She Woke Me Up With a Bang-Bang

so today while it was 4 degrees and pouring rain outside and i was dancing around the house with panzer alternately whispering, singing and screeching the very age-inappropriate lyrics of the violent femmes' "blister in the sun" to him, i had the same thought i've had a million times for the millionth and one time: music peaked in the 90s -- it is never going to be this good and clever and wonderfully angsty ever again.

i am confident that the music of the 90s will survive, for all greasy teenagers to enjoy. i see it already. the lead singer of sublime died in 1996, and kids today still go around threatening to smoke 2 joints before they smoke 2 joints. and then i smoke 2 more. (not my favorite, but certainly catchy...) they still talk about what kurt cobain might've been. (had he not suffered an apparently self-inflicted "contact perforating shotgun wound to the head" in 1994, the year i entered the 7th grade.) i still see as many kids in korn t-shirts today as i did in 1998. (even my mom's 60+year-old husband is a fan, luring aaron into the basement for loud replays of korn concerts of yore.) and that is saying nothing of the beastie boys, counting crows, rage against the machine, live, smashing pumpkins, etc. timeless as the dragon-skull-dagger-zodiac tattoo.

i'm sure my parents, among others, are reading this and cringing. and i'm sure they said the same thing about the music of the 60s when they were my age. which to be fair, the music of the 60s was pretty fantastic. and it led to the birth of music as a social and political statement, which i enjoy and respect, but nothing beats angst. especially on cold, rainy days.

now i wake up to my radio-alarm to songs about teenage dreams and tight jeans and my hump-my hump-my humps. the good news is that these songs immediately fill me with a blood-pumping rage and urge to immediately jump out of bed, slam the alarm off, and stalk to the shower muttering expletives about the state of the world if this is what's on the radio.

makes me wonder what kind of worthless crap "music" panzer is going to listen to in 15 years. i make a silent plea to the flying spaghetti monster that it not be ke$ha.

and on that note, i have identified five albums mommy will approve of, any day any time, rainy and angsty or not:

by the way by the red hot chili peppers

good mourning (or better yet, my personal greatest hits mix) by alkaline trio

love by the beatles (already a panzer favorite)

the walking wounded by bayside

bang bang by dispatch

Float On

so, panzer has graced me with his presence for exactly 365 days as of today. i woke up to a text from my mom asking if i was thinking about what i was doing on this day last year. well, now that you mention, i do remember this time -- 6AM on october 28 -- last year sucking pretty bad. i "labored" all night, squeezed a whole baby out of my hoo-ha one hour and five minutes prior, and really wanted a shower. REALLY badly. instead i had a bunch of needles poked into me, a little parasite latched to my boob, and made the difficult decision to dispose of my placenta. IMMEDIATELY. in all honesty, i had a really positive birthing experience, which has made me much too overconfident with this one.... on a side note, stay tuned for a future post on the epic battle of me versus aaron and/or dr. fernandez regarding flying to VA at 37 weeks for kim's wedding. (i am already steeling myself up for victory!)

anyway, it is freakin' fabulous to shop for a one-year-old. there are not many occasions, as you get older and more worn out, to buy little plastic glasses with fake eyes already attached or mini whoopie cushions. and when else can you justify $4 for a bag of colored hole punches labeled "confetti" except to fill a kid's birthday pinata? wal-mart is fun again, if for no other reason than to watch panzer make friends with strangers, first by staring them down, then by grinning ear-to-ear and showing off his loot. he even happily helped me stuff goodies into the little hole on the top of his pinata!

also, i realized today we have not eaten any of the food i made in bulk on october 27, 2010 while waiting for my induction appointment, and stuck in the freezer so we'd have many home-cooked meals to eat in the coming days when we were too exhausted to move. funny how you can be too exhausted to move and still manage to subsist. i am not exactly sure what i ate those first few days or months, but it was not jambalaya, potato soup or the italian pasta special. i did take some soup out of the freezer today to thaw... if it's as good as our wedding cake on our first anniversary, it won't last 5 minutes.

i took P to the park to celebrate his birthday. he loves running up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. until he finds the dirt surrounding the playground, and then he's happy sitting on the ground rubbing his hands in it. (no worries, he gets a scrubbin' by daddy every day, even on days he needs two.) until a dog runs by, and then he needs a closer look. but not too close. such a funny little dude, this panzer the birthday monster.

its nice going to bed knowing i made at least one good decision in this lifetime.

Banging the Doldrums

i have been feeling a little down in the dumps lately and think it would be good for me to remind myself, and also the entire world wide web, of things that make me happy.

panzer clapping. panzer has loved clapping for quite a while, and could be easily calmed with an off-key rendition of if-you're-happy-and-you-know-it or B-I-N-G-O. but now, he has mastered the skill himself, and i can't help but smile when i catch him cheering himself on. i also just taught him to do touchdown arms, just in time for football season! let's be honest though, it's hard not to smile when you're looking at P for any reason.



antiques road show. i don't know what i like best about people dragging old ugly junk out of their basements for other people to oogle at. i am impressed with the appraisers and the length and depth of their obscure knowledge of people and places. i like hearing the family history of the junk, even when said know-it-all appraisers blow giant holes in those prized stories. i am usually shocked and amazed at the value that "collectors" place on ugly old ship paintings but am intrigued by the detail and craftmanship of things that are sometimes REALLY old. you don't see that dedication very much anymore. so yeah, antiques road show is pretty much awesome. i don't miss it on mondays.

