Pimp my dining room. Seriously.

Calling all design-types!

This is my dining room.

The room looks light and bright in these pictures. This is due to the flash. It's not this bright, trust me.

As you can see it's red. Very red. And on the small side. Sit in it for awhile and I guarantee you will feel like I do when I sit in it for any amount of time - like sticking your thumb in your mouth while breathing amniotic fluid. But without the floaty feeling.

We did not pick the color that is currently on the walls, it came that way when we bought the place. Friends and family come over and they first thing they say is, Wow! Love the color! And I'm all, Oh yeah? It doesn't make you feel like you're about to slide through someone's vagina?

And then they make this weird face. I can't imagine why.

Anyways, because of the red it gets really dark in there. On days when there's bright sunshine it's light enough but it doesn't get any direct sunlight due to the wrap-around farmer's porch directly outside. The farmer's porch I dreamed of owning before realizing I would need to buy special lamps to keep myself from jumping from the second story in a fit S.A.D.

So during gloomy, rainy days, like today, for instance, it's not so much womb-like. Replace the w in womb with a t and it's exactly like that.

The furniture was purchased before we owned this house and it's very nice and quite special to me (built in my hometown before the last of the factories closed up. *Pours some out for the diminishing trade industry in the north east*) but it's also red in hue. And the curtains, or "swags", as I believe they're called... Don't get me started on those. Let's just say they seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, while going through postpartum psychosis.

Another view, including the wall color of the rest of the first floor through the doorway and a picture of some crazed pig-bunny creature my kid drew.
Also, in the right bottom corner, a tiny child-sized rocking chair that was mine when I was a baby, purchased new, also built in my hometown. I believe it's technically an antique. I believe I can technically begin drinking now.

I need to do something to this room immediately. I've been looking at it for two years now and it's time. I can't stand it any more. The only thing my style is the furniture. Everything else is too... colonial? Traditional? Early American? I don't know what to call it. The wall color needs to be changed. That damn light fixture needs to go too but I don't know if that's going to happen since I don't want to spend a lot of money right now. I'd love to get rid of the rug (too small, too red) but only if I can find a decent one for cheap.

One more picture because I am in love with my dining room furniture. Also observe, if you can see them, more window swags in my kitchen. I blame Bed, Bath and Beyond.
There's another light fixture in the kitchen that needs to go sooner than the one in the dining room because it hurts my eyes to look at it but that's another post.

As for the furniture, I know it's a little big for the room but it's not going anywhere. Which is what I told my husband when we bought it. You can divorce me or kill me, but I'll still figure out a way to go to my grave with that hutch and sideboard. I'm not kidding, that was our actual conversation after buying it. I do love it so. This is not Pottery Barn, particle board furniture. This furniture is art. I'm not kidding.

But don't get me wrong. I like Pottery Barn.

(Great, now I'm the Pottery Barn snob.)

So what do you think I should I do with this room? I'm thinking of painting the walls blue but I don't want a beachy blue or another colonial/traditional blue. However, I'm up for any other color suggestions. And I'm not too keen on painting the wainscoting and trim. The rest of my home is pretty traditional but I lean toward the more homey, Anthropolgie feel. I don't like super modern but I do want to update things a bit.

Looking at these pictures I can't get over how stuffy the room feels. It's just so serious. Have you met me? Not serious. We celebrate holidays and special occasions in that room - it needs some life, dang it!

I need your help, internets. I can't spend another Thanksgiving imagining I'm sharing a uterus with my in-laws. Help me pimp my dining room.

Sometimes I don't know if I should wind my a*s or scratch my blog.

Two things -

First of all, thank you to everyone who left a comment on my last post. General consensus seems to be "Hey, dumbass. Call the cops already. [exaggerated eye roll]" But you didn't actually use the word "dumbass" and I appreciate that. A slight nudge feels a lot better than the proverbial boot to the butt. Less foot treads to wipe away, too.

I've been talking this over with Mr. C - who thinks I'm being paranoid - and a couple of neighbors we recently met - who seem to think I'm only being slightly paranoid - and we're going to call the authorities and have them check things out. I'll let you know how things work out.

And since you were all so generous with your opinions...

(I know what you're thinking, "Gimme a break, she's going to ask for more advice. The woman can't scratch her own ass without the help of the internets." And for the record, I can hear you.)

A looong time ago, my fabulously smart and insightful readers (and did I mention, you look fantastic today? Have you been working out?) came up with a list of names for my now-defunct dog training blog. Sooo.... *looking around coyly* I was hoping you could help me out again.

You see, I'm trying to get my own private dog training business up and running but the problem is this, I can't for the LIFE of me think of a decent name. I can train your dog to fetch you a beer from the fridge but coming up with a business name? Not too good in that department.

