Puppy Dog Tails

Stinky feet and guns made of sticks, straws, toilet paper rolls, nose picking and the go go go thrum of kinetic energy. This is what I’m afraid of in having a boy, the compulsion to have one hand down his pants at all times and random photos like this that I see on the internet:

But then I see this last night, how my husband who was once so afraid of having a daughter now sits still for a makeover by a girl wearing too-small skeleton pajamas and a cat mask.

And I think how this guy...

This surfer, sailor, beer-drinking, burrito-loving architect of a man has really stepped it up…

Which means, of course, that I need to step it up, too. Sharpen my sword, stick my hand down my pants, cock my finger and suck it up. I am going to be the mother of a boy. I am the mother of a boy.

Here--pull my finger.

xo,
S

In 2006 She Hardly Had Hair and Couldn't Stand; I Have No Idea What Happened to 2009

Christmas 2007.

Christmas 2008.
Christmas 2010.
Sometimes I think everything is magic. The way the sun rises, sets, the postal system, how incredibly cruel we can all be to each other, how kind, universes contained in something as sick as spit. (Other times I don't think like this at all since it would be too time consuming and The Real Housewives keeps my mind occupied just so.) But this time of year? At Christmas? It's all pure magic. The presents and pasts, pajamas. I remember creeping into my brother's room on Christmas morning, how we would wait as long as we could together, the two of us in his bed while down the hallway the two of them who knew the truth just wanted to sleep. This year Zoey is getting a zsu zsu pet, a Rapunzel doll, art supplies and a microphone, but she is also getting someone to wait with, a brother, the most magical thing of them all.
(Yesterday I took Zoey with me to get my blood drawn, two of a thousand vials they take when you are pregnant. As they inserted the needle Zoey asked me why I wasn't laying down, shouldn't I lay down? No, I said, I can just sit here, and her eyes got wide. When it was over and I put on my coat to leave, Zoey asked why we were leaving without the baby and I realized that she thought we were going to the hospital to have the baby. Seems I have some 'splaining to do.)
Merry merry everyone. May it be magical.
xo,
S

Whiskers On Kittens

If I ever open up a store I think I will name it Whiskers On Kittens. Or Frock, I’m not sure, it depends on if I’m selling cute clothes or disassembled cat parts, I guess.

The weatherman says there are six large storms stacked up from here to Japan and this makes me all sorts of fuzzy seeing as how it’s Friday and my bathrobe is clean. Other things that make me happy? This Nutella Snack Pack I just discovered. Honestly the only way you could make this more me is if there were a fourth compartment with insalata caprese smashed inside. Looking for something to gift me this holiday season? You can buy it here.

Also on the list of things that are me me me is this bitchin’ rainbow turbo bike. Truthfully, though, it would be totally me if it were somehow battery or electric powered as I am not known for my exercise regime.

And then this. Fuck the whiskers on kittens—I want to spend this rainy weekend making out with these happy paws. I imagine they smell faintly of corn chips.

Cuddles,

S

I'll Tell You What's In A Name

That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

See, now I call poo poo on Shakespeare with this one. Because if someone came up to me with a rose and said hey, check out this new rose variety called Diarrhea Coffee-Breath Fart Locker Delight—take a sniff! I probably wouldn’t register the same sweet smell as I would had it been called Lady Delight Pink Vintage Tea Rose. Am I right?

So you can imagine my dismay over the fact that Bryan and I cannot seem to agree on a name for the little lemon-sized baby in mah belly. (Somehow I don’t think I can call it Mister Man forever.) And if you don’t help me with this and suggest some rockstar names STAT, Bryan is going to keep pushing Conrad and Allistair. Or Texas. TEXAS. We have never been to Texas, have no affiliation with Texas, don’t even particularly like Tex-Mex, so I don’t know where this name is coming from. Next thing you know the name Randy will be in the running and I absolutely refuse to yell Conrad Allistair Texas Randy across a playground.

So here are the rules: there aren’t any, really. I like unconventional names, but classic is good, too. You might already know the worst-kept secret in the blogisphere, aka what our last name is, but if not it starts with an M and is two syllables. Stay away from names like Ethan because Ethan has whispy pube facial hair and everyone knows Laird takes photos of his bowel movements and emails them to his friends. Help me name this baby. Go!

Road Rage

This is the time of year when everything is bigger, brighter, at once both faster and slower. There is a line to wait in line and if you look closely at the shadows, they are darker.

On my way home every night there is an intersection. That sentence seems full of portent, but no—it’s just an intersection full of cars full of people full of themselves. Glass half full kind of girl, you know? And in this intersection every night I wait. Through one red light, then two; my record is six red lights. Because the traffic in the other direction never fails to block the intersection, darkened cars stacked together like hyphens, each of us so sure that we are more important than everyone else, (myself included). Because dammit I am pregnant and have to pee. Prius, don’t you know?

I have been wishing for Spring, when on the drive home I will be able to see inside car windows. I have a feeling people will be less likely to block the intersection when their faces are still visible. Then this morning as she ate the waxy chocolate from Day 10 of her advent calendar, Zoey told me that rain is her favorite season, her voice like an ellipses. So I wait.

