Candy coma

It is the morning of Halloween and I’ve come to a bit of a problem.  We have no candy.  No, I didn’t run out of time and not have a chance to buy it – I ate it.  ALL. (Two bags of chocolate bars and a case of Doritos, to be exact.)

I had purchased the candy over a month ago because it was on sale. “It was three for the price of one,” I bragged to Practical Joe after bringing home my latest steal.  That same day I peeled back my first candy wrapper.

For the next month, I would sneak into the pantry, stealthy unwrapping candy bars without a sound and concealing the evidence wherever I could: In pockets, the bottom of the trash bin, and in a pinch, the diaper genie.  I scurried around the house like a street rat grabbing the precious junk food and stuffing it into my mouth before PJ could see. 

One day though, despite my careful efforts, he did.  I was in the pantry with the door closed scarfing down a Mr. Big when suddenly the door swung open.

“What are you eating?” asked PJ, bemused. “And why are you hiding in the pantry?”

I slunk out with my tail between my legs.

“Nothing.  I was just looking for something,” I said ashamed.  At this point I was convinced that if I Googled closet eater, a thousand pictures of myself would come up.  I was also pretty sure that I wasn’t going to fit into my Cat Woman costume this year.  (I’d have to be something less skanky like a ghost or a pumpkin.)

So today I decide I must come out of the closet.  I have no choice unless I want my house to be egged for handing out cans of soup and stale crackers this evening.

I go see PJ in his dungeon, a.k.a the basement.  It’s the only room in the house I let him decorate and let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. For one, the pictures are hung all helter-skelter, some low and some almost at the ceiling. For two, there is a bad smell that I'm pretty sure is related to food stuck between the couch cushions.

“I need to go to the store,” I say sheepishly.

“For what?” says PJ as I expect him to.

I confess to eating all the candy and explain that there is none left to pass out to the trick-or-treaters.

“Oh you mean the candy you bought on sale?”

The jerk.  He would point that out.

“I’ve been eating it too.  Is it really all gone?”  He laughs.

Thank God!  We both have a laugh and I feel a little less of a need to join the nearest Overeaters Anonymous.

I go to the store and buy another few bags of candy (not on sale this time).  I get home and decide I’ll treat myself to one innocent baby sized Kit Kat bar and I swear to you, that’s all I’ve eaten.

So far.

Namaste,

Shoplifting and Winnebagos

I’ve decided that I need new bottles.  Currently, I have the Tommee Tippee ones with the air vent system.  If you’ve never seen this bottle, all you really need to know is that it’s more complex than a space shuttle and it certainly has more components.  I am so fed up with washing all the little plastic pieces that I have decided it’s time to switch to the Winnebago.

I’ve seen them before.  They are made by Gerber and they’re nice and simple.  So simple that I think I’ve even seen monkeys use them.  I call them Winnebagos, because they look like they are from the 70’s and are 100% practical.  No gadgets or gismos, just your standard bottle.  This is exactly what I need. 

So I go to the store in hunt of the fabulous Winnebagos.  As I am pushing the stroller up the aisle, I hear someone say something over the intercom asking for security in section five. 

Am I in section five?  Do they think I’m shoplifting?  I have been slowly meandering up and down the aisle putting little things in the bottom of the stroller, so it is highly possible that they think I am.

A jolt of excitement shoots through my body.  This could be the day!

I suppose I should tell you that I have a secret fantasy that someone someday will accuse me of shoplifting.  They’d send security over to check my bags and come up with nothing.  Then I’d act all indignant and tell them how dare they accuse an innocent mother of shoplifting when she’s never shoplifted anything in her life.  At this point, Buddha Baby would start to cry and I’d say, “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go give my baby a Winnebago.”

I have the same fantasy about being pulled over by the police and being given a breathalyzer.  Except in my fantasy I am pregnant and the police officer looks down at my giant belly and feels like a complete fool for wanting to give a breathalyzer to a pregnant person.

Like I’ve told you before, I have issues.

In the end, I don’t get to act indignant, because no one stops me to accuse me of anything.

It’s just another disappointing shopping trip.

Namaste,

Bull Penises

Anyone who is married to me knows that I have a keen ability to fight over anything.  Food, bad driving, not tucking the sheets in properly – you name it, I’ve picked a fight about it.  And coincidentally enough, my mother has this same ability.

She calls me yesterday in a huff.

“Your stepfather is driving me crazy.”

This isn’t anything new.

“Oh really? How come?” I say, only half paying attention.  I’ve grown accustomed to my mother calling me to vent.

“We need bull penises and he refuses to get off his ass and go get them!”

“Excuse me?”  She has my attention now.  “Did you just say you’re fighting over bull penises?”

“Yes, he won’t go pick them up!”

(Very obscure.  I am impressed.)

 “I’ve been asking him for three days now and we still don’t have any!” she complains.

At this point I am beyond stumped. “What on earth are you going to do with bull penises?  Surely to God you’re not going to eat them." With my mother, you really never know. When I was a kid she actually served up curried lamb testicles for dinner one night, thinking it would help me to become more cultured.  To this day I avoid anything curried and certainly all forms of lamb. The attempt to make me cultured failed too, since I managed to make it all the way to university believing that Africa was a country.

“No, no,” she tells me as if I'm the one being crazy. “They’re for the dogs," she tells me, explaining that they're actually called bully sticks. "Ceasar Millan recommends them and I have to give them something! They've already destroyed three pairs of shoes and my good reading glasses.” I ask her why she doesn’t go and get the penises herself, but she tells me that’s beside the point.  Her husband should help out more: do more dishes, pick up his dirty laundry, and “buy the damn penises!"

