I don't know how I do it

Hey there, blog. How have you been? Me? Oh, I've been a little bit busy. I'm working on a new/old endeavor. I have two kids who won't give me a moment's peace. I have a husband who travels extensively for work, leaving me with even less peace than I would normally get.

(If you're playing along at home, we would be up to 0% peace. Scratch that, .5% peace. Sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom and wait for the savages to stop beating on the door and begging for snacks/television/books/someone to wipe their butt. It's called "Self Preservation".)

My family and I, we make it through the day the best we can and some days that best is not so good. But funny enough, friends and acquaintances, upon hearing about my group blog or latest trips Mr. C has taken that require him to away from home about 75% of the time (true story - in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, my husband was gone something like 16 out of 21 days. Yeah, that month sucked.) say to me, "I don't know how you do it."

Want to know my secret, how I "do it"?

The dishes are basically done...
Except for the stack next to the sink that never seems to get smaller.

And the house is reasonably clean.
Just don't look under the couch. Or in the corners. And pay no mind to the pet hair stuck to the furniture. And for the love of Pete, DON'T LOOK BEHIND THAT CLOSED DOOR.

The kids are well taken care of...
When was the last time I gave them a bath?

and are well fed.
I always serve vegetables with their boxed mac and cheese. And sometimes they eat them.

And occasionally, after everyone is cared for, fed and put to bed...
Please sleep through the night for once, baby. Mama is begging here.

the pets are attended to and medication is dolled out...
When was the last time the dogs had a walk? And is that the cat box I smell??

emails are sent...
Only five people I forgot to email in the past week? Not bad!

toys are picked up...
thrown in a box/kicked under the couch/thrown in the trash.

phone calls are made...
Damn, when was the last time I spoke to my Nana?

and I've written something for my other blog and attended to that business...
So what if I stay up until midnight to get things done? That's why coffee was invented. WEEEE!

I get some time to relax and take care of myself.
Work out? Psssh. How about five minutes with wine and Nutella? That's, er, not too unhealthy.

But is that really any worse than how most have it? Sure, most parents I know have another spouse around to help out but that's not my life right now. Mr. C has to travel for work and that's not going to change any time soon so we make do the best we can with the time we have. We're surviving, it's not optimal but, in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, we make it work. And if that means feeling incredibly guilty for wanting to have an evening out with friends, so guilty that it leaves a slight black mark on the occasion for me, or putting off that yoga class I want to take because going means less time together as a family...

Bottom line? This time in our lives kind of sucks. Not entirely - the kids are great, Mr. C and I are happy together and at least one of us has a job that put food on our table and keeps a roof over our heads - but life is difficult right now. However, I get by knowing it won't always be like this and I am buoyed but the fact that I'm not alone. Um, right?

In the meantime, there's caffeine and chocolate. Now I only wish I could find them. Maybe they're under the dishes...

The search for the perfect pair of jeans. Alternate title: The grass is always greener on someone else's thighs.

I am at war with my body.

After two kids and almost 37 years on the earth, not to mention the winter and long, cold, wet spring we just went through (or as I like to call it, Nutella-Palooza, '08 - '09), things don't look quite the same as they did back in the day. "The Day" being when I was a size 0 and my legs looked like tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches that then were the source of much teasing but are now in style. Fucking tree branches.

I'm having difficulty reconciling the fact that my body is different than it used to be. I was always very skinny, naturally so, and I never had to work out (though I did, it's much more enjoyable when you don't have to) and eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese with a side of large fries and washing it down with a 10 piece Chicken McNugget was something I never gave much thought to.

(Nary an extra pound nor bout of heartburn to contend with. Ah, memories.)

Do you hate me for writing that*? It's okay, I kind of hate me right about now. More to the point, I kind of hate the 22 year old me (and 19 year old me, and 15 year old me and...) for not liking the way she looked back then. I'd like to go back in time and shake her by her slender neck (the one that didn't have the beginnings of a waddle hanging over it) and tell her to lose the negative body image thing (Because, really? You're 110 pounds and 5'8. Suck it up, Buttercup) and enjoy going into any store she wanted to and buying whatever type of clothing caught her fancy without ever needing to try it on. I'd kind of like to tell the 30 year old me the same thing. I'd also tell her to wear more sunscreen.

My body, though still on the slender side, has changed. Things that were once flat are now bumpy and things that were once firm are now jiggly. Which is fine if you're a jello salad but not so much if you're a woman with body issues.

Pants don't fit the same and Spanx is not something kinky one does in the bedroom. And I certainly don't have the luxury of going into clothing stores and buying things without a trip to the dreaded changing room, with their flourescent lights (very flattering to dimpled thigh fat, by the way. If I wanted a diorama of the Grand Canyon I'd make one out of a shoe box and some modeling clay, thank you very much.) and institutional paint job designed to make sure you don't get all cocky in those new clothes.

But believe it or not, this post is not about negative body image.

(Really Tania? After all that this isn't just you bitching about your body? No really, you should thank me. What I've got on that subject could fill the entire internet and if I did that there would be no more room for videos of cats falling off of pianos, so I'll save it for now. You're welcome)

No this post is about denim. Or more to the point, the search for the perfect pair of jeans.

Like ROUS's, I don't think they exist. (Gosh, that joke never gets old, does it?) At least not for less than the price of a used mid-sized sedan. But still I search. I try on. I squeeze and tuck - you know, got to put the muffin top somewhere - and grunt and groan. And then I get frustrated and pig out on french fries.

All I want is a decent pair of jeans that don't make me look like I'm smuggling watermelons in my thighs. Except for cupcake top around my middle (I know it's a muffin top but cupcakes are sweeter. And they have frosting. And I love them with all my heart. And that may be why I have a muffin top.) I'm still on the smaller (read: medium) side and my hips aren't too bad, it's my upper thighs that always get me. I keep hearing Stacy and Clinton say, Look for a pair of pants that hits you at your widest point and then goes straight down from there. Yeah, THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.

Two words - Skinny. Jeans.

Two more words - Fuck. Off.