Truckin'

What in the world ever happened to sweet jane?

Well, let me tell you. Because sometimes life hands you a story that truly is stranger than fiction. And you don’t know where to begin, although disclaimers are always nice. DISCLAIMER: This story is only funny now, after she is clearly alright, healthy, unharmed. Please know that we immediately contacted medical professionals (plural), who told us she would be okay, that it just needed to work through her system. (Insert sense of foreboding here.)

Friday morning. Zoey and I woke up at my brother’s house at 7:00am. Everyone else is still asleep. At 7:30 my dad comes into the living room and says I can go back to sleep for a bit if I want, that he would watch Zoey. I want. I sleep. Apparently at 8:00 Zoey asks for Jello, having the razor-sharp memory of a child tracking the last place she had such a treat. Being a grandpa, my dad says yes, Jello is a fine meal to start the day, but cannot find it in the fridge. But stashed behind the acidopholus and vitamins he finds some chocolate macaroons and gives that to her instead. First one, then two, then three pieces. 8:15am. My brother wakes up and sees the chocolate wrappers on the coffee table. He storms into the kitchen yelling WHO ATE THAT CHOCOLATE? WHO?! My dad and Zoey are sitting at the table scarfing down bagels and dry Cheerios straight out of the box. Because of course on the wrapper in very fine print it lists the ingredients as shredded coconut, sugar, egg whites, bittersweet chocolate, cream, and the medical equivalent of 2.24 grams of dried cannabis sativa. You know, my brother has a bad back, insomnia or some such malady. 9:30am. I wake up.

This part of the story is boring. Me freaking out, pissed, scared, my brother stammering that he is so so sorry, that he called his doctor, a pharmacist, repeated assurances that Zoey would be fine, my dad giggling out apologies and referencing Hunter S. Thompson, then retiring to his room to take a nap. What is not boring but flat out wide-eyed funny strange (and funny ha ha only after she is okay) is a 4 year old stoned out of her mind. I took a video but after much soul-searching decided I do not want my daughter to be the new David After Dentist because the video would most certainly go viral. In it, she is cramming Cheerios into her mouth and laughing, laughing, waving one arm over her head and trying to talk. This went on all day. So instead of going to Disneyland on Friday we listened to Bob Marley, ate an entire box of dry Cheerios, a dozen bagels and watched cartoons. It is rare that the scariest thing that has ever happened in your life is also the funniest thing that has ever happened.

The next day we went to Disneyland. And as people ooohed and aaahhhhed over how cute the little Rapunzel girl was, we whispered to each other that if only they knew how high she had been not 24 hours before at the real happiest place on earth… She does not remember much of that day—her lost day—but has asked why we keep making such a big deal out of the chocolate.

And here is where I owe my mom an apology. I was so afraid that she’d be the one to misbehave. Little did I know that it would be my own father, the man with 19 years sobriety who would get my daughter high. And possibly himself since I’ve never seen him turn down a sweet, though he has denied, denied, denied.

Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;

Other times I can barely see.

Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it’s been.

*LAST DISCLAIMER: I do not smoke pot, eat pot, get high on anything, really. I don't even drink. There is no marijuana in our home. Zoey is safe. It was just the perfect storm of highly accidental events featuring someone else's house, very fine print and a grandfather without his reading glasses which then led to a very scary incident that is only funny in hindsight.

It's a...

Yep. I got the results of my CVS test and all is healthy and "normal," and it's a BOY. We are, of course, so so happy and wow'ed and excited, although I admit to having eyed all the naughty little boys in line at Disneyland with the slight metallic tang of fear in my mouth. A boy. (!!!)

I'll be back tomorrow with stories of the weekend. One in particular. I have to figure out how best to word it to minimize legal ramifications. (No hyperbole needed.) Plus, I'm getting more than a little joy in having my family sweat it out. The waiting is the hardest part...

Down the Rabbit Hole

There is a very real chance I am in jail right now. Actually no, that’s not true because our plane doesn’t leave until tonight. But there is a very real chance I will be in jail tonight because I am traveling with my mother who does not believe rules apply to her. No, she carries 4 oz. of liquid in her carry-on because, well, why not? It’s not like her carry-on would ever fit in the overhead bin anyway. Her purse overflows with tweezers, lighters, prescription pills rattling loose in unmarked containers—so help me god, if she makes one joke about the explosive properties of a crushed Xanax mixed with two parts mouthwash I am going to pretend I am not with her and stand next to the nearest 65 year old woman who looks like she makes a mean casserole. (The TSA pat down should be interesting, though.)

And if I am not in jail tonight then I will most certainly be in jail tomorrow, because tomorrow we go to Disneyland, and my mother has never been to Disneyland. Which is where that silly rules thing might come up again since she pays no mind to designated smoking areas. (At least it should be the happiest jail on earth.)

So yes, this weekend Zoey, my mom and I are going to visit my brother and his wife where my dad will also meet us, and time will fold over onto itself, a synchronicity of a family in front of the Princess’ Castle where we will have our picture taken as if The Great Divorce of 1992 never happened, a Portrait of a Family as What If. God grant me the serenity…

Back on Monday no doubt with stories.
Xo,
S