wrench.

Not a real baby, but must protect its sensitive glass eyes from sun damage just the same.

The conversation has been "revisited" since Chicago - ahem - so we'll see what happens. We've given ourselves a date to try until, I guess we'll just throw caution to the wind and see what fate has in store for us. The last time Mr. C looked at me cross-eyed and I got knocked up so it should be interesting to see what happens this time.

Until then I should probably get those prenatal vitamins. Just in case.

July/August ROFL Awards

Yes, Metro Mama and I postponed last month's ROFL Awards due to, to quote myself, personal "fucked uppedness".

Yes, they're now back.

Yes, laughter is good. Especially after fucked uppedness.

Yes, I have my own nomination. Yes, she's funny. Yes, she's one hot mama (for real, day-um). Yes, her post about the stinky cheese had me laughing my quickly expanding ass off.

Yes, I think Lindsay at Suburban Turmoil is one funny mother. She can tell a mean story.

Yes, I only wish that it were really possible to really laugh my ass off because then I wouldn't have to bother with squats.

Yes, I hate squats.

Yes, I'm done saying "yes".

Here's July and August ROFL nominees. Enjoy!


Sober Briquette awarded Julie Pippert


slackermommy awarded Wiping Up Snot


Oh, the Joys awarded Zen Proof


Cheezwhiz and Mustard awarded Queen of Shake Shake


Foggy City Mommy awarded Here in Idaho


One Plus Two awarded Where's My Cape


Oh, the Joys awarded Queen of Shake Shake


Playgroups are no place for children awarded It's like I'm Mmmagic


Rusti awarded Oh, the Joys


Cheaper than Therapy awarded Rockstar Mommy


Table 4 Five awarded I Am Bossy


Red Stapler awarded The I'mPerfect Mom

Speelunking in my closet

Remember my closet? There are some big time fashion don'ts in there (flannel? Really? Apparently I'm a lumberjack, and I'm OK) but it's the closet in my spare room where I found the real beauts.

But before I show you let me say this: these are items of clothing I own that I'm way too sentimental about to throw away. They're a piece of my history - ancient history, but still history - and I just can't part with them. Do you hear me? I WILL NOT be parted with them. You can try but you'll have to take them out of my cold, dead hands.

Concert t-shirts!!

Prepared to be dazzled.

Grateful Dead - 1993
I think it was in 1993. Certain substances passed around at Dead concerts make you forget things. Heh.

But wait, there's more!

Grateful Dead - Fall 1994
The last tour I saw before Jerry died. May he rest in peace.

We're not done yet! It gets better.


Official concert tee of Metallica's ...And Justice for All tour 1989 or 90.

Not just a tee, but a tank. And an extra-large to boot. At the time of this concert I weighed, maybe, 105 pounds. Zexy.

Reaching back further into the way back machine...


Def Leppard - Hysteria tour 1988(?)

The one in the round. The one where Rick Allen came back as the incredible one-armed drummer. The one where Joe Elliot wore those torn jeans. The one that made me feel all warm and fuzzy in my girlie parts.

And the Pièce de résistance


Journey - Raised on Radio tour 1987

And if you will notice the Chachi bandana. I wore that, yes I did.

This is just a small representation of the concert t-shirts I have owned throughout the years. I threw a bunch of them away and now I really wish I had them back. Fashion faux pas? Probably. Treasured memories? You betcha. A little embarrassing. Eh, I'm too old to care.

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This is part of the Parent Bloggers Network blog blast in association with Harper Collins new release "The Little Black Book of Style" by Nina Garcia.

If you'd like to get in on the action (a $250 Coach gift certificate is up for grabs!! I probably shouldn't tell you this because my chances will be decreased. Damn, too late.) write a post about the fashion blunders that are currently in your closet.

The future of the Red Sox

Whoever said girls can't play ball has never seen my two year old in action. Chicky is a natural.

(Must have gotten that from Mr. C, 'cause she didn't get her natural athletic abilities from me. I run like a wounded chicken.)

When she's a famous athlete (and a Nobel prize winner and a rock star and President of the United States) you'll be able to say you heard it here first.