I hang up the phone and the fear sinks in: I really am like my mother.

Gulp.

Namaste,

Hot dog boy

Have you ever wondered what would have happened had you married someone else - maybe an ex-boyfriend or an old crush? I’ll admit it.  I have. 

Well the other day, I sort of got my answer when I saw my ex-boyfriend, an actor, on TV being interviewed on one of those entertainment news shows.

He looked so happy, I barely recognized him.  That’s probably because the last time I saw him, tears were trickling down his cheeks as I tried to gently tell him that I was at a point in my life where I needed to be single.  This of course, was a lie.

The truth was that he was cheap.  And I say this fully realizing the irony in the fact that I went on to marry the cheapest man on earth.  But the thing is, Practical Joe was never cheap with me on dates.  He always got the bill and never once tried to pull a “fake reach.”  (You know, when a guy half-heartedly reaches for the bill, but the instant you offer to pay, he’s handing over the cheque?)

Hot Dog Boy was king of the “fake reach,” but that wasn’t the reason I broke up with him.  No - I broke up with him over a hot dog.

We were at a carnival and suddenly he asked – well more like told me – to buy him a hot dog. (“Buy me a hot dog!” He said it just like that.)  And just like that my stomach started to turn and for the next couple of weeks I felt nauseous every time I thought of him gnawing on that stupid hot dog with that satisfied grin upon his face.  

I know this sounds like a ridiculous thing to break up with someone over, but there was just something so weenie about the fact that he needed me to pay for his wiener, you know? (Of course, there were other reasons for the break up, but the hot dog was the main one.)

So when I see him on TV I am a bit stunned.  Back when I was dating him, he was a struggling actor auditioning for weird New Age plays.  Now he’s got a guest spot on a TV show.  I am impressed.  He’s talking about his actor girlfriend and they show a picture.  She is very pretty. 

Pff. Whatever!  It certainly doesn’t make up for the hot dog incident.  After all, Practical Joe is smart enough not to ask a girl to pay for his concession foods.  

I look at Practical Joe as he sits at the table eating his dinner and am so grateful that I found him.  I definitely ended up with the right man.  My soul mate.

He looks up at me and smiles. “You know what would be great?” he says as he shovels another bite of casserole into his mouth.  “Edible forks.”

And then again, maybe Hot Dog Boy wasn’t so bad after all.

Namaste,

Another freakin' baby shower

Over the weekend I attend yet another freakin’ baby shower.  I say it like this, because I’ve already been to four in the past three weeks and I’m feeling exhausted (and broke).  On the plus side, this happens be Baby Gate’s shower, which means that she has been too busy to keep tabs on me lately.  (I haven’t had to screen my calls all weekend!)

I go to the shower with my friend Heels.  (I call her Heels because of her closet full of Louboutins and the fact that she’s always so well dressed that you’d think she just stepped off the runway at New York Fashion Week.  Even when I anticipate her stylish outfits and spend an hour carefully assembling mine, I always end up feeling frumpy next to her.)

Today is no exception. I pick up Heels and she is wearing an adorable polka dot dress that hugs her figure perfectly and shows off just the right amount of cleavage.  I look down at my own outfit and feel the inadequacy already starting to seep in. This isn’t helping anything.

“I hate showers,” I tell Heels on the car ride over.  “They're like watching fundraisers on public television… boring and awkward. “

Heels looks at me as if I’m from another planet.

“How could you not like showers, with all the cute decorations and games? They’re so much fun!” (Oh the games.  Don’t even get me started on the games.) “You just don’t like other people’s showers – you had fun at your own, didn’t you?”

I explain to her that it’s not just other people’s showers - I despised my own as well.  I know some women look forward to their showers for months or even years, but I literally had a recurring nightmare about mine.  Just the thought of thirty people glaring at me as I open their gifts is enough to give me a nervous breakdown.  All the ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’, pretending that each gift is even more exciting than the next... I’d rather just buy my own stuff and skip the bad acting.

Of course Heels can’t believe it.  She still loves showers, because she hasn’t had one of her own yet.  Heels has been wanting to have a baby for quite some time now, but her live-in boyfriend has been dragging his feet.  It hasn’t stopped her from buying every designer baby outfit she finds though.  (Girl ones of course. Women like her don’t expect boys.)

We get to the shower and place our gifts atop a huge mound of boxes and bows.  Heels is having the time of her life cooing over all the adorable baby things while I wait impatiently for Baby Gate to start unwrapping.  Finally (two hours later!) she does.

To my relief, there is no bad acting. Baby Gate seems genuinely excited about each and every gift, coming up with new adjectives to describe each one.  But just as she is losing it over a package of soothers (“Baby’s first soothers - how exciting!”), a little girl who looks to be about four or five, approaches Heels and sits at her feet.  She half-heartedly plays with a doll while frequently looking up at Heels. 

Heels smiles at the little girl. “She’s so cute!” she whispers to me.

I nod.  Is she staring at Heels’ boobs, I wonder?  I study her for another minute.  I think she is!  Too weird.

After a moment, the little girl puts down her doll and stands up suddenly pointing to Heels’ chest. “I want some!” she shouts at Heels.

Everyone turns and looks.  The little girl’s mother chuckles as she grabs her child’s hand to usher her away.

“Those aren’t for you, Honey.  Remember, only mommy’s boobies are for food.”

Meals On Heels looks at me horrified and humiliated.  I shrug.  “Take it as a compliment.”