Still, they have to be out there somewhere. I shop, I buy, I come to my senses, and I return. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. That's how I roll.

But let's take this step by step, shall we?

So here is how I shop for the perfect pair of jeans, in 18 easy steps

(Okay I know - 18?? It was 29 but I edited. You're welcome.)

Ahem.

Step 1: Go through your entire wardrobe and try on every pair of jeans you own. Chuck out the old, the tired, the out of style, the "What in the Sam Hell was I thinking?" and the "Not in a million years and an eating disorder will you ever fit in these again". Realize you're down to one pair of jeans that fits and you're only keeping those because picking up your child from preschool whilst nearly naked from the waist down is probably not going to win you any friends.

Step 2: Cry over the death of your youth and then give your children the stink eye for ruining your figure. Then hug your children because you feel badly for thinking that way (Oh, you're totally still thinking it, but with love.)

Step 3: Decide to shop for jeans online because poking at your thighs and squeezing your belly flap is more socially acceptable while standing in your own bedroom. While popping Hershey's Kisses.

Step 4: Ask lovely people on Twitter where they shop. Love the people on Twitter. On Twitter no one knows your thighs aren't as thin as they once were. Unless you tell them. Which you will because it's TWITTER.

Step 5: Take suggestions and then search every website known to man. Make disparaging remarks about the anorexic models and their nonexistent hips. Words "bitch" and "bite me" may be used. Liberally.

Step 6: Put a a bunch of jeans that don't scare you in your virtual shopping cart. You can always return the ones you don't like, right? Gasp audibly upon seeing the total while checking out. Decide you could stage a coup in a small third world country for that amount of money and delete a couple (read: all but two) from your cart.

Step 7: Wait for cute UPS guy to deliver a package. Chuckle over the word "package" in relation to cute UPS guy because you're a 12 year old boy. A twelve year old boy with 36 year old hips.

Step 8: When UPS guy shows up 5 days later with your package (heh) answer the door side ways to give the illusion of smaller midsection and smile winningly. Try to ignore his bemused expression and his quick exit. Take box, slam door (but first, watch UPS guy's butt as he makes quick getaway), and then run to bedroom with box in breathless anticipation for Best. Jeans. EVER.

Step 9: Break a nail opening box. Swear. Lie about what those words mean to impressionable four year old who was helping you open the box.

Step 10: Take jeans out of box. Look at them quizzically. Hmm, they looked different online (after two glasses of wine).

Step 11: Try on jeans. Try to find place to put the jelly roll that is your tummy. Above the waistline? Below the waistline? Decide to try to tuck it in like blousy shirt.

Step 12: Detach flesh roll from zipper. Apply Neosporin.

Step 13: Look in full length mirror. Hmm, kind of tight in the thighs. Typical. Maybe heels are needed. Yes, heels are much better! Makes legs look slim! Grunt while running to closet to find pair of heels that don't hurt your broken toe. Give up and decide pain is worth it. Limp back to mirror. Ah, much better. Excruciatingly painful, but better.

Step 14: Decide to take pictures to send to husband who is in California (or Michigan, you forget at this point) to get his opinion.

Step 15: Look at picture in camera screen. Consider Photoshopping your legs before sending picture. Also wonder if your camera is broken. Or maybe your mirror.

Step 16: Cry while on the phone with your husband. I'm sure they look great, he says. Refuse to send him picture. What does he know? He's in Michigan. Or Florida. You forget.

Step 17: Package jeans to return. Suck up shipping fees both ways. Realize that was your iced coffee money for two weeks.

Step 18: Get frustrated. Feel hopeless. Decide after much denial you have no choice but to go to the Mall.

Oh yes, the Mall.

Sometimes, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

And that is enough for now, lambs.

Tune in next time for THIGHS. IN. SPACE. Er, MALL.

(Okay not really, just part two of The Search for the Perfect Pair of Jeans. Or, If a 100 pound sales girl is murdered in the dressing room of an upscale department store and she totally had it coming but no one is around to witness it, will anyone mourn the loss?)

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*And careful about what you say about size in relation to image problems. Many, many years of teasing has made me what I am today. You picking on me for hating the way I look sometimes will only get you a beat down of epic proportions. Also, I'm fragile.

See ya Blondie...

... Hello Red.

Tune in next week when I get bored again and dye it blue. On a related note, I think I may need a hobby.

Blogger in a box (Alternate title: Miming sucks)

A few weeks ago I lost my voice. Really, an almost 100% loss of the use of my vocal chords and it sucked about as much as you can imagine. Daily activities become extremely complicated when one has to pantomime what they want, since pointing and grunting and the occasional obscene finger gesture can only get you so far.

Take, for instance, parenting. It's degrading to yell at a three year old and have her point and laugh at you because all you can muster is a squeak. Or should I say, it's more degrading than usual to yell at a three year old and in response she points and laughs at you, squeak or no squeak.

My voice is still not back to normal but it's better. But as difficult as it was trying to get my point across when I didn't have a voice, this writer's block I'm experiencing is one thousand times worse. It took me 30 minutes to write these three paragraphs. I wish I was kidding.

Quick, someone meme me or something.

Notorious

I don't usually do this type of thing, but this quiz sized me up just a little too well. Kinda spooky.

Guess I need to work on my Swedish accent.

(Thanks, Miguelina!)

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Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are an Ingrid!

You are an Ingrid -- "I am unique"

Ingrids have sensitive feelings and are warm and perceptive.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.


• * Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.


• * Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.


• * Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.


• * Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!

What I Like About Being an Ingrid

• * my ability to find meaning in life and to experience feeling at a deep level


• * my ability to establish warm connections with people


• * admiring what is noble, truthful, and beautiful in life


• * my creativity, intuition, and sense of humor


• * being unique and being seen as unique by others


• * having aesthetic sensibilities


• * being able to easily pick up the feelings of people around me

What's Hard About Being an Ingrid

• * experiencing dark moods of emptiness and despair


• * feelings of self-hatred and shame; believing I don't deserve to be loved


• * feeling guilty when I disappoint people


• * feeling hurt or attacked when someone misundertands me


• * expecting too much from myself and life


• * fearing being abandoned


• * obsessing over resentments


• * longing for what I don't have

Ingrids as Children Often

• * have active imaginations: play creatively alone or organize playmates in original games


• * are very sensitive


• * feel that they don't fit in


• * believe they are missing something that other people have


• * attach themselves to idealized teachers, heroes, artists, etc.