I've got one kicking around that sounds fine, I suppose. Want to hear it? You know you do.

The Family Dog.

How does that grab you? Yeah, I feel the same. Not bad but I don't know if I'm sold on it, not 100% anyway. And I needed to see it through your eyes before I settled on it so thoughts on that name are very much appreciated. BUT if you have one better - and I know you do because you're intelligent and creative and you look great in those jeans - I would really love to hear it.

The slant to my business is general dog training with basic behavior modification if necessary, but my main focus will be on families. I want to get the entire family involved and interested in caring for the family dog (hence the name I came up with) including the kids. I want my business to be very family friendly. And have I said "family" enough already? Family.

So, here's my criteria for the name:

- Must sound good said aloud - For example, on the phone "Hello, [business name]" It has to be snappy and not too cutesy because I hate cutesy.

- Must be searchable. So "dog" or "dog training" or the like should be in the title.

- Must look good on a business card.

I don't really have much to offer in return except my undying love and free dog advice, but that's something right?

Right?

Besides, you helped name my baby so a business name should be gravy.

(Please don't make me beg. It's not pretty.)

(Also, gravy. Mmmm, gravy.)

*Dong Dong* ? *Doink Doink*? *Bong Bong*?

Let's say you live in a house near a wooded area and that house - and wooded area too, duh - are in a cool climate experiencing a cold, rainy spring. And you're going a bit stir crazy because you've been spending too much time in the house due to cold. And rain. And because you're a bit of a hermit. So you while away much some of that time staring out the windows and sighing.

Still with me?

So let's also say, while staring out the windows, you've noticed some strange activity going on near the woods - Cars parked outside your house, people walking into the woods, often alone, on those aforementioned cold, rainy days, and you're pretty sure they're not going hiking. Mainly because they're not wearing appropriate walking-in-the-rain clothes but also because they look a little shady. But what do you know? You only leave the house when you absolutely need to so the only "shady" you know is from Law and Order. [insert sound effect here]

Following so far?

Also, cars are driving into the woods at odd hours of the night and you know, at least you're pretty sure from previous experience *cough-usedtogoparkinginthewoods-cough*, they're not going out there to party. They drive in and then drive out fairly soon after, and then another car drives in and out and then another. Lather, rinse, repeat.

(Note to self: Wash hair tomorrow.)

(Big day tomorrow, chicklets. Big.)

(Washing my hair aaaand... That's about it.)

(BIG)

And you really wish they would stop doing this because instead of standing at the window with your nose pressed to the glass you could be watching reality television sleeping acting like a 36 year old instead of an 86 year old doing something productive that would require you to not be attached to the window.

And then, on a particularly cold and a very rainy day, you happen to see a young man pull up in his car and park in front of your house. He gets out, pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and walks into the woods. Interesting. This is after a night of in and out and in and out (the cars, you pervs, this has nothing to do with what was going on inside the house). Pretty soon after he walks out and back toward his car, possibly holding something but you can't tell because the windows are fogged up from pressing your nose to the glass it's pretty far away and you need glasses need glasses.

Then he gets into another car that you hadn't noticed because you momentarily tore yourself away to attend to your children. They, the young man (who couldn't have been more than 18) and the driver of the new car, sit for a minute then drive off only to return 15 minutes or so later. Not that YOU WERE COUNTING OR ANYTHING.

So you get your camera and start taking pictures. Evidence is always good right? Proof that you're not a crazy old bat is better.

You don't want to be that person. You know? That person? The one who ruins the fun of the local youth, but these comings and goings are a little suspicious and they're happening too close to home. Literally.

Do you do anything or do you just chalk it up to watching too much Law and Order and start getting out of the house more?

Because if you don't help me I will be forced to go into great detail about my sex dreams

News Flash! Life with a preschooler and an infant is not conducive to writing.

No, really. I'm not making this up. It's really hard to string together a coherent sentence when you spend most of your days either making baby talk or saying nothing but "No. I said, No. N-O. No. No! NO!!!" to a three year old who obviously has the hearing of an octogenarian. The other precious few hours are spent drooling on my pillow dreaming of hot sex with John Krasinski.

What is it about that guy? Most of my sex dreams involve him or Neil Patrick Harris and nasty acts in barn lofts. Usually with a cow present. But I digress.

I have at least four posts in the hopper, posts I have spent some significant time on. But honestly, at this point I can't stand the sound of my own voice, so the sight of my own words? Please. Reading them makes my eyes itch.

The problem may be that I haven't been reading books lately.

Really? No time for books? Get outta heah.

I know, right?

During the recent move and first few months after C.C. was born I somehow managed to read all four books in the Twilight series - and sadly enough, none of my sex dreams involve hot vampire love with a certain undead named EDWARD. Nom nom nom - but I haven't found a decent book since. It's not for lack of trying, I'm just so out of the loop that when I enter a Barnes and Noble to check out the stacks, the sheer volume makes me run away screaming.