We leave as soon as we think it won’t seem rude and we laugh our asses off the entire way home.

Namaste,

Think we can do it?

We are at #45 (out of 1555!) on Top Baby Blogs, thanks to all your votes.  (We've also been #1 at topblogs.ca in the parenting category, almost every day for a week!) Currently we are sitting comfortably on the second page of Top Baby Blogs and with every click we are moving up.  Do you think we could make the first page?  I do!  Please help make it happen by clicking below (it takes two clicks) and let me know when you do so I can thank you personally!  Remember, you can vote every day!

Namaste,

Cocktail Hour

Mommy Ventura and I have decided that once a week we are going to have Cocktail Hour over the phone.  (We’re talking small cocktails here.  Don’t worry; you won’t be seeing us on Oprah.)

We figure we deserve it considering how much work we do in the home.  After all, watching our babies play on the floor while we surf the Internet is incredibly exhausting.

Yesterday was our first and since it wasn’t planned, we had to improvise on the cocktails.  I had the last few drops of some wine from an old box and she rustled up some gin.

“It’s a bit strong but it’ll do,” she says as she takes her first sip.

I ask what’s new.  She tells me she’s fed up with Poppa Ventura and his desire for relaxation.

“He tells me that when he gets home he wants to relax!  Like, okay, then I’m going to go relax as I make dinner.  I’ll just put my feet up on the stove!”

“Yeah, Practical Joe is the same way.  And on the weekends when I finally have him there to help me, he tries to play hot potato with the baby,” I say.

(You know the game: “I have to go eat.  Could you watch the baby?”  I’m sure they think we starve ourselves all day waiting for them to come home and watch the baby.)

“PV does that too!  He tells me the lawn needs mowing and I say f**k the lawn!  I don’t care what it looks like - let it grow! He’s just using it as an excuse for more time on his own.”

After we are finished venting about our relaxed husbands, MV asks me what’s new.

“I am a closet blogger,” I tell her, unable to hold it in any longer.  I was trying to keep it to myself, but I have a serious inability to keep secrets, even when they are my own.

“Oh,” I can hear the disappointment setting in. She was probably hoping I had something juicier like the time I told her I was moonlighting at Hooters just for kicks.

“And you’re in it,” I add.

“Really?” Now she’s interested. “Where do I go?”

I tell her to Google it and then wait while she reads.

“You told them about the housewife hooker?”  She pretends to be aghast but I know she’s excited.

“I feel like a celebrity!  Oooh! Could you ask your readers what theme I should pick for Baby Ventura’s first birthday party?”

I tell her I could, but I don’t think it would be very interesting.

For the rest of the conversation she talks in witty one-liners, and then asks me if I’m going to use them.  

By the end of Cocktail Hour she has read aloud and laughed at every single post. 

Now that’s what friends are for.

Namaste,

A cup of Joe

Is there anything better than coffee? Even after the worst nights when I am wakened every twenty seconds by Practical Joe’s snoring, a Dog From Hell whining, or Buddha Baby wanting me to sit with him for an hour and a half while he examines his hands, in the morning there is still hot, delicious coffee.  The best consolation prize.

So almost every day, to feed my caffeine addiction, I take Buddha Baby for a stroll to the nearest Starbucks, which is a few blocks away from our house.  And almost every day, for the past few months, I have seen the same sketchy looking homeless man sitting outside.

I’m always just a bit scared of all homeless people, but this one really gives me the creeps, the way he smiles and rocks back and forth.  So each day I scurry past him, pretending I am in a big rush to get my coffee. (The last thing I want is for him to know that I am scurrying because of him and then attack me for being so judgmental.)

But today I notice something different.  Sketchy Homeless Guy has a dog.  It's a black and brown mutt that looks to be about 6 months old.  He has a sign too that says “Please help feed dog.”

He can’t feed the dog? Poor pup! I can’t just scurry past him now, can I?

I take a deep breath and approach. “Is this your dog?”

(In a British accent) “Yes, it’s me dog.  It’s me hangry dog.”

He tells me that he found the puppy in an ally and he’s been unable to afford proper food for her. He says in order to feed her he takes turns letting her eat his food from the shelter.  Some days he’ll eat, and others the dog will eat.

Aside from being horrified at the thought of a poor puppy (and man) not having enough food to eat, I’m also mad at myself for having negatively judged this poor fellow. He’s obviously very kind-hearted to give up his food at the shelter for this puppy.

I end up standing there for about ten minutes talking to Nice Homeless Guy.  He tells me that he’s been homeless for fifteen years, but that he used to be a banker in London.  After his wife died he was so depressed that he couldn’t work and then it all spiraled down from there.  (He also tells me something about his son but I can’t understand due to his heavy accent.  Still, I nod empathetically.)

As I am standing there I notice people giving me evil “how-could-you-talk-to-him-when-you-have-a-baby” stares.  As I am contemplating shouting out at a woman who is glaring at me from the bus stop, Nice Homeless Guy interrupts the thought.

“Could you do me a favor love?”

“What’s that?”

“Could you buy me some hooch?”

I have no idea what hooch is, but I assume it’s alcohol… or worse.

I stutter something inaudible, feeling pretty stupid now.  I wonder who put the idiot sign on my forehead?

“Kidding!” he says with a toothless grin.

Wow, he’s kind to animals and he has a sense of humor. I have single friends who might date him (if they could get over the whole homelessness situation).

I head for the coffee shop to grab him and myself a cup of coffee and a muffin.  Then I run over to the supermarket and buy a huge bag of puppy food for the dog.