I knew Orville Redenbacher was too nice to be believed

Now, that I am calm I can say with some rationality that I'm done trashing Whoop-dee-doo and Vick, the puppy killer.

I still stand by what I said: she was defending him. Even though she was not defending his actions she was defending his reasons for doing so, his judgment if you will. He didn't know it was wrong, my sphincter. If he didn't know it was wrong he wouldn't have lied about doing it. End of story.

But as much as I moan and groan that I never get trolls on this site (my kingdom for a troll! you've really arrived when you get one of those bad boys) and everybody is always so positive and affirming, it's great that commenters feel like they can disagree with me or just choose to not comment at all. Since I was raised to be a good do-be, I usually subscribe to the "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" approach to communication. I don't expect people to agree with me all the time. I do, however, expect you to be nice when you disagree. Be rational. Be thoughtful. And that's what I got. Thank you.

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In other randomness:

Beware of microwave popcorn fumes!

Popcorn lung, that's an actual documented disease. It could be potentially fatal to breath in fumes from microwave popcorn. That's right, kittens, that shit'll kill ya. But my question is, who makes more than one bag of microwave popcorn a day, every day? I eat half a bag and I get so bloated I look like I swallowed a soccer ball.

Um, too much information?

It's not bad enough that there's lead paint in, like, everything our kids play with (I knew that damn pooping dog of Barbie's was suspect) but now we have to worry about breathing in that deliciously yummy popcorn scent that makes you salivate like one of Pavlov's pooches.

I remember when I worked for a large corporation, when someone made a bag of microwave popcorn people would come out of the woodwork following the scent trail like a pack of bloodhounds. Heads would pop up out of cubes like groundhogs. It was a gloriously thing. Now they'll probably ban popcorn from work spaces.

Pretty soon we'll all be drinking water from special, heavily sanitized drinkware, munching on dry crackers and our kids will be playing with organically farmed tree stumps.

I think I'll go back to bed. Or maybe not. I bet the fabric softener I use is toxic. Maybe I'll just lay on the naked bed frame.

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One more thing (I know, I know):

I'm over at New England Mamas today talking about school uniforms. Do public schools have the right to enforce the wearing of uniforms upon their students? Would mandatory uniforms have saved me from most of my unfortunate 80s wardrobe?

Whoops Whoopi

I can't believe I missed the View this morning

*banging head on keyboard*

Whoopi Goldberg started today as official moderator of the morning bitch session, and she started it off by inserting foot directly into mouth.

She defended Michael Vick.

I KNOW.

(here's a piece of the show)

On Vick's convinction for dogfighting charges: "You know from his background this is not an unusual thing for where he comes from," said Goldberg. "There are certain things that are indicative to certain parts of our country."

And I was so excited to see her on that damn estrogen-fest. Now I'm really wishing they would have picked Mario whats-his-face. He was funny, I liked him. And I'm thinking he wouldn't have defended a convicted felon and a killer of innocent animals for profit.

I was trying to rationalize this in my mind. Maybe Whoopi Goldberg was freaked out by having to fill Rosie O'Donnell's shoes, as outspoken as they were? Stirring up the ol' pot of controversy, right?

But you missed your mark with me, Whoopi. I don't care that this was part of Vick's "culture". I don't care if he didn't quite realize that what he was doing was wrong because dog fighting is a fairly common practice where he comes from. I don't care about any of that. All I care about is that the man is going to prison for the death and torture animals because he wanted to put a few more bills in his pocket and then subsequently lost millions of dollars of endorsement deals. That the NFL has suspended him indefinitely. I care about that.

I do not, however, care for Whoopi right now.

There are lots of common practices all over the world that are accepted only in those cultures. Female circumcision, for instance. How do you feel about young girls being forced to have their clitoris mutilated, Whoopi? Or how about the process of stoning a woman to death because she had an alleged sexual affair? Is that alright?

Oh, but we're just talking about dogs, right? Not people. Yeah.

Well then, how about worthless animal testing? Is that worth defending?

I wonder if Whoopi has actually seen a dog fight or at least the end result of one.

(I'll warn you, that last link is not for the faint of heart.)

Way to go, Whoop. You cooked up a nice batch of controversy on your first day. Rosie would be proud. Unfortunately, I feel nauseous.