• * become antiauthoritarian or rebellious when criticized or not understood


• * feel lonely or abandoned (perhaps as a result of a death or their parents' divorce)

Ingrids as Parents

• * help their children become who they really are


• * support their children's creativity and originality


• * are good at helping their children get in touch with their feelings


• * are sometimes overly critical or overly protective


• * are usually very good with children if not too self-absorbed

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Ask me a question and I'll tell you no lies. Unless you want me to.

Oh hey, lookie here. I've got a blog. I should probably write something, eh?

Um...

This is the first time in my blogging career (and I use that term VERY loosely) that I've been at a total loss for words. Maybe it's because I missed Blogher this year. Or it might have something to do with that new baby of mine. Or maybe it's all the energy that is required of me to keep watch over my two children. Because you never know when Chicky will try to love C.C. so much that her little head pops right off.

I know this is lame, and I know I've done it before, but I need a small push to keep writing. So ask me anything and I'll be as honest as I possibly can. Any questions you've ever had about me just ask away. I'm an open book. Want to know about me in high school? Anything about my childhood? Musical preferences? Embarrassing stories (be specific please)? Favorite sexual position?

Okay, scratch that last one. I don't want to bore you all to death.

I need ideas or this blog will slip away from me while I'm busy trying not to duct tape Chicky to the wall.

So, what do you want to know about me? Anyone? Bueller?

Ooh, ooh! I've got a question. Can you come over here and wipe my butt?

And why did you do this again?

That's the question I've gotten asked a lot this pregnancy. Much more than you would think or even more than what would be considered polite to bring up in mixed company. But thankfully my friends and family skirt the line of polite and instead say what they're thinking. And that's why I like them.

Why are you going through this again, this pregnancy, when it was so horrible the first time?

That, my friends, is the $64,000 question. Why would I go through another pregnancy when I knew what I was getting myself into (More or less. People do love to tell me that every one of their pregnancies were SO different. Yeah, mine? Not so much.)? Why did I go ahead and get knocked up again when I was adamant that we were "One and done"?

Why, indeed.

The short answer? My grandmother died.

I know, I know... Totally bizarro reason. But hear me out. There's a process here.

Mr. C and I had been talking about the possibility of having another kid. Time had passed, memory had dulled. We gave ourselves three months of not really trying but not really not trying to get pregnant and then we'd give up and be happy with what we had.

So I decided to throw caution to the wind and I packed my birth control pills in my checked luggage for my trip to Blogher '07, instead of in my carry-on. And wouldn't you know, my bag got lost? OF COURSE it did.

(Students of Freud, feel free to jump in anytime.)

Two days without pills and I just decided to stop taking them. Such a hassle anyway. And Mr. C and I could always use protection if we wanted to.

And then my Gram passed away shortly after I arrived home.

There I was at the funeral and the graveside service that followed, watching siblings console siblings and cousins consoling cousins. And when my sister and I stood arm and arm at the grave where my mother is also buried I knew... I just knew...

I couldn't let Chicky grow up without someone to stand arm and arm with during life's difficult moments.

Of course, we couldn't have known that we would get pregnant so quickly upon not-trying-but-not-really-not-trying. I mean, it took us TWO WHOLE TRIES to get pregnant with Chicky.

Ahem.

To be perfectly clear, I'm not having another child for the first one. Chicky didn't ask for this. She might have one day. She might have begged until she was blue in the face for a brother or sister. But I did not do this just for her.

I did this for me.

My reasons for getting pregnant and going through hyperemesis and all the joys that accompany it again were purely selfish. That's right, I wanted to throw up my guts for months and months. Okay, not really. I wanted the peace of mind that my children would at least have another person in this world to help deal with my old, wrinkly self when the time came. Or deal with Mr. C's wrinkly self.

I didn't want the possibility of nursing homes, hospice care, medical proxy's, or funeral arrangements to fall squarely on just one person. I know me. I'm a worrier. Who needs that kind of stress when you're old or sick?

It wasn't totally doom and gloom that made me want to get pregnant again. I mean, how depressing, right? I wanted to make sure Chicky had someone in her life that she could turn to and bitch about her parents to.

"Mom and Dad are totally nuts! They won't let me stay out all night so I can go to this major kegger at Bobby's house! It's not like I'm going to do anything WRONG. I'm FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. They're being SOOO UNFAIR."

Can't you just imagine that? Chicky dramatically bursting through a closed bedroom door and throwing herself down on her sister's bed? Lamenting her fate of having the world's worst parents ever? I can. And it makes me happy.

It also pleases me that she'll have someone to watch over. Someone to take care of and be somewhat responsible for. I can't wait to watch Chicky and the little one walking hand in hand. Okay, not so much hand in hand but rather I'll drag you by the hand and you will follow me because you're smaller.

So you see, it's all about my happiness, my peace of mind. I got pregnant because I am a selfish woman. Mr. C is still trying to figure it out.

"Don't bitch to me because you feel fat. I still have the box of condoms in my bedside drawer."

Yes siree, it's all about me. And yes, I threw something at him after he said that. I can't chase him down and beat him but my aim is still good.

My selfishness only goes so far, however. After this one we are done. I like the world to revolve around me but multiple pregnancies tend to result in multiple kids, you know?

Now, if the birth and all that yucky stuff had nothing to do with me I would be a sublimely happy.

It's time to bring this ship into the shore, And throw away the oars forever.

I can't put it off any longer - I need to finish this question and answer thing I signed myself up for. So let's bring this big old leaky ship into port, shall we? Before it sinks in the hah-bah and brings me down with it.