When I leave Nice Homeless Guy, he is smiling.  But on the way home, my coffee isn’t quite as comforting as it normally is.

Namaste,

Still need votes!

Well The Meditative Mom is #51 on Top Baby Blogs!  That's pretty good considering this is a new blog.  As other blogs get votes though, we are falling (yesterday The Meditative Mom was at #41!)  Please continue to submit your votes every day and let me know when you do so I can thank you personally!

Thanks and namaste,

Couch Bound

It’s amazing how I can consider myself happily married when my husband says things like what he said to me last night.

He comes home from work and I am in the kitchen chopping vegetables.

“When’s dinner?” he asks.

I tell him it won’t be for another hour and a half.

“Why so long?” he whines.  Suddenly I feel like I have two children (except one is way cuter than the other and doesn’t have a receding hairline).

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get it started until just now,” I explain.  “I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Raising our child,” I say firmly. “Oh and did you notice that I cleaned the kitchen and did the laundry that you left all over the couch?”

“If you cleaned the kitchen, why is the counter all dirty?” he asks defiantly.

I hold up my chopping hand. “I’m holding a knife you know.”  This silences him for a moment.

He opens the cutlery drawer and pulls out a spoon that the dishwasher has obviously failed to clean properly. “Is this spoon clean?” he asks me as if I were a two-year-old child. (“Point to the clean spoon… Now point to the dirty spoon… Good job!”)

“You know it’s not clean - there’s something on it," I say becoming increasingly annoyed.

(This is when his inner Mel Gibson starts to shine through.) 

"Well why is it still dirty?"

"I didn't notice it. The baby was crying when I was unloading the dishes. I was in a hurry."

"Well maybe when the baby's crying is not the best time to unload dishes," says Mr. Gibson.

"Why are you criticizing me?”

“I just get the impression that you’re not trying or that you don’t care.”

I look at him stunned.  He did NOT just say that. Granted, I'm not the best housekeeper in the world.  No matter how hard I try, the house is always a bit cluttered and my dish cloths stink.  But it's certainly no excuse for this!

I storm upstairs.

That night Mel sleeps on the couch without me telling him to.  He knows he’s screwed up. (He’s certainly not apologizing though.)

--

The next morning, Buddha Baby wakes me up bright and early.  I'd never tell this to Mel (for bargaining purposes), but I feel rejuvenated after having the bed to myself. I go downstairs and Mel Gibson is getting ready to leave for work.

“Babe, I’m sorry for what I said to you last night.  I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.” He hugs me.

“Thanks,” I say, still resentful.  I point to the couch.  “Make your bed.”

He smiles and I smile back. 

As Practical Joe is heading out the door he gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t use this for your blog,” he says.

“I won’t.”

Namaste,

No Soliciting

I used to think that people who put up “No Soliciting” signs were crotchety and heartless. Turns out they're just nice people like you and me who enjoy walking around the house makeup-less, pant-less, or fully nude, without the threat of being seen.

I learn this lesson the hard way.

It is Sunday afternoon and I have decided to spend the day catching up on household chores. I begin with the laundry, figuring that the sanitary thing to do is to wash my favorite nursing bra, which I have been wearing for longer than I care to admit. (I have more than one nursing bra, I really do. It’s just that this one is the only one that doesn’t make me look like Madonna circa 1990.)

Without thinking about it, I take off my bra and throw it in the washer. It’ll only take about an hour and in the meantime I’ll just go braless. It’ll be like the old days before my boobs turned into flattened bean bags.

I am tidying up the kitchen when suddenly there is a knock at the door. Oh no! I can’t answer the door like this!

Quickly I grab Buddha Baby out of his chair and head towards the stairs. That’s when I see an old man traipsing across my lawn. He’s coming for the other door!

If we go upstairs now, the old man will be able to see us through the window and then I’ll have to answer my door, baring my saggy chesticles and probably giving the poor guy a heart attack. (Then again, I’m sure he’s used to saggy chesticles given his age, but never mind.)

We crouch down and I am reduced to hiding in my own home. Hopefully, in a few minutes he’ll be off to bother the next house.

But just when I am about to stand up, I look to my right and there he is standing on my deck looking in at me through the patio door! Busted.

I feel my face flush bright red as I pretend to be picking something up off the floor. (Why do these things always happen to me?) I slowly head for the door, holding Buddha Baby in front of me to cover my shame.

I open the door and face the old man. (Thankfully he is the cute rather than the dirty kind.)

“Hi there – sorry to bother you,” he says.

I’m sure he’s really sorry now.

He explains that he is selling calendars for a charity. (You know, the kind of calendar with all the coupons that you plan to use but never do?) He asks me if I want to buy one.

Normally, I’d say something about having already donated (a lie) but I am so embarrassed that I tell him I’ll take three.

When he leaves I dig out one of my pointy Madonna bras and head straight to the store to buy a “No Soliciting” sign.

Unfortunately they don’t make signs that say “Warning: Free Range Sweater Cows.” Otherwise I would have bought that one.

Namaste,

Quick Favor!

Great news! There has been a voting reset at Top Baby Blogs. This means that I actually have a shot at showing up on the first couple of pages - that is, with a little help from you of course! Please click the link below to cast your vote! (It takes two clicks.)  Remember you can vote once every 24 hours!




Thanks a million!

Sunday Blog Hop!

Would you like worms with that?

Practical Joe and I have been on a kick recently to save money.  Well, he has anyway.  I’ve just been following along, because the more we save now, the more handbags I can buy later. (At least that's the way I see it.)