Or maybe because I'm embarrassed someone there will recognize me as the thirty*mumblemumble* year old woman who reads teen lit. Whatever.

The fact of the matter is, I'm a better writer when I'm reading. And this is where you come in.

(You didn't know this was audience participation day, did you?)

I need book recommendations. Preferably new releases so I can find them easily. Something that will make my brain work a little is not a bad thing. Chick lit must be kept to a sane level, so Jodi Picoult and the like will be considered but it won't go to the top of my list. I'm not oppossed to chick lit, I like chick lit as much as the next chick, but some makes me want to throw up in my mouth and, really, the last thing I need is to be known as the woman who reads teen lit, has sex dreams involving gay men and farm animals, and smells like vomit.

So tell me about the book you're reading or have recently read. Tell me about one you've got on your bed side table and haven't gotten to yet but you're dying to dive into. Hell, while you're at it tell me about the last hot sex dream you had and whether or not you think I'm crazy as a shit house rat for thinking Neil Patrick Harris might go straight for me one day.

Hey, it could happen. Bovines are optional.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

And in the end the love you take is equal to the murder you don't commit

It's true what everyone says - A parent's heart grows to accommodate the love for their second child.

I wasn't sure if I believed that before I had C.C. - I mean, how is it possible to love someone as much as you do your first born? Then again, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to love anything as much as I loved my dogs. And yes, that's more than a little screwed up - but now I do. My heart has grown and stretched to accept this new child, much like my stomach grew (and grew, and grew) to accept her as she grew inside me.

If this sounds disgustingly cliche, even throw-up-in-your-mouth repulsive, it is. It's horribly sappy and sentimental. Ooh, a mother's love knows no bounds. A mother loves her children equally.

Blech.

If I don't watch out, the next time I use the toilet rainbow colored unicorns might shoot out of my arse.

I've found, however, that this horrible sentimentality is necessary to the survival of the first born child more than for the emotional well being of the latest addition. Actually, it's necessary to all parties involved but to the eldest, or elder children if there is more than two children in your family, especially. If a mother's heart didn't accommodate all her children, then how would the first be allowed to survive when they insist on pushing the sleeping infant in her battery powered swing when the baby is FINALLY SLEEPING AFTER SCREAMING FOR THE PAST HOUR and OMG, IF YOU WAKE HER I WILL MAKE YOU SLEEP IN THE GARAGE? OH, LOOK! YOU WOKE HER UP. COME HERE SO I CAN SQUEEEEEZE YOU REALLY TIGHT, MY SWEET.

The love, man, it's overwhelming.

Chicky loves her "Baby Sister Caroline", as she must be called at all times so that it flows from the child's mouth as all one word. She loves her to a fault. She wants to hold her constantly, especially when the baby is sleeping or attached to my nipple.

"Can I hold her?"

Not right now.

"Can I hold her, puh-weeze?"

Later.

"Can I hold her now?"

Not. Right. Now.

"Mama, can I hold mybabysistercaroline NOW?"

Anyone have an ice pick I can jam in my ear?

Repeat at least 50 more times until I finally get exasperated enough to shoot laser beams from my eyes in her general direction. And then repeat another 50 times because she can deftly avoid the laser beams at this point.

"But why can't I hold her?" *Whine. Kick. Stomp. Hit the couch in the general area of where I'm sitting and throw a toy.*

Uh, because she's using my breast as a chew toy right now, Honey. Now run along and play with something sharp, m'kay?

I love Chicky. I think I love her even more now that C.C. is around, and I'd have to because I've never been closer to pitching her out a window as I am on any given day. Even closer than when she was a colicky infant and she would scream for 20 hours out of every 24. I love her because she pushes me and, even though I'm pushed passed my limits and snap on more occasions than I'd like to admit, the next day I'm better equipped to handle her. I love her because she makes me go to that dark place that parents go to sometimes but can just as quickly snap me out of it so that I'm smothering the poor girl with kisses instead of a pillow. I love her because when I can talk her off that ledge of full-fledged preschooler meltdown, I feel pretty damn good about myself as a parent.

(Step away from the tantrum. That's right, put down that My Little Pony you were planning on throwing at my head and come give your Mama a kiss. Good girl. Here's a bag of sugary cookies now run along and play in traffic.)

(Crisis averted. I freaking ROCK. Yeah.)

Now, lest you think I'm on top of this game let me put those thoughts to rest right now. I'm running out of ideas here. Since Chicky is in such desperate need to help out and pitch in when it comes to her sister I need to involve her as much as possible or dare incur the wrath of Psycho Chicky.