My new girl crush, Foop, asked: Would you go back and change something that you did in your life if it meant that you'd be a different person in the present.

There is no easy answer to this question. I'd like to say no, because I do believe that everything I've done in my life, for good or bad, has directly impacted who I am as a person today and overall I'm pretty happy with that person and where she is. I've been inappropriate and made some downright questionable choices in my life, but here I am with a man I love, a daughter who challenges me and another one on the way who, I'm sure, will follow in her sister's adorable footsteps.

If it sounds like I'm sidestepping this question, you're right. But I'm not sure how much I want to share on this blog so you'll have to be happy with the scraps I give you. For now.

(Hey look over there! It's a change of topic!)

Foop also asked who did my blog. That would be Izzy. I highly recommend working with her. She rocks as much as those pretty shoes in my blog header do.

The wonderful Kyla said: I'll be easy on you....are you coming to BlogHer?

Unfortunately, no. If they had picked a more central location for the conference I might have been able to swing it. But I don't think I'll be up for a cross-country trip six or so weeks after I push this baby from my lady parts.

But do you know what this means, all of you who are going? More wine for you! Whoohoo!

I am considering meeting my Canadian sisters up in Niagra Falls though. Those ladies have a powerful hold over me. The chance to hang out with them might convince me to pack up my wee baby just to get my fill of the Canucks.

On that same topic,my friend Jen asked: Did you and Redneck Mommy get it on at Blogher last year? I've always been dying to ask you that. You can be honest, it's ok.

Redneck Mommy was gracious enough to be my roommate for last year's Blogher, but I'm not answering this question. What happens at Blogher, stays at Blogher. You of all people should know that, my dear. I do, after all, have a picture of you and T. in a rather compromising position.

Heh.

Kittenpie, one of those aforementioned Canadians who might convince me to get my bruised and battered lady parts off the couch and up to the Falls because I love her so, asked: I would like to know how you came to love them (Dogs) and work with them and how you go about being qualified for such a thing and if there is a breed you like best.

I've always loved dogs. I think my normally shy nature needs their outgoing personality to bring me out of my shell. As quiet as I can be (no, really. I'm very quiet in person.) I become a completely different person when working with or talking about dogs. I'd like to think a better person.

As for how I came to work with them, now that's a bit of a long story and one I was hoping to include in the next installment of Alpha Bitch. I'll be writing that this week, hopefully before I head off to the Johnson and Johnson Camp Baby shindig, but if not, right after.

My favorite breed? Labradors. I love me a nice lab.

I even married a lab.

No really. If I were to describe a creature who puts swimming, catching a frisbee, long hikes and then taking a long nap with his favorite person at the top of his list of things he loved most in life as well as almost always being in a good mood, friendly to everyone he meets, extremely smart and amazingly loyal and loving, you might think I was describing one of my dogs. But it's actually Mr. C.

Training my dogs has been easier, however. Eh, Mr. C is a better kisser. There's a bit of give and take with every relationship.

If I had to choose another breed, I might go with the Welsh Springer Spaniel. But I've never owned one. Yet.

Manic Mommy, a fellow New England gal, asked: How does Chicky feel about becoming a big sister? Have you decided on a name? What's your due date? Are you two and through or would you ever consider a third?

Wow, this could be two or three posts. But for now the easy answers are -

She's getting used to the idea but I don't think she'll understands how much her life will change yet. I think she'll be a good older sister once she gets past the jealousy of having to share our attention. Now that will be a hurdle.

We've almost decided on a name. Mr. C picked it. It seemed fair since I picked Chicky's name. I don't love it but I'm learning to.

I'm due on May 25th but I'm almost hoping I'll go a bit early. I'm so done being pregnant and uncomfortable.

We were supposed to be one and done but things changed. And that, my lambs, is what belongs in another post. Three is not even a possibility. If I wasn't superstitious, Mr. C would already have his man parts snipped.

Sandra, yet another one of my Canadian loves, had a two-fer: What advice do you wish the grown-up Mrs. Chicky could have given her teenage self?

Stop being so afraid and take chances. Even if you fail, it will be a learning experience. And learn to open your mouth and speak up for yourself. People will respect you more if you're a bit of a bitch than if you continue being a doormat.

Oh, and lose the blue eyeshadow and the huge mall hair. It's not a pretty look for you. Neither are the pinch-rolled pants and the acid washed jean jackets.

I really wish I could go back in time.

Her second question was, When are you moving to Canada????

Have I mentioned how much I love these women? And I know she wants me up there for me and not for my free dog training advice... Uh, right Sandra?


My favorite Redneck asked: If you could go anywhere in the world for a free vacation, where would it be and what would you do?

Yes, T., I would love to go hang out with you in Redneck land, having pillow fights in our PJs and braiding each other's hair, but since you know that already I guess I'll have to come up with another answer.

It's a hard choice. I'd love to go to Scotland or Portugal to see where my great great grandparents came from but I'd also love to go back to Italy for an extended tour and see the entire country. I've been all over Tuscany but I'd love to see Rome, the Amalfi coast, Umbria and maybe take a short stop in Venice, just to say I've been there. Mr. C and I have a soft spot in our hearts for Italy. We were engaged there. We tried, unsuccessfully, to conceive Chicky there. We have wonderful memories of that beautiful country.

Eh, screw the ancestors. I want to go back to Italy and have some kick ass food and wine.

And finally, FINALLY, my friend and neighbor Sarah asked: Your dream house? Where would it be and what would it have to include?

I just can't leave our family, so let's pretend my dream house is here in Massachusetts. I'd prefer to live closer to the coast so I could be near my sister and the ocean. I'd love to live in a custom Cape (Cape Cod style) house that had four bedrooms, a dedicated office for my darling, hardworking husband, a large dining room so we could have more dinners with friends and family and a gourmet kitchen. Also for my darling, hardworking husband. My pitiful attempt at meals are not worthy of a 48" Wolf gas range or a sub-zero fridge, but my man can cook. Woo, can he cook.