Home is where you're forced to make it

As part of our Fifth Anniversary Spectacular(!) - which was 24 full hours without Chicky (thanks to the in-laws), some sushi, and... you can use your imagination - Mr. C and I went to tour a house that had just come on the market.

(Oh sure, like you'd expect us to be having non-stop sex for 24 hours, right? We're not Sting and Trudy. Get a grip.)

The house was perfect in every way: Two car attached garage, three bedrooms with a fourth in the finished basement, redone kitchen with stainless and granite, family room, and a screened-in three season porch, all on over an acre of land in IN OUR PRICE RANGE. It was so wonderful I'm fairly sure if I rubbed the built-ins in the family room I'd be granted three wishes by a genie in a fez.

And the sellers already had a strong offer that they had accepted.

@$#&%#@%$!!!!

If this is your screen room, PLEASE rethink your offer and sell to us. I'll be your best friend. I'll bake you cookies. I'll get you a call girl. Whatever it takes.

So, no house for us. Mr. C and I spent the rest of the day moping like a couple of kids who just found out there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny and were pretty sure the Tooth Fairy was a sham too.

Funny thing is, we weren't even in the market for a new house. The one we're in is fine - not perfect, but fine - but this one popped up on the MLS updates we get by email and it spoke to us. It whispered sweet nothings in our ears of love and magical ponies and fellatio. But it was not to be.

I'm thinking of stalking the new owners. Maybe haunting their house and driving them out, ala Poltergeist or the Amityville Horror. Anyone know where I could get some corpses? Cheap?

No, we're not in the market but we like to look because even though we like our house, we don't love it. It needs work, just some updating, and frankly I don't know if I'm that emotionally invested in it to bother. Not to mention that I'm not enamored with our location. The town is fine but the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Nothing like living near a family whose sons shot the neighbor's Bichon and your bedroom window with a paint gun and the parents were just like "Eh, it's just boys being boys".

It would be nice if they put their dog on a leash occasionally, too.

But I have to admit, it's going to be hard leaving this house if the next perfect one comes along. Mr. C and I were married in the backyard.

(I do not recommend that. Not for one second.)

This is where our dogs have grown up. This is the house we brought Chicky home to as a wee colicky newborn. And in the immortal words of the American Idol judges, we've really made it our own.

We've decided to work with a realtor anyway. The way I figure, it's going to take awhile for the perfect house to fall in our laps, so what's the bother in having a professional run around doing the work for us? In the meantime we'll patch up the scratched woodwork and maybe re-do the bathroom. And I'll buy my own paintball gun. Just in case.

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Over at New England Mamas:

A couple of the ladies are talking about the Buchholz no-hitter. One of our writers was there... with her Yankee-loving husband. She's a bigger woman than I.

Sarah is an Iron Girl - or as I call her, a glutton for punishment - and she's looking for more.

I'm becoming convinced that there is no such thing as a mother blogger from Maine. Or a father blogger for that matter. I've gone looking and everything and still no luck. Please help us spread the word. We're looking for one contributor from Maine who is a parent and also has a their own blog (and it doesn't have to be a "mommy blog"). If we don't find one soon we'll have to call ourselves the "Mamas from Five New England States, excluding that one with all the lobster". The email address is NEMamas [at] yahoo [dot] com.

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One more thing and then I'm done:

Metro Mama and I decided to skip last month's ROFL Awards, due to all sorts of fucked uppedness that was going on in our lives.

But they're back! Yes! Back with a vengeance!

(If you don't know what in the Sam Hell I'm talking about go here.)

This coming Friday the July/August ROFL's will be posted so we need your nominations. Send the nominations for the funniest posts on teh internets (they don't have to be limited to parent bloggers either) to Chicky Chicky Baby 2 [at] yahoo [dot] com. Send them in by 10pm Eastern Time on Thursday, Sept. 6.

Oh, and because we skipped last month you can nominate a funny post from either July or August.

Spread the laughter and award someone another useless button for their sidebar. Get those nominations in now. Like, today. Or soon. Really soon. Tomorrow would be good. Or Wednesday... Thursday at the latest, 'kay?