Psycho Chicky? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

That's the part of her personality where the whining reaches window-shattering decibels and if you don't look out someone is going to get hurt. She's prone to dramatic meltdowns but I have never seen her go so far off the edge of reason than since we brought C.C. home.

We do what we can to keep her involved - everything from fetching diapers to handing over baby wipes to throwing away the dirty diapers (Hey, she insists) - but even though I have the most proficient pooper in the world living under my roof and waking me up every few hours to feast from my fun bags, there are only so many diaper changes a day. After that... Uh...

Yeah, I've got nothing.

I'm sure we'll work it out and life with two girls will become easier. Probably just in time for puberty to set in and the real fun starts.

Until then, I'll try to allow the excess love to flow from me and wash over my dear children. Maybe it will rinse some of the drama away. Or maybe we'll just end up all wet.

Sometimes breastfeeding really sucks

I nursed Chicky for a full year. After delivering C.C., the nurses apparently took that information to mean that I was an old pro at this breastfeeding thing, which couldn't be farther from the truth, and only offered me minimal help and advice. To be fair, while in the hospital C.C. seemed to take to nursing like a fish to water but since being home she's gotten a little lazy. Her latch is good but her mouth seems too... Small? Not to downplay things but nursing is not going well.

Oh, the pain!

A couple of days ago it got so bad that I was literally screaming into pillows to muffle my cries. I bit into the pillows too. Anything to keep from punching my poor husband in the balls for putting me back into this position.

We're working through things but it's still very painful and if I read one more website that says if I'm nursing my baby properly it won't hurt I may very well start writing threatening emails to the La Leche League complete with pictures of my bleeding nipples (sorry, too much info? It had to be said. It's just not cool to find blood in your breast pads.).

And to add insult to injury we're going through a horrible heat wave in this part of the country and that always seems to bring about a raging case of mastitis when coupled with a less than perfect latch. I went through this a number of times with Chicky but it never gets easier to deal with, does it?

I just need to know one thing - If nursing is so natural then why is it so damn hard?

Narrowing it down by the bloody nubs of my unmanicured fingers

From the list of hundreds of names you all suggested, plus a few we already had picked, we're narrowing down the possible names. This is where we are today.


Sorry about the crap picture. I was bending over the counter and we all know what it's like when a pregnant woman has to bend. There's comedy, there's high comedy, and then there's a pregnant woman in her ninth month trying to bend.

Feel free to vote for your favorite. Or not. Whatever. If I let every little thing keep me up at night I would never sleep. Oh wait, I'm not sleeping as it is.

Chicky has already named the baby. Too bad she's outvoted by me and... me. Mr. C is inclined to agree with Chicky but that's just because he's been coaching her. Bastard. So glad I procreated with the guy.

Name my kid. Please.

This baby still does not have a name.

Mr. C and I can not agree on a first name for this poor little baby. And never mind coming up with a middle name, that might drive us to divorce court. Or at the very least drive me to the funny farm. Mmm, padded walls sound pretty good right about now.

We've had 9 months to come to a decision on a name for this child, 9 fecking MONTHS, and we had, for awhile, come up with a name that we could live with. Truthfully, Mr. C had come up with a name and since I couldn't come up with anything better, I caved. I threw up my hands and said, Fine, you name her. And he did. Just like that he had at least a first name and was beginning to throw around middle names.

Show off.

But I never fell in love with the name. It was nice enough, we even passed it by family and friends and all seemed to like it. Not a sideways glance, a down turned gaze or an uncomfortable pause. No throat clearing. Not one, Really? You're going to name her that? It was a moniker everyone could live with. Except me.

Something was just not right.

It didn't sit with me as nicely as Chicky's name did. So I changed it this past weekend.

Well, not really. I didn't come up with a definitive name. I just came up with two or three other options that we are now considering. You know, just to make things interesting why not go from deciding on one name to choosing between four?

This sucks donkey balls. Seriously.

It shouldn't be this hard but it is. If left up to my husband the child would be named something very conservative, probably something biblical, and she'll be one of three or four little girls with the same name. She'll have to use her last initial for the rest of her life to set her apart from the other girls.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Ahem.

I want my kid to have a name that will set her slightly apart from other kids. Something strong that will grow with her. Something beautiful and poetic. Something that people will be able to spell without needing to ask, unlike mine.

(Not that I'm bitter, Mom. No, not me. Not bitter at all about being referred to by at least three other names all my life, none of which are right. Nope. Not bitter.)

There is one name we like but the pronunciation is something we're struggling with. And if you're wondering what it is, watch a recap of tonight's American Idol.

Although, after hearing that boy butcher the song I'm reconsidering. Oy.