It would also sit on an acre or two (at least!) of land surrounded by trees so my kids and my dogs would have room to run without feeling like we're on top of our neighbors. It would have a large in ground pool because all those I love seem to be part fish and a tile patio where I could put my lounge chair and watch.

There would be hardwood floors and large windows to let in the sunlight. A large master bath with a jetted tub, because I, not being part fish, prefer to soak while reading a good book with the door locked. A family room off the kitchen, with loads of built in bookshelves, where my kids could play and I could keep an eye on them while trying to learn to cook. And a sunroom, to take in the few months of nice weather we have up here in the north country.

It's out there somewhere. I may have to sell my soul for it but it might be worth it.

Whatever house we settle into, I want it to be comfortable and inviting. And large enough so I can invite you all over for the housewarming party.

Just bring wine. I'm not going to be pregnant forever.

I would totally change my middle name to narcissism... if I could spell it without needing spell check.

Okey dokey. Your questions answered, part deux.

Not a Mean Girl asked this rather unsettling question: If you had to choose between a Colonoscopy with no anesthetic or a root canal with no anesthetic which would you choose and why?

Uh. Ooo-kay.

I would have to say the colonoscopy. As Fairly Odd Mother was nice enough to point out there aren't too many nerve endings once you get past the ol' balloon knot (Eeew, I just grossed myself out by writing that) and from what I hear, a root canal without anesthetic would be akin to pulling your lower lip up over your forehead and then stapling it to the back of your neck. But with only one staple so that the lone staple would sloooowly rip out and your lip would spring back to your face like a window shade but not before slapping you in the throat. Only much, much worse.

Or something like that.

(Aren't you so glad I started with this question?)

Speaking of Fairly Odd Mother she had a two-fer: Other than animal welfare/rights/anything to do with animals, what 'cause' gets your blood thumping through your veins.

I had no problem with this one and it goes nicely with Not a Mean Girl's question - Colon Cancer Awareness. I'm passionate about getting everyone who is either in a risk group (close relative with prior colon/rectal cancer diagnosis) or over the age of 50 to have a colonoscopy.

I've slipped this year, however. Normally I'm all about letting everyone know that March is Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month and I haven't mentioned it here once this year. My bad. But it doesn't matter if you have a colonoscopy done in the month of March or any other month, it only matters that you get one if you need it.

Colon Cancer is a beatable cancer, if it is caught early. Some of my regular readers know that my mother died in 2004 from the disease and she was only 51. She was diagnosed when she was 44 years old, a full six years before the American Medical Association recommends getting your first test. Two of my mom's friends died of the disease a year or two before she did and they were also her age. Obviously testing should be done as early as possible.

If you need to get a colonoscopy and you're a little freaked out about some doctor putting things into where they should be coming out of check out this post of FOM's at the New England Mamas. She answered her "booty call" and lived to tell the tale.

[getting off my soapbox now]

And FOM's next question that, thankfully, has nothing to do with anyone's ass: Will you be totally truthful with your girls when they someday ask, "Did you ever try drugs?" or "Did you ever have sex before you were married?"

The 2008 me says Yes. Absolutely, I will tell my girls when the time is right that I did try drugs and I did have sex before marriage.

(Pick your chin up off the floor. I know your image of me is shattered but we'll all get through this, 'kay?)

The day it actually happens might be a different story, I'll probably want to lie but I'd like to believe I'll be honest with my kids.

My mom, bless her ignorant heart, tried to make my sister and me believe that she had never done anything not worthy of a Catholic saint in her life. Then one day when we were teens we overheard her talking with my dad and some friends about smoking pot. After we got over the initial shock (OMG, Mom smoked pot. No freaking way. I bet she didn't inhale.) my sister and I confronted her and she just smiled. I don't know about my sis but I had way more respect for Mom after that. She was a real person after all. Who knew?

And for the record, I didn't try pot until I was in college. For reals. But that's another story for another time.

Mackenzie's Momma asked: If you had the super power, what ONE thing would you stop/preform in the world(i.e. world peace, ending hunger etc)

I'd wipe out cancer for all living things, not just people but for animals too. And all cancers not just colorectal. Are you sensing a theme here?

Velma asked: What are the two things you've done in your life you are most proud and ashamed of?

Even though I haven't popped out the second one yet, I'm going to say I'm most proud of having my girls. I never in a million years thought my body was capable of doing any of that.

As for ashamed of, I'm still working on that. Heh. There's lots more life in me and many more opportunities to shame myself.

Christina asked: What is the most embarrassing thing that EVER happened to you in high school?

Oh Christina, high school was just one long embarrassing moment for me. But the worst one that comes to mind was the day I wore a skirt to school - which was something I didn't usually do, especially after 6 years of having to wear them in Catholic school - and I unexpectedly got my period and didn't realize it until I sat through Mrs. Rogers' English class. A big red spot on the back of a skirt is kinda hard to hide, ya know? Let's just say I wasn't the first one to notice it.

And now that I've picked off that scab I'll be having the nightmares again. Thanks Christina.

One more question before I go curl up in the fetal position in the corner and rock myself to sleep until the painful memory goes away.

Mandy asks: What's the worst thing you ever did for money? (Define "worst" in any way you wish.)

I'm not sure what Mandy's impression of me is after reading this question or who she's been talking to, but I can assure you that no matter how real those pictures look that was not me in that hotel room with with a certain governor in seemingly compromising positions.

ahem.

So, um, I'll have to say all those times I was tending bar and never wore my wedding ring to get better tips. Drunk men always tip better when they think they can go home with the bartender they've been flirting with all night. It's true, look it up.


Part three of this me lovefest will happen this weekend, or whenever I can get this blurriness in my vision to go away. Whichever comes first. It probably seems like I'm drawing this out, and I am, but since Chicky performed her Three Stooges move on me I get a nasty headache if I stare at the computer for too long. And let me tell you, it's really putting a damper on my online porn watching.

Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

So you can take that cookie and stick it up your, Yeah! Stick it up your, Yeah!