So naturally I start clipping coupons and buying store brand foods.  And I'm actually getting quite good at it.  I even figure out that I saved about thirty-dollars on our last grocery bill.   At this rate, I could become one of those savvy moms called on by programs like the Today show to demonstrate how to buy $300 worth of groceries using only coupons.

And the first lesson I’d tell Ann Curry is that there are some things you should NEVER buy on the cheap.  One of these things is fish.

Thinking I am pretty clever, I decide to ditch the salmon and buy a cheaper white fish.  I choose cod.  I’m sure it won’t be quite as flavorful, but I’ll zest it up with some butter and lemon, and I’ll be saving at least ten-dollars a package.  (Practical Joe will probably have to have a cold shower after I tell him this.)

At home, I take the fish out of its packaging and what do I see? A tiny white curly thing that looks an awful lot like a worm. 

After poking at it with a butter knife I decide it is definitely a worm, and I am repulsed.  My skin is crawling with thoughts of what would have happened had I ingested the awful creature.

But soon my repulsion turns to pure self-righteous anger.  As a consumer, it’s aggravating enough when I pay good money for yogurt or fruit just to have it spoil the next day - but worms is just too much!

I pack Buddha Baby into the car for the second time in a day and drive to the store, ready to display the worm infested fish.  I can already hear the store manager groveling at my feet offering up gift cards and lifetime supplies of Pampers in order to make it up to me.

I march over to the customer service counter and slap down the smelly fish.

“There are worms in my fish,” I tell the lady.

“What? What do you mean?”

I wait for it to sink in.  

“Worms… Oh, this is cod fish.  Those are just cod worms.”

Just cod worms?  

For a moment, I am confused.  Is this a thing that only I don’t know about?  Do people go around happily buying wormy fish? 

I decide that either way, I don’t care.

I very nicely tell her (after all, she didn't put the worms there, did she?) that I'd like my money back and that if they want to sell wormy fish they should at least put up a sign identifying its worminess.  Then I say that I won't be coming back to the store.  I don’t actually mean this last part (it has the most reasonably priced food in town), but I do intend to tell everyone I know about the wormy fish.

Namaste,

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Cardboard Mommy

I have a business idea that's going to make me richer than Oprah. 

I am going to start a company that makes cardboard cutouts of moms.  Women will buy them by the dozen and place them all around their homes, in order to comfort their whiny children when they leave the room.  Finally, moms everywhere will be able to do important things like take showers and clip their unruly toenails. 

My idea comes to me during a phone conversation with my dad.  We are desperately trying to hear each other over Buddha Baby’s whining.

“Do you have to go?” my father asks.

“No, why?”

“Well, isn’t Buddha Baby crying?”

“Huh? Oh right,” I say.  Most moms have an innate ability to hear their babies crying from a mile away – I on the other hand, am actually learning to tune mine out.  It’s probably some sort of survival mechanism, so I don’t go crazy and jump out the top story window.

“No, he does this all the time – especially if I leave the room," I say.

It is at this point when my dad suggests I give Gary a call.  Gary is my dad’s zany friend who only wears Hawaiian shirts and owns a print shop that makes cardboard cutouts. (Does anyone actually buy these things other than Twihards obsessed with Robert Pattinson and that wolf kid?)

“Just email him a picture of yourself and he’ll print one up!” My dad is only half kidding, and I gotta say, I half consider it.

I just can’t take the constant whining.  Buddha Baby has recently entered this phase where he whines whenever I’m not holding him.  The second I put him down to play, he makes the naggiest whimpering sound warning me that he’s about to lose it. 

I know as a mother I’m not supposed to say this, but it is the most irritating sound in the world.  I think if they used this sound to punish criminals, we’d see an end to all crimes.  (“Oh no, anything but the whiny baby!” they’d scream as we sent them into the sound booth of torture.)

The only way I get some peace and quiet is if I put on a Baby Einstein movie.  (If you’ve never seen one, they look like they were made in someone’s garage, with cheap hand puppets and old nature shows edited together, but somehow they work miracles.)

However, since I feel guilty about using my television as a babysitter for more than a half an hour a day, I’m going to go into business making cardboard mommies.  In the meantime though, I might just have to give Gary a call.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go tend to my whiny baby.

Namaste,

-MM

Let’s Get Drunk and Fight – Partie Deux

On the weekend, Practical Joe planned a much needed date night for the two of us.  He surprised me with a babysitter, movie tickets, and reservations at a beautiful French restaurant downtown.

Now before you go hating me for having one of those sensitive husbands who brings home flowers and leaves little love notes in unexpected places, like the laundry bin or the refrigerator, you should know that 1) he doesn’t do those things, and 2) I have been nagging him to do more thoughtful things for… oh… centuries.  In fact, our last discussion on the matter was only a week ago.  So while planning a date night is super sweet, somehow it is cheapened by the fact that I had to nag for it.

Nevertheless, I’ll give him the point.

5:30 p.m.: We sit in the restaurant trying to read the menu, which is written entirely in French.  And while I am semi-fluent in the language, I’ve never heard of anything on this menu, so I order wine and something called foie gras. 

“So what should we talk about?” I say as I take my first bite.

“I don’t know, what do you want to talk about?” says Practical Joe.

I tell him I’d rather talk about anything than what we are currently talking about, and so he asks me if I know how foie gras is made. 

It all goes downhill from here.

“It’s the liver of a duck that’s been forced to eat lard until it’s so fat it dies,” he explains with a boyish grin that tells me he still thinks this kind of stuff is cool.  If it were socially acceptable for a 32-year-old to trap frogs by the creek, we would have a lot of pet frogs.