I'm tempted to let my readers name my kid. Someone has got to intervene. Someone not hopped up on hormones and carrying extra water weight and totally irrational because they can't get their hands ON SOME TWINKIES NOW. And you can't do any worse than me right about now.

How's that for a vote of confidence?

So go ahead, name my kid. If you come up with something we love you win absolutely nothing except my undying love and devotion. Maybe a link every week from my blog. Possibly the role of God Mother. Hell, we could name you in our will.

Or maybe I'm just getting carried away.

Someone please save me from myself. And while you're at it, get me a Twinkie okay?

(And wasn't I right way back when, when I said this baby was a girl. Uh huh. I'm psychic.)

(Or psycho. I'm still working out which one is closer to the truth.)

Back off - I'm pregnant, my ankles are swelling, and I have a credit card and I'm not afraid to use it.

The nesting instinct is hitting me pretty hard right now. As we speak, I have a painter attacking all the trim in my house as well as painting a few rooms from top to bottom and carpet installers finishing up what will soon be the new baby's room. If I was physically able to move furniture you can bet your bippy I'd have that room set up the way I wanted by this evening. The fact that I can't is only heightening my need to get everything finished. Finished like five minutes ago, not a couple of days from now. And the fact that everything isn't done and ready to receive a baby tomorrow is really freaking me out.

And, yes, I know the baby probably isn't coming tomorrow. Details, details. Does that really matter to a pregnant woman?

We were more prepared for Chicky's arrival. By this time in my last pregnancy I had had my baby shower and her room was painted and almost ready to go. It's of little consequence that she never actually slept in that room until four months after she was born. It was finished and that's what mattered to me. Pregnant and postpartum women don't make any sense and I see it as my duty to continue being as irrational as possible this time around. How often in my life will I get a free pass for being bat shit crazy?

This baby is coming in seven weeks, give or take a few days, like it or not. I don't have even one pack of newborn diapers so that puts me firmly in the not liking it column.

When preparing for Chicky, I relied heavily on the advice of family. However, I was not, unfortunately, completely happy with the choices they made for me when it came to baby gear. Baby stuff is so much cooler than it was 30 years ago. More expensive, but way neater. I won't go out and buy a whole new cache of stuff for this kid but I do want to supplement what I have with a few key pieces that will make my last experience with an infant (as a mother) better than my experience with Chicky. When I ran around like my head was on fire, trying to find just the right baby sling to carry my colicky, high needs infant.

I never did find that sling, just a host of crappy ones I forced myself to use. Because running back and forth to baby stores with a colicky newborn? Not my idea of a rollicking good time.

If you were buying a gift for a good friend's baby shower, what would you buy her? What type of sling would you recommend? Was there anything you just could not live without when raising your own babies? Dammit, I'm 8 months pregnant and I have a credit card and my husband knows I'll bite his head off if he even dares look at me sideways for using it. I'm never going to get this chance again, so help me out.

What favorite item of baby gear would you recommend to me?

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.

This almost made me believe there is a God

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

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

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

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

What was I saying? Oh yeah...

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

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

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

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

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

And then something nice happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiptoe through the (holiday) tipping

I'm over at the New England Mamas today begging people for advice on tipping during the holidays and feeling pretty guilty because I think I just gypped my dogs' groomer out of a decent holiday gift.

And my dogs are not exactly, um, easy to groom. I should know, I used to do all their grooming before Chicky came along. Have you ever tried bathing two eighty pound dogs? The hair ingested alone is worth giving the groomer one of my kidneys if she ever needed it.

So come visit us and give me your best tips on tipping.

Hardly leaving the house + watching an important baseball game = Huh?

Chicky is staying overnight with my in-laws again today. I don't know who was anticipating this visit more, me or her. I need the break, but she's so done with being cooped up in the house I thought first thing this morning she might go sit on the curb, bag in hand, to wait for her grandpa to come pick her up.

These visits have been a huge help to me but they may never have been arranged had Mr. C not coordinated them. I don't ask for help. Ever. I don't know how to ask someone to help me and I'm even worse at accepting help when it's offered. I can't even tell you how much effort it took to ask my father-in-law to drive me to the hospital last week.

I've been offered help from some of my fellow New England Mamas (and I thank you all!) but when it came time to reply I was stuck. What do I say?

That was a rhetorical question. I know what to say - please and thank you. But that mental wall goes up and I can't. It has nothing to do with the person offering and everything to do with me being a psychotic control freak.

Psychotic control freak - party of one. Yep, that's me.

Well, I didn't reply and I feel really horrible about that. Is it pride? Stubbornness? A combination of the two is probably closer to the truth. Be tough, put your best face forward and never let them see you sweat... Or something like that. I've watched so much television in the last few weeks I'm getting reality confused with advertisements. All I know is that Snuggle the fabric softener spokes-bear is my friend. And puppies can sleep on reams of soft toilet paper.