The title of this post has nothing to do with the content and everything to do with that damn Limp Bizkit song being stuck in my head, even though I have not heard that song in at least two years. Which is why I asked you all to ask me questions, any question you wanted, so that I wouldn't be forced to abuse my brain any more than necessary to come up with new and exciting blog entries during this lovely phase of pregnancy some call the Last Trimester and I call the Seventh Circle of Hell.

Let's start the answerin', shall we?

Oh, but before we begin I must commend those of you who were willing to play along. You didn't just lob softballs at me. No, these are 95 mph, Roger Clemens hopped up on steroids aiming at Mike Piazza's head like it was the target of a dunk tank fastballs. Thanks for taking it easy on the pregnant chick.

/sarcasm


I'm going to start with some of the easier ones.

Jessica asked: If you could have dinner with four fiction characters... who would they be?

I'm not sure if she meant fiction, as in characters from books, or fictional and she just missed the a and the l and she really meant any character from a book, television show or movie. I'm going to go with the latter since I can't for the life of me think of any books I've read besides the one I'm currently reading.

The baby. She's. Eating. My. Brain. Nom nom nom.

1. Martin Blank - Grosse Point Blank. (played by John Cusack)
Hands down, one of my favorite movies ever. Wouldn't you want to share a nice bottle of cabarnet and a good steak with a killer-for-hire? You would if he looked like John Cusack.

2. John Amsterdam - New Amsterdam.
He's lived for 400 years so you know he's got some great stories. Plus? He's HAWT and I have naughty dreams about him. Good looks are not a requirement for dinner with me but they don't hurt.

3. Lassie - How else will we know if someone's fallen down a well while we're enjoying our hors d'oeurves? And she can eat all the fatty pieces of steak that crowd my plate and impede my progress.

4. God - When someone convinces me He's real I'll move Him out of the "fictional" category.

(See, I say that but I totally had to capitalize He and Him because you never know where that lightning bolt is coming from.)


Moving right along, All Things BD asked: What TYPE of cookie crumbs are currently scattered across your chest? Also translates into, If you had to pick just one cookie to marry, what type would it be?

My cookie of choice these days, and the ones whose crumbs covered my chest on that day, are the peanut butter patty Girl Scout cookies. I would totally marry that cookie and pledge my life forever and ever to it and have little peanut butter cookie babies with it. And then I'd eat them.

But seriously, when my last box is gone I think I'll cry a little. Okay, I'll have a full blown melt down complete with rendering my garments and throwing crystal vases. I may need to seek professional help.

(Note to self - Must find way to birth peanut butter cookies.)


My girl MotherBumper asked: If you could learn any single skill a la Matrix (ie. upload to the Mrs. Chicky platform with no significant effort), what ONE skill would that be?

This was an easy one. The ability to wear skin tight leather and look fabulous doing so.


Heather asked: What's your favorite book and why?

Damn. Couldn't escape the book question forever, I suppose.

I'm going to go with the easy answer - A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. This book left the biggest impact on the young girl I once was - many, many years ago - and I can't even remember how many times I read it. I can't wait until Chicky is old enough to read it for herself.

Just My Life asked: Favorite cartoon character and why?

Just one? Damn.

This one is, of course, subject to change because I refuse to commit to just one. I'll commit to one today but tomorrow is another day.

Pinky and the Brain. I know, technically they're two characters but you can't have one without the other. You can't try to take over the world without a good Snarf.

Don't believe me? Watch this.


How about one more before I call it a day? Mama Tulip asked: Best concert you've ever seen? And...how about worst concert (or live performance) you've ever seen?

This was tougher than it needed to be, but only because I've seen a lot of shows and have a tendency to forget some of them even when I'm not pregnant. Like those Grateful Dead shows I attended. I know I was there but they're a little hazy.

Ahem.

For the best I'm going to say Fleetwood Mac in 1997, their reunion tour to promote The Dance. I've always loved Stevie Nicks and to see her sing again with Lindsey Buckingham was almost more than my poor, sentimental heart could take. It didn't even matter that a monsoon was raging just outside our covered seats at Great Woods and we were getting soaked to the bone. It was worth it to hear "Landslide" live. I'm getting a little vklempt just thinking about it.

Talk amongst yourselves.

The worst concert has to have been Smashing Pumpkins at the Wallace Civic Center in... '94? They didn't sound all that great to begin with but then they started to insult the crowd. For what I can't remember because I was too busy trying not to lose my younger sister and her friend in the angry mob. But let this be a lesson to you up and coming rock bands. Never, EVER, verbally abuse a bunch of drunk kids who are hopped up on pure adrenaline from moshing and crowd surfing. I'm surprised the band got out of there alive. I stopped listening to the Pumpkins after that show.



And this is where I'm going to stop for today. I've got lots more to answer but I'm tired and a certain box of Peanut Butter Patties has been giving me the eye all night. What can I say? When peanut butter cookies give you that come hither look, I come hither.

Why yes, if all my friends were jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge I'd yell "Hey, wait for me suckas!"

Since I spent my entire first trimester whining and moaning about my constant morning sickness I feel a little sheepish complaining about the CONSTANT, EXCRUCIATING, OHMYCHRIST MAKE IT GO AWAY PAIN IN MY PELVIC REGION. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY PLEASE MAKE IT STOP. PLEASE? FOREVER AND EVER AMEN.

Ahem.

I can't stand, sit, walk, move, put on my pants or my socks, lie down or breath without this agonizing pain knocking the wind right out of me. I feel like Pregnant Barbie and the little girl who owns me decided that it wasn't good enough for my legs to go back and forth so she decided to stretch them outward until the right one snapped off my freakishly sexless pelvis and then reapplied it with masking tape. Or something like that.

What I'm trying to say is, pain and discomfort are taking over my life these days so my brain can only think "My GAWD the PAIN, shcoyousoduc, @@$#%^$#$^*&. Shazbot." and "Where the hell are the gawd damned COOKIES?"

So I was kind of hoping you could help a woman out.