I put down my fork and start to cry. 

“Why are you crying?” says Practical Joe, dumbfounded.  I don’t think there is a more annoying question, especially when a person is crying.

I tell him I am crying for the soul of the poor tortured duck and he asks me if it is “that time of the month.”  I ask him if he has a death wish and thankfully he is too afraid to mention the wasted thirty-dollars, although I’m sure it’s eating away at the very core of him like termites on wood.

7:30 p.m.: After two hours of drinking and trying not to think about the dead duck, the waiter brings us our bill.  I stand up, swaying from side to side.  I hope I don’t look as drunk as I feel.

“Merci!” I say to the waiter, trying to sound as sober as possible.  He shoots me a knowing smile.  The smug bastard.  I’m sure he’s never had a drink in his life.

8:00 p.m.: Since the movie starts later, we decide to go wait at another restaurant near the theatre.  I order more wine and it is delivered by a girl who is so gorgeous that I find myself having fantasies of her crashing to the floor with her tray of apple martinis.

“Do you think she’s pretty?” I ask with suspicion.

“Who?” says Practical Joe.  He’s cheap but definitely not stupid.

We get on the topic of which Hollywood actresses “we” think are attractive.  For years I have been trying to get him to admit to me which ones they are, but he always cleverly skirts around the issue (“I think you’re pretty,” he’ll say to my extreme annoyance).

But this time I actually get it out of him.

“Halle Berry,” he admits.

Typical.  I finish my wine and we head towards the theatre.

12:00 a.m.:  In the car, after the movie (I am still drunk) and a thought strikes me: I look NOTHING like Halle Berry!  In fact, if I had to pick one person who is my complete physical opposite, I think it would be her!  For one, she is petite.  I am tall, sturdy, and I have big feet.

I give him the silent treatment for the rest of the way home.  How dare he like Halle Berry!

When we get home, Buddha Baby is fast asleep.  I look at him on the video monitor and remember how lucky I really am.  I don’t even care anymore that I don’t look like stupid Halle Berry.  

12:30 a.m.: I collapse onto the bed.  “Let’s have another baby!” I slur.  Practical Joe kisses me on the forehead and within seconds I am fast asleep.

I’m starting to understand why he doesn’t take me out more.

Namaste,

-MM

The Housewife Hooker

Every now and then I get together with my best-friend Mommy Ventura for play dates. 

Mommy Ventura gets her name because of her twelve cats, three dogs, two raccoons and baby girl, all of which (except the baby girl) were collected as a result of her work as a “pet detective.”  Yes, she literally scours the city in a creepy windowless van, solving pet related crimes.

MV and I have been friends for over 15 years.  I laughed alongside her as she told every teacher to bite her, and she coached me through every break up and guy conundrum I’ve ever had.  (“Are you sure it was he who peed in your bed?”  “Yes, I’m 100% sure.”)

We know everything about each other.  And when I say everything, I really do mean everything.

So it isn’t a huge surprise when she tells me her latest confession.

“I’m a housewife hooker.”

“I see. Go on.”  I say, already thankful the conversation is moving beyond children.  Some moms love talking about their babies for hours on end, while I think there is nothing more boring. (“He fell asleep at eight, woke briefly at nine, then slept until two and wanted to eat, then fussed for a bit…” See what I mean?)

“It’s nearly impossible to get Poppa Ventura to do things around the house,” says MV.  “He just sits around playing video games and doesn’t help with the chores.  Well, not unless I resort to offering… rewards,” she explains sheepishly.

“Mm hmm, I see.” I try to put on my best head doctor voice. “And how does this make you feel?”

“Dirty, used – but it’s the only thing that works? Do you think it’s wrong?”

I consider toying with her for a bit, before deciding against it.  She’s got too much dirt on me.

“Nah.  We’ve all turned tricks from time to time.”

Well, at least I know I have.  How else could my addiction to handbags survive my decision to have a joint checking account with the cheapest man on earth?  A girl needs to shop, now doesn’t she? 

MV is relieved and we move on to other things – namely how much our husbands irritate us.

All in all, it is a very satisfying play date.

Namaste,

-MM

Bad Baby

I’ve been embarrassed by my five-month-old. And when I say embarrassed, I mean humiliated beyond belief, to the point where I’d seriously like nothing better than to crawl into the giant hole that Dog From Hell One has dug in our backyard, and die.

Here is what happened:

Yesterday, I get a call from my boss, a nice enough man, who’s got the most unsettling eyes you’ve ever seen. They point in two different directions and never seem to blink. 

Before I went on maternity leave, he would often come into my office just as I was hunting for shoes on eBay or reading pregnancy updates on BabyCenter, and because of his beady eyes, I was sure he was about to fire me. But just when I was ready to hand in the towel myself, he’d say something like “Could you get me five copies of Friday’s press release,” and I’d know it was just the eyes. They’d get me every time.

Beady Eyes is calling to see how we are doing, which is really very nice of him considering what a crap employee I’ve been. I tell him it’s been great and say the obligatory mom things like “Buddha Baby is growing like a weed,” etc...

Then it happens.

Buddha Baby lets rip a massive fart – probably the loudest one I’ve ever heard him make. There is a moment of silence and then Beady Eyes, not being able to take the tension, interjects with something lame about the weather. By this time it’s too late to clarify that it was my baby and not me who broke wind and I am mortified.

--

“Why didn’t you just say something when it happened?” asks Practical Joe through tears of laughter.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Nice fart Buddha Baby! Ooh that sounded like a wet one!’ It was my boss I was talking to!”