Anyway, I'm going to have to start accepting help. Mr. C is taking a new position within his company and climbing that ladder will take him away from home a lot more. Right now, as I type this (and watch Dustin Pedroia hit a lead-off home run for my beloved Red Sox - yay!) he's rubbing elbows with some mucky mucks at a bar after a long day of impressing them with his mad skills instead of being home, making me Rice A Roni and rubbing my feet.

(Side note: Yooooooouuuuuuuuuk!)

I'm also going to have to learn to swallow my pride because playing the strong girl is getting a little lonely. When you're laid up on the couch and your only source of conversation is a two-year old, a couple of dogs and Jabba the Cat, you start to miss people your own age. Hell, you start to miss your own species.

Not that Nina the Wonder Lump isn't a fabulous listener. I'm just saying.

(Never offend an obese cat. She could smother me in my sleep with her massive weight.)

(Oh, one more thing... How much do Red Sox fans love that Manny is so good at being Manny?)

What was I saying about being lonely? I've got the vision of Jason Varitek's thighs to keep me warm.

(And to all you Rockies fans out there - good luck and may the best team win. Which I know is easy to say when my team is winning 3-0 in the first inning but I really mean it. Honest.)

I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know if I'll be back again

My cat is still missing.

My Gram is having surgery this afternoon to remove the mass from her pelvis because she's in so much pain her doctors decided to do the surgery first instead of waiting, doing a few chemo treatments and seeing how that went.

And tomorrow I'm hoping on an airplane with Chicky and Mr. C to go visit his sister and her family in Minnesota.

But wait, there's more!

On Friday the whole lot of us are packing up the cars and driving at least five hours one way (not accounting for frequent stops) to visit Mr. C's grandmother in Wisconsin. And then driving back to Minnesota three days later followed by another plane ride back home.

Oy.

Pray for me. I know I've been asking for that a lot but this time I really mean it. I may not return from this trip.

I'm very much looking forward to all the visiting - I love my sister-in-law and her husband and kids and my grandmother-in-law - but the traveling might just send me over the edge. But I'll make it through. I always do. Because my brother-in-law? He makes beer.

Thank you, Jaysus!

While I'm gone I'm leaving you in the very capable hands of some fabulous women bloggers whom I deeply respect. Sarah, Major Bedhead, Binky and Fairly Odd Mother are fellow NE Mamas while Redneck Mommy, Mrs. Fortune and PunditMom are writers who I just couldn't resist seeing what they would come up with for my site. Please come on by and visit them because blog sitting can be lonely. If they do a good job, the next time I go away I'll ask them to watch my pets and water my tomato plants.

Have a fantastic Independence Day. If I survive eight days without access to the internet you'll hear from me next week.

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm...

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's time to do something.

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

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

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

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

A cat hair.

Waaaaaaahhh!"

Somebody please save me from myself.

Oh, happy day

You know that sick thing I've had going on for, oh, a month or so? Otherwise known as "The phlegm that would not die", "The phlegm that ate my cat", or the critically acclaimed "Arthur 2: Phlegm on the rocks"? It's finally starting to clear up. Hurrah. The sick is still very much there but there seems to be light at the end of the tunnel. Or that could be the sun reflecting off a phlegm ball. I can't be sure.

But it seems to be going away and I'm finally getting better. Better. Do you know what happens when things start to take a turn for the better here at Chateau de Chicky?

Dah dah duuuummm.

What's the saying? Sick as a... cat? Hmmm.

Chicky has caught my sickness. Please divert your eyes from the mismatched pajamas and the 59 cent socks. Do you really think I was going to fight with a sick toddler for the sake of fashion?

But wasn't it nice of Jabba the Cat to keep Chicky company while she's suffering through coughing, sneezing, fever, stuffy head, and post nasal shitty attitude? Nina, The Wonder Lump, was entirely covered in snotty tissues after this picture was taken. Poor cat, she takes entirely too much abuse and keeps coming back for more. That's either love or mental illness. I knew I should have taken her to the vet when she started walking into walls.

And what fun it is to keep a sick whirling dervish (read: crazy ass toddler) quiet because it's FOR HER OWN FREAKING GOOD. I'm not even bothering with cough suppressants, instead I'm going with the only thing that works. Elmo. Lots of Elmo. I'm losing IQ points but Chicky is thrilled.

Ooh, the Hokey Pokey! Good times, good times.

Elmo loves you.

Great, but can he make me a gin and tonic?