It seems like everyone and their sister is opening up their comments for questions (and as much as I would like to link to everyone who is doing it, I just don't have the energy. So I guess that means I wouldn't like to link to everyone who is doing it. Yeah.) and I consider myself to be as lemming-esque as the next person. So whaddya say? What would you like to ask me? Anything, I'm an open book.

Hell, I don't even care if you're running all over the internet asking the same question of everyone. Do I look like a woman who is in search of authenticity?

[Hair in disarray. Dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep due to pelvis pain. Lying on the couch with legs splayed awkwardly out in front of her on an ottoman. Half eaten box of Girl Scout cookies on the cushion next to her. Cookie crumbs scattered on her chest. Scratching at her swollen belly.]

[You think I'm kidding?]

What would you like to know about me? There must be something I haven't shared on this blog in the past couple of years that you're interested in knowing. Even if it is to inquire about where the On/Off switch is for my whining and bitching.

I'm sure Mr. C would like to know the answer to that one, too.

Can I get that latte with a shot of existential crisis please?

I grew up a blue collar girl in a blue collar town with a blue collar family and, you guessed it, blue collar friends, but that wasn't the way I wanted to ultimately end up. Not that there's anything wrong with being blue collar, because I was always very happy with that life while I was living it. It was comfortable and it fit me like a well worn pair of Levi's. But a girl's got to have more in her closet than worn denim. A few nice pairs of heels (or twenty) and some fancy dresses was what I wanted. I also wanted more life experiences than my small hometown could offer.

But I got sidetracked. When I was old enough, at the ripe old age of 24 and not at the more customary (for my hometown) 20 or 21, or even 18, I married a blue collar boy. Then I divorced his blue collar ass soon after I got myself a job at a decidedly white collar Fortune 500 company and realized that blue collar life was just not for me. And where, to make a long story short, I met my lily white collared future second husband. A man who came from a very white collar town and can trace his ancestors back to the Mayflower. He'll be the first one to tell you that his parents were blue collar too but, hell fire, one of his ancestors even has a portrait hanging in Faneuil Hall. That makes him white collar in my book. The only place you'll find pictures of my relatives are on the walls of the local Elks Lodge, most likely with a hunting cap on their head and a hunting rifle in their hand. You'll find a cheap domestic beer in the other.

It didn't take much effort to adapt to life that was less blue, in every sense of the word. We bought the house in the 'burbs, got ourselves some Labrador Retrievers and the SUV, traveled the world a bit and then got down to the business of helping populate the world with more young Democrats.

And my new life fit just as well as that old pair of Levi's.

Until...

Until the day I became tired of my old supermarket (bear with me here), the one that rhymes with Slop and Drop, and a new fancier market opened up in one of the neighboring towns. This new market has a Starbucks(!) so that I may shop while sipping on my grande skinny decaf vanilla latte. It has pretty produce with names I can't even pronounce! It has a gourmet cheese selection! And a prepared food section for those days I don't feel like cooking with my overpriced Le Creuset cookware! I can even find my favorite $30 a bottle Italian olive oil right down the aisle from the Twinkies. It was all a suburban housewife and mother of almost two could ask for.

Hold on, stop the presses. Really? All I could ask for?

Is that really what gets me excited these days? Expensive coffee and some decent gouda cheese? Cheese, I might add, that is made five miles away from where I grew up, oh irony of ironies. And is it really any different than the days when a Super Wal-Mart opened up in a nearby town and my family and I had to be there on opening weekend?

Either way, blue collared or white, I'm starting to feel like a cliche. Okay, not feeling. I am a cliche. A foreign car driving, latte sipping, spending too much on a haircut, expensive dog food buying cliche. Maybe I need a heavy dose of reality. Maybe I need to pair down my life. Buy Natty Lite instead of Italian Brunello. Go back to my Levi's instead of Seven Jeans. Or before I know it I'll be just like Parker Posey's character in "Best in Show", freaking out because my pampered show dog lost his freaking busy bee.

Or maybe I just need to go buy myself a four dollar decaf latte and chill the fuck out. Existential crisis's shouldn't occur in the pastry section of the supermarket while I'm deciding between the petits fours or the cardamom sweet bread. The dressing room of Nordstrom's maybe, but not in the supermarket.

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

Freedom!

Don't get too excited - I'm not free from nausea. Nope still have that.

My father-in-law just picked Chicky up for a two and a half day grandparent-fest, leaving me alone (Mr. C is shmoozing techie mucky mucks in L.A. until Friday), with no one else to care for but myself and my dogs until he drops her back off on Friday afternoon.

WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

(*cough* *cough* *retch* *cough*)

Note to self: excitement makes you puke.

Anyhow, what the hell am I going to do with myself for two and a half days? Oh, the possibilities.

Normally if I had this much time to myself (and by "normally" I mean years and years ago before I had a kid) without work obligations or a husband around to dictate how much of our precious free time should be spent at Home Depot I would schlep my tuckus to the mall and shop myself silly while over-caffeinated from too many Starbucks ice vanilla coffees. Or I'd go visit my sister on the Cape and mooch free liquor and food from her restaurant. Or maybe I'd just run around the house, naked and covered with whipped cream and jam, yelling "Bite me! I'm a donut!"

But now that I'm still pretty sick and woozy from weight loss and dehydration I think my days will look more like this:

- Sleep until 10am until whining dogs force me from my warm bed.
- Feed dogs and physically kick them out the door when they realize how cold it is outside and, eh, maybe going outside to take a piss really wasn't worth the whining after all.
- Puke
- Eat some toast and force down a few sips of ice water (the water acting more as a vehicle for my morning Zofran pill than actually being any help in the hydration department).
- Try not to puke.
- Laugh at the dogs from the warmth of my kitchen.
- Puke. (Karma's a bitch)
- Let the dogs in when they begin barking ferociously at the neighbor and make more toast.
- Lay on the couch. Who knew toast could make one so exhausted?
- Sleep, even though just woke up about an hour ago.
- Wake up and consider reading some blogs.
- Puke. (Nothing personal. The puking has nothing to do with your blogs)
- Debate between more toast and tater tots. Tater tots usually win.
- Lay on the couch and eat tater tots. Leave dirty dish on table and threaten dogs to stay away from the leftover ketchup. Then let them lick it clean anyway. It will save a step on the way to the dishwasher.
- Doze off again.
- Wake up, realize there's nothing on television mid-day, try to watch movies on On-Demand and find out that's a fruitless idea since our On-Demand NEVER WORKS ANYWAY. Curse Charter Cable and their shitty cable service. God damn them.
- Consider running to Blockbuster in pajamas.
- Give up that idea and zone out to Shot of Love with Tila Tequila.
- Consider showering because that show makes me feel dirty. Decide to sleep more instead.
- Wake up when the sun goes down. Try to eat more toast.
- Contemplate dog hair tumbleweeds on the floor. Consider getting up to vacuum.
- Puke.