Practical Joe taunts me with farting noises for the rest of the evening, forcing me to relive the shame that my baby has forever caused me.

I think I might have to quit my job.

Namaste,

-MM

Damn Helga!

The other day was rough on my self-esteem (with the dirty bird flying into me and all), but today I’m feeling much better.  I’m down another pound and not feeling nearly as hideous as the day before.

I decide to go back to hot yoga (this time with a proper pedicure) and settle in for a rejuvenating workout.  I plan to clear my mind and focus on nothing but my inner Chi (whatever that means).

And then in walks Helga.

She saunters in, the way people do when they have perfect bodies.  It obviously doesn’t bother her that she seems to have forgotten most of her clothing.  She is wearing only a tiny pair of shorts and a microscopic sports bra that showcases her enormous, shall we say, assets.

She circles around the room looking for a good place to park her mat.  I try to send out telepathic thoughts letting her know that I’m just too hormonal and fragile to have her rock hard body working out next to me. She does anyway.

Fantastic. I suck in my stomach and the class begins.

As we move into Eagle Pose, I feel completely foolish as I teeter from side to side, about to come crashing to the floor at any minute. 

It doesn't help any that Helga is the definition of grace and beauty, contorting into every pose with perfect ease.  At one point, the instructor even uses her as an example of what the rest of us mortals should aspire to look like. 

“You see, if we were to put a ruler down the side of Helga’s body, it would lie completely flat.”

Damn Helga.  I’m sure I’d have a ruler flat body too if I spent all my time in yoga studios drinking coconut water instead of raising my child.

And what’s with a name like Helga anyway?  Why is it that the most beautiful women have names like that (Helga, Olga, Ingrid)?  If you met an ugly Helga you’d think the name was horrible, but if she is gorgeous it somehow makes her seem all the more posh.

When we are finished, we all traipse into the change room like drowned rats.  Helga, of course, glistens looking like she has just stepped off the cover of Maxim. 

As I clumsily try to get my backside under wraps, I can’t help but notice Helga strutting around in her underwear for what seems like an unnecessary amount of time.

The showoff.

It’s just then that we make eye contact.  Shit!  She probably thinks I’m some beer-guzzling lesbian, the way I’ve been leering at her (I like lesbians, I just don't want to be perceived as a beer-guzzling one).

“I love your purse,” she says with a smile.

Dammit, she’s nice too.  There is no justice in the world.

Namaste,

Dirty Bird

If you saw my tweet yesterday that a bird had just flown into me, that wasn’t Twitter code.  An actual bird did fly into me.

I was at the supermarket and was already in bad spirits. 

I had just come from the deli counter where Dirty Deli Guy works.  Normally I shudder to myself as I approach, anticipating the dirty remark that’s about to come from his filthy mouth.  (“How did you like the salami, Princess?” That kind of thing.)

This time I shudder, same as always, and he says… NOTHING! (Well not nothing.  He does say, “That’ll be $5.98.”) 

It’s not that I like Dirty Deli Guy’s rude remarks, but somehow I’m hurt that he doesn’t feel compelled to make them anymore.  To me this is just confirmation of what I already know: My looks are gone and it's game over for me.  Good thing I'm married.  Poor idiot 'bought the cow,' now he has to live with it.

As I’m walking to my car, digging for my keys, I push the cart a little too close to a pigeon that is eating some god-awful thing off the parking lot pavement.  It flies up and hits me in the chest before flying upwards again and flapping its dirty wings through my hair. 

I look around to see if people notice.  They do.  I find myself wishing I were with another adult.  At least then I could laugh it off with someone instead of looking all flustered and stupid, fixing my hair and chuckling to myself.

--

“So it’s official. I'm hideous!”  I shout, as soon as Practical Joe walks in the door. They say you're supposed to give your husband 15 minutes of alone time when he gets home, but I've never been able to do it.  I'm like Sex and the City's Aidan when he bombards Carrie with questions as soon as she opens the door. ("Who'd you see? Where'd you go? Who'd you meet? What'd ya know?")

“It’s bad enough that Dirty Deli Guy doesn’t notice me anymore, but apparently I’m so translucent that birds are flying into me!” (I’m crying now. I have issues, I know.)

“Who’s Dirty Deli Guy? A bird flew into you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say angrily.  Why do men always miss the point?

“You’re not ugly – you’re beautiful,” says Practical Joe, obligingly.

“You’re my husband, you have to say that.”

I continue prodding until I’m satisfied that he really means it.  Then I fix my mascara and carry on with the rest of the evening.

It’s amazing what a bird flying into you can do to your self-esteem. 

Namaste,

-MM

Let's Get Drunk and Fight

It’s amazing how married people can fight over the dumbest things.

Over the weekend, Practical Joe splurged and brought home a box of wine (“It’s like the equivalent of seven dollars a bottle,” he stated proudly). But instead of enjoying it we ended up getting in a massive fight over who drank the most.

“There’s hardly any left for me,” I complained. While I was finishing up breastfeeding for the night, it was obvious that Practical Joe had gotten a little thirsty.

“No, you drank like two liters of it last night,” he argued. Drinking is the one and only thing that can snuff out his sturdy sense of logic. (I get tipsy on one or two glasses. If I had two liters I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed for a month.)

This was an all too familiar fight. We’ve had the same one over ice cream, chocolate cake, and even some stale old muffins that were left too long in the freezer. (It’s amazing what becomes a commodity in a house that’s running low on groceries.)

But on Sunday I got a phone call that reminded me why I love being married.