Chicky wouldn't sleep last night. I don't know about you, but when I'm sick all I want to do is sleep. Gots to help the bod heal and all that, but toddlers apparently don't abide by these same principles. Every time she coughed it woke her and freaked her out so eventually, at about midnight after 15 minutes of screaming, hitting and "Mommymommymommymommy Nononononono!! Mommymommymommyyyyyyyyy!" (and that doesn't include the hour I spent with her in her bedroom letting her doze on my chest) Mr. C brought Chicky to bed with us. Now that was fun. I hope we can do that again real soon.

For anyone who has "slept" with a toddler in the same bed you know that I use that term loosely. One does not "sleep" when a toddler, especially a sick one, is in bed with you. One gets absolutely no "sleep" thus forcing them to be extremely "tired" the next day and over use "finger quotes".

Shit. The Elmo DVD just ended.

Elmo Elmo Elmo ELMOELMOELMO!!! More Elmo! More more more Elmo! Elmo Elmo Elmo Elmo ELMOELMOELMO!!!

(Translation: I'd like to watch some more of that little furry, red monster, you stupid wench.)

The only thing that made her happy last night was after Mr. C had brought her to our bed. I had finally convinced her to put her head down on the pillow and she let her hand wander along the bed and under the covers. She touched my shoulder and then down to my belly button.

"Mommy nekkid!"

Usually it's the cutest thing when I take off Chicky's shirt and she yells "I nekkid!" But is it funny at 12:30 in the morning when your toddler discovers that you sleep in the buff?

Why, yes. Yes it is.

Spontaneous fits of laughter after midnight do not help your toddler into ol' Slumberland, however, and she was wide awake after that. Chicky was shuttled up to her own room sometime after 1am, when I was finally sick of having my nose beeped and my nipples pinched (I can get that any other night of the week, when Mr. C is feeling frisky), where she slept until just before 7am. That was when she woke up crying softly into her blanket, heralding the beginning of a bright, shiny day.

Any suggestions for what to do with a sick toddler? Because I did a Google search and I found it's frowned upon to chuck one into a dumpster when you're tired of the whining.

Blue Roses

I'm not a hypochondriac. It's hard to be one when you're afraid of the doctor. But I suppose I have as many hypochondriac-like tendencies as the next person who has lost a loved one to cancer at a young age. Which is to say, I fucking freak out whenever I'm hit with some strange affliction that I wasn't expecting, but then I hide in my room and refuse to let my husband coerce me into going to my primary care physician. I just don't want to know, Doc. Save your sympathetic look and let me die of pleurisy in peace. Preferably on a chaise lounge, with my lap covered with a warm blanket, as I sit on a veranda overlooking a tranquil lake in the south of France.

So, as you can see I never give a second thought to any illness I may have contracted. But a couple of days ago the cough I had just gotten over came back. Along with the hacking cough (And the phlegm! Oh, the phlegm.) I'm extremely tired and I have lower back pain - which is different from the usual back pain I'm constantly plagued with. I know my body pretty well and this cough does not follow any predictable pattern of sickness that I've had in the past. After my last trip to the doctor, and how unconcerned she was with the illness that knocked me on my ass for a week, I'm not going back to have her ask me the same questions only to discount all my answers. I'd rather treat myself with plants I find in my backyard. I hear dandelion tea is good for what ails you. That's what my grandfather used to say. He's dead now, but still...

(Ooh, death humor. You're not laughing, are you? Thought so.)

I'm not going to go on, bitching and moaning about being sick, but have any of you had anything like this? Could this be allergies or something? I know as I get older (oh, how it pains me to say that. Older. Shudder.) I'm more susceptible to spring allergies and pollen. But, good lord, this cough is beating me down. Another day of this and I'm going to start sounding like Harvey Fierstein and I kind of need my voice to get through the day. My kid doesn't know the sign for "Take that nasty chew toy out of your mouth and give it back to the dog".

I'm starting to feel so poorly that I couldn't even care less about Roger Clemens, Anti-Christ. That should tell you how bad off I am right now.

I'm bypassing a visit to WebMD all together and going straight to my biggest source of information. You. You've helped me out in the past* so I have high hopes for this solution. No pressure, I'm just putting my life in your hands. That's all.

So, give it to me straight. How much longer do I have?


*Sorry for the poor follow-up. You guys gave me some great advice when I asked about what I should wear into the desert. At the hoe-down I passed on the cowboy hat and boots - a lot of others didn't, but they should have - and wore a cargo skirt from Banana Republic and a top from Target (bad picture. bad, bad picture). And wouldn't you know, the skirt kept me from being able to get my picture taken on the fake bucking bull. Aw, shucks.

The night of the dinner in the desert I wore flax colored linen pants and a silk top like this one (although, mine was had a brownish-grayish pattern). I was neither under dressed or over dressed. Oh, and I wore wedge heels. Screw the people who said that women should wear flat shoes. First of all, we weren't hiking in the freaking desert, we were sitting down for dinner. And second, you should have seen some of the heels that some of the other women wore. I don't know where the hell they thought they were going but from the imprints in the dirt you could see just where they had been.

Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic sword and said "By the power of the Internet"

If you will indulge me for a moment. I need your help, Internets.

Ahem.

Mr. C and I are going on a short trip in a few weeks. It's one of those performance reward trips that large corporations hand out once in a blue moon to select employees. Apparently, if you work non-stop and kiss the right ass you get recognized along with a bunch of other shmucks who sold their soul to the company machine and you get a free trip to some place warm. Who knew?

(I'm just kidding, dear. You're not a shmuck.)

Anyway, in the past these get-aways, retreats if you will, were held on Caribbean islands, the Bahamas, and Hawaii. This year? Phoenix.

Fucking Phoenix, Arizona.

I'm a-twitter with excitement.

Aside from the nervousness of leaving my child behind for the first time since her conception I have a very important dilemma that needs the wisdom of the internet to solve. My sanity depends on what advice you have for me.

I don't know what to wear.

It's not funny. Stop laughing. I'm serious.

It's being held at a luxury resort in the desert where temperatures during the day rise well into the 90s, but during the night dip down into the 50s and 60s. Our first evening there we're to take part in an "authentic Western Ho-down"...

(insert your favorite joke about hos here)

...and on the last evening we're being trucked out into the desert for "dinner and dancing under the stars". Sounds lovely, right?

Wrong. Dead wrong. So wrong.

In our information packet it says about this dinner: "Women are encouraged to wear comfortable, flat shoes" and... That's it. That's all it says in reference to the dress code. I'm drawing a complete blank here and that scares me. Because there we will be, one of the token techie guys and his stay at home house wife with a bunch of bazillionaire, testosterone-laden sales guys and their botoxed trophy wives.

Okay, I may have gone a bit far with that last part. They're not bazillionaires.

I really don't want to get this wrong. There's nothing that will make me run for the safety of my bed faster than showing up somewhere improperly attired. So, what would you wear if you were in my place? Remember, 90 degrees during the day and 50 to 60 degrees at night. Outside. In the desert. I have no idea if it's dressy but I think it's fair to assume that jeans would be frowned upon. I need the whole outfit - pants, top, shoes.

Oh, and if you could recommend a good place to find bathing suits that will fit my freakishly long torso but will also contain my saddle bags, that would be great too.

Now that that has been said I can get back to more frivolous things, like keeping Eternia safe from the evil clutches of Skeletor. And cleaning my bathroom in my baggy sweatpants.

I thank you in advance.

(And to my readers in the Phoenix area, I'm sure it's lovely out there. But it's not the ocean and I was really looking forward to turquoise water, fruity island drinks, and cabana boys in skimpy bathing suits. Exchanging cabana boys for cactus was a bit of a blow.)

A plague, a plague upon your house

About a month ago I brought up Chicky's remarkable health this winter to Mr. C, who promptly started looking into good psychiatric facilities in which to put me.

"It's amazing. She hasn't really been sick all winter."

"Mmm hmm. That's good, right?"

"Well, yeah. But she's got to get sick eventually. All kids get sick in the winter. I wish she would just get ill and be done with it. The waiting is killing me. I keep waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop."

Thud.

I believe that was the left shoe.

The plague that had descended on so many of your homes this winter has finally seen fit to come knocking on my door. Hey, I asked for it. I thought I was ready for it. I was so wrong.

Last night, Chicky vomited on herself. I don't remember hearing her while in the throes of emptying her stomach and she didn't call out to me or cry. She must have gotten sick and then gone right back to sleep, if she really woke up at all. So you can imagine my surprise when I went to wake her up this morning - because she had been asleep for so long so, hey! I should go wake her up so we can start our day! La dee dee! - and found her slumbering amongst the sickness.

And I'm not even going to get into what I just found in her diaper. Suffice it to say that nothing should smell like that. Nothing.

She's in fine spirits, except for being a little less energetic than usual, so I'll watch her closely and be there to clean up the messes. Pretty much everything can be thrown in the washing machine. Except...

Oh, the dreaded Except.

And here's where I need your help, dear people in the computer. Chicky has a stuffed bear, name of Bobby, who was made for her by my Nana. He did not fare so well last night and I must tend to his battle scars. She loves that thing so he must be back in tip-top shape, but because he is hand made, knitted actually, he probably wouldn't make it through the rinse cycle in one piece. How does one spot clean a knitted stuffed animal? I need your wisdom on this. What solution is good to spot clean his soft yarn body and leave him smelling april fresh? Or at least not like puke anymore?

Now I think I need to go light some scented candles or something because my house is starting to smell like what I just found in her diaper and, oh my lord, nothing should smell like that. What the hell have I been feeding her?