Later, rinse, repeat.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I'll tell you, though, being able to do that and not have to worry about getting up to fetch raisins or Gorilla Munch, prepare lunches, change diapers, and fight over who is going to watch whose shows for more than 48 hours sounds like a little bit of heaven to me.

Besides, I never win when it comes to what shows we'll be watching. The only reality show Chicky likes is John and Kate plus Eight.

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.

We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all.

So the other day I was thinking that I really should post a few things about myself that someone meeting me in person for the first time - say, at Blogher for instance (9 days! 9 freaking days!! oh my christ, I don't have cute shoes yet.) - might need to know, lest they get the wrong idea from my blog that I'm actually fun in person and then be horribly disappointed when they find out the truth.

(That's me, the eternal optimist. Hasn't occurred to me that you all might actually like me. No. That would be silly.)

Then Deb, that damn women who for months taunted me with her "I'm going to Blogher", "Oops, no I'm not going", "Okay, maybe I will go", "No, I can't go", "Hooray! I'm going to Blogher!", kindly asked me and some other ladies to provide some insight into who the hell we thought we were. So I figured it was time to write it all down. You know, so everyone doesn't have to wait until I've had a few drinks in me to find out.

(And, no, this is not a meme. I refuse to call it that because there is a moratorium on memes on this here site until further notice. Unless I get tagged with a really good one - like "What five Hanna Barbera characters would you be" or "Name your four favorite pubic hair styles" - then I'll temporarily lift it.)

You're just breathless with anticipation, aren't you?

• First of all, I'm shy. Really shy and incredibly self conscious. If I'm out of my element -which is any situation that happens outside the four walls of my home or in my dog training classes - then I tend to be pretty quiet. I'm an observer, y'all. I like to people watch. And yes, I'll be watching you.

However...

• (I must preface this next tidbit with this disclaimer: I'm very interested in the Blogher conference itself and all it has to offer. I'm very much looking forward to hearing from the speakers and learning how to be the very best blogger I can be.)
  
  Ahem.
  
  Have you seen the movie "Blind Date" with Kim Basinger and Bruce Willis? You know, what ever you do don't get her drunk? Well, it's been years since I've spent more than a day or two away from my husband and my kid. Since I went on a short trip to Cancun with a girlfriend to celebrate our divorces, as a matter of fact. Let's just say I don't remember parts of that vacation and we'll leave it at that.

• Did I mention I was shy? Yeah. You might not notice it, though. You might just think I'm "reserved", "aloof" or "a snooty bitch" but I'm not. Well, I am reserved but I'm not a bitch. All of the time.

Remember, I'll be watching you. (two fingers pointing to my eyes, then to your eyes, then to my eyes)

• It's one thing to refer to myself as "Mrs. Chicky" online but it is completely another to refer to myself as my blog moniker in person. I've done it once or twice and it makes me feel extremely dorky. I may just introduce myself by my real name and let you all figure it out.

• On that note, I suck at remembering people's names. If you're wondering why I'm staring at your chest it's because I'm rereading your name tag for the millionth time. And because I'm jealous of your rack.

• I can put a lipstick in my bra and paint my lips upside down with no hands.

• Turn-ons: The movies of John Hughes. John Cusack. Anthony Bourdain. Jeremy Piven (in his pre-Entourage days. Cupid, anyone?). Cookbooks and tell-all novels about the restaurant industry, wine snobs, or foodies in general. Men with nice legs. People who love dogs. And long walks on the beach at sunset.

• Turn-offs: Rude people. Ralph Feinnes (outside of his work as Voldemort I've never cared for any of his movies). Colin Farrel (besides the accent I just don't see the attraction). Cruelty to animals. Skinny jeans (mainly because I can't wear them). Any cocktail that doesn't have vodka or gin and dry vermouth but are called "martinis" just because they're served in a martini glass. (Not that I won't drink them - they are mighty tasty - it's the overuse of the term that bothers me.)
  

So that's me in a nutshell (Oh no! I'm stuck in this nutshell!). Now I'm calling upon the Canadian contingent to play along (that would be you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and maybe you if you've decided to go after all. And any other Canadian lady I've missed). It's not a tag since this is not a meme. I just want to know more about all my Canadian sisters who will be attending the conference. And because, secretly, I want to be an honorary Canadian. I'm hoping someone will bring me a maple leaf pin or a toque or something. Maybe some poutine. Although, when I think of poutine, I think of poutine rapee. Mmmmm, poutine rapee. Now that is good food to eat after a night of drinking.

(And a huge shout-out to the person who can identify the quote in the title of this post. I felt it was quite relevant to the situation. Clues are sprinkled throughout this post.

Way to go Avalon and Painted Maypole. They knew the title of this post was a quote from The Breakfast Club. Not very hard, I know, especially with all my hints. But I'm standing by my lack of interest in Ralph Feinnes. Quiz Show was good, I'll give you that, but he just doesn't do it for me.)

(And I should mention that Redneck Mommy was nice enough to correct my poor Canadian cuisine lingo. Poutine is never spelled with an "S" no matter how many you order. My bad. But I don't know, I distinctly remember some pretty drunk Canucks ordering those in the diners after hours and it always sounded like "Poutines". But that could have been them slurring their words. Yeah, that's probably what it was.)

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.

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.