It was one of my best girlfriends who lives in another (much larger and more exciting) city. I have been so proud of City Girl lately. After years of being chronically single, she finally signed up for online dating. And she was becoming so efficient at it too, going on two or three coffee dates in a day.

“It’s like running a business,” she would say matter of factly. “You gotta keep your sights set on the goal.”

But when she rang me this time, she sounded flustered. I told her to spill immediately.

She said she had gone on a first date with a really cute guy she had met online. He was a songwriter… very soulful and earthy. Just her type.

They had met for coffee and everything was going great. It seemed like they had a lot in common and City Girl was really excited about him.

That’s when he said it.

“Said what?” I prodded impatiently.

“He asked if I could do him a favor,” she said.

“Okay…”

“He told me he was meeting his friend – a girl – at his place and they were going to play a game.”

This didn’t sound good.

“He said they play this game where one ties the other up to a chair or something and then leaves. He wanted me to come by the next day to make sure he had gotten untied!”

After a moment, we both broke down in hysterics.

Wow. I’ll take bickering over boxed wine and crappy muffins any day.

Namaste,

Sunday Blog Hop: Feature Your Site Here

A Brief Brush with Minimalism

I read somewhere (probably from one of my very official Google searches) that an important step to achieving spiritual enlightenment is ridding ourselves of material items that weigh us down.  In other words, living a minimalistic lifestyle can free us up of emotional baggage that blocks us from becoming our higher selves.

And there are other benefits too:  It’s lower maintenance, more visually appealing, and easier on the budget.

Practical Joe will especially like that last part.  He is literally the cheapest man on earth.  I spent two years convincing him that it made sense to buy me a diamond engagement ring.  “It’s just a bobble,” he complained.  I told him that I’d live in a box if that were what it took for him to buy me a nice ring.  He finally bought me the ring and I was genuinely surprised that he didn’t take me up on the box.

He also once told me that when he heard the furnace turning on, to him it was the sound of money going up in flames. “Woosh! Fifteen dollars!  Woosh! Twenty-five dollars,” he explained animatedly. 

So needless to say, when I tell Practical Joe that we are scaling back, he thinks it’s a GREAT idea. 

And anyway, I’ve always admired that person who sells her house and lives in a shoddy apartment, for the sake of doing what she loves.  I could be like Elizabeth Gilbert – minus the travelling, fantastic Italian food, and freedom from responsibilities, of course.    

     

I’ll begin the process in stages and then who knows, maybe one day we’ll find ourselves living somewhere in a peaceful little yurt.

I begin my path to spiritual enlightenment by organizing my handbags.  I have about a million of them, all thrown haphazardly into closets and on shelves.  They lie abandoned like foreclosed houses, still containing all the bills, chap sticks, and empty birth control pill packs from their previous lives.  (Luckily, I don't have to chase any panhandlers out of them.)  I even find an old twenty-dollar bill in one of the pockets.  Score!  Must remember to take this with me the next time I go shopping.

The problem comes when I must decide which purses to get rid of.  I have a huge pile of bags I want to keep and only one old raggedy black purse that I want to get rid of.  I briefly consider throwing away a sparkly red clutch, only to decide that there’s a chance I might need it one day.  (What happens if I suddenly find myself with a sparkly red outfit to wear it with?)

After about an hour of this I become so frustrated with minimalism that I give up.  I decide to take my newfound twenty-dollars to Babies R Us and buy Buddha Baby some new toys. 

After all, it hardly seems fair that I have all these handbags and what does he have? Sophie the Giraffe and a few other measly things to chew on.

Needless to say, I won’t be getting that yurt anytime soon.

Namaste,

-MM

Tales of the Freakish Looking Hooha

Step right up! Step right up!  Come see the world’s most freakish looking hooha!  At least that's how I felt the first time I used a hand mirror to... ahem… you know… look down there.

Yes, I’m going here.

My intention isn’t to be crass, but to talk about the one thing NO ONE told me. (If you’re a Charlotte, you might want to stop reading now.)

Call me naïve, but when I was finally brave enough to... um ... look, I expected that it would appear semi-normal.  Boy was I in for a shock.

Six weeks after Buddha Baby was born, I finally got up the courage to get out my hand mirror.  I was horrified.

So horrified that I collapsed onto the floor and bawled uncontrollably.  I cried so hard that my muscles were seizing up from the convulsions.  Poor Buddha Baby stared up at me from his bouncy chair.  This was his first lesson in how cruel the world could be by giving him such a lunatic for a mother.

I called my doctor’s office and, through hiccups, made an appointment to see him the next day. 

Next I called my mother.

“There’s plastic surgery for these things.  Think about it – people have sex changes,” she pointed out.

You know you’re in trouble when this is comforting news to you.

I cried for the rest of the night imagining what the doctor might tell me. (“You’ll never have more children,” “You have a terrible infection,” “I’ll send you to pre-op for your sex change.”)

When the doctor opened the door and saw me, he didn’t look surprised.  He was used to my paranoia, which resulted in incessant phone calls and visits.  When I was pregnant, I was convinced that I had contracted toxoplasmosis, a horrible disease you get from changing your cat’s litter box and then touching your mouth.  My doctor sent me for three lab tests before finally suggesting I get rid of my cats.  I smiled in agreement.  I had no cats.

“Why does it look so mangled?” I cried in desperation.

“It doesn’t look mangled.  You’re actually healing quite nicely,” he explained.

“Really?” A tear rolled down my cheek.

“Yes really.  You can, er, use it if you want.”

I felt relieved… and slightly dirty.

So to those of you who haven’t given birth yet, you have been warned.

Namaste,