pictures of queenie. i can admit that i agreed with the majority that naming your little white girl "queenie" was asking for trouble, but i definitely did not appreciate just what a perfect little monster (and i mean that in the absolute best way possible) she would turn out to be. and i only see her twice a year and hear occasional stories. i guess this also includes pictures of other strong-willed little girls, like my sister kimberlee. that is life being lived, somehow captured on a piece of paper. i don't know if i still have that, but am glad someone does.

italian food and milk. i know i promised that i would not fill my blog with mundane lists of food items i devoured in any given day, but some things just make you happy. when i was super-pregnant with P, i read that eggplant parmigian can put you into labor -- something about italian spices triggering contractions. that was a nice excuse to eat a lot of eggplant parmigian, which i wanted to do any way. but good garlic-y spicy italian food is just not the same without a glass of cold milk. you feel like you gained 10 pounds in a meal, between the starch and dairy, but MMMMMMMMMMMMM. and in close second place: spice cupcakes from a box covered with cream cheese frosting from a can. melted cheese, preferably on veggie burritos or chili + fries. macdonald's chicken mcnuggets. and anything with sprinkles.

i am a beauty pageant runner-up. this fact in itself doesn't conjure as many happy memories as the fact that aaron randomly reminds me of it on a regular basis. i'm not sure where it comes from, as i suspect aaron is less impressed with this accomplishment than he lets on, but it makes me laugh. as does the subsequent mental image of my general fluffiness. also popular: "you were voted most likely to become a TV judge." thanks baby, i love you too.

peace & order. the kind you find in the wide open spaces and calm sterile environment of the mall. or, if you live in cottonwood, safeway at 6AM on sunday. i am a good american consumer who appreciates shiny containers in neat little rows and muzak versions of my favorite rock songs pouring out of the ceiling, and takes pride in acquiring possessions, even if it's just another carton of milk to replace the one that had to be thrown out when it separated in 4 places.

yes, i am feeling a little bit better about life now. all it takes is a cold glass of milk and proper recognition of the finer things.

If I Did It

so someone foolishly invited me to a facebook group demanding justice for caylee anthony and requesting my signature on a virtual petition (directed at who, i am not entirely certain) so that casey anthony cannot benefit financially from "her crimes." uh, i know almost nothing about casey anthony, except that my mother-in-law watched all 33 days of the trial on court tv and up until the day the verdict was announced, carol could "just see it in her eyes" that she was guilty. oh, and casey was acquitted of all but the most lame of the pending charges after barely a day of deliberation. i anticipate she was sentenced to time served since i did see the report in between sports highlights at vinny's that she was released from jail yesterday.

frankly, the media circus is a good reminder that you can be guilty and not go to jail and that it is the prosecutor's job to prove every single element of his case without the accused saying one single word. you can also be innocent and spend the rest of your life in jail, or at least have it ruined by false accusations. i would be a defendant's dream juror because frankly, i am surprised anyone is ever found guilty of any crime. the only way i would ever vote guilty is if the defendant confessed. and not an out-of-court confession induced by police presence or lack of sleep, coffee and potty breaks either. beyond a reasonable doubt is a tough standard to beat. unless you have a third eye like my mother-in-law. 99% sure just doesn't seem sure enough.

at any rate, i couldn't resist leaving my comments on the petition -- even if it meant that i was somehow implicitly signing it -- to remind the crazies that their fascination with the whole event, highlighted by an insistence on watching/following more than a month of a criminal trial ending on a sunday and the 4th of july holiday, plus nancy grace's daily analysis, is precisely why the possibility even exists that casey anthony will make money. if oprah thought no one was going to watch, she wouldn't pay casey for an appearance. oh and also to tell the crazies that they ought to go to jail for three years and see how that goes for them.

these people, with their "outrage" and "knowledge" of casey's guilt are the same people who, although they might not go right out and buy the OJ simpson book, are going to secretly check it out of the library and read it under the covers at night when they think no one is looking. because what if she did it? this is the consequence of tampering with evidence and going to trial on the theory that sluts are capable of murder. sorry america, i didn't make the rules. i am confident, however, that everything comes back around. if casey's really so bad, maybe she'll be caught in a few years taking a rare brand of duct tape at gunpoint.

i've gotten notifications of about 47 comments left on this post. i haven't read any of them, but i'm confident i swayed the hearts and minds of the crazies and they are simply writing to thank me for helping them see the light and start living their own actual lives. god bless the internet and its unique ability to start a firestorm.

back on the homefront: i spent my friday evening at "stamp camp" making homemade greeting cards. just picture a house full of grown adults with glue sticks and glitter. surprisingly, there is quite a lot of paraphernalia associated with stamp camp -- powders and hot air guns and punches and stencils and dies. although i spent a lot of time alternately complaining about how hard it was and devising shortcuts to avoid the most tedious tasks, and i was exhausted by the frantic pace of cutting and gluing and powdering, etc., i did it! and i had a good time and hope i get invited back. and also that i have the foresight to bring a bottle of wine. if anyone receives a homemade card from me in the near future, try not to pay attention to the blood, sweat and tears oozing therefrom. although, i am confident that with my new mommy it-can-wait attitude, no one will be getting any sort of greeting card from me for many, many years.

Power Up!

a little mushroom is going to drop out of the ceiling any minute and when i jump on it, i'm going to grow to 2x my normal size plus a mustache. all i need now is to stumble across a pretty desert orange flower so i can start spitting fireballs at all the obstacles in my path...

i think i experienced a time warp this morning. i have a big custody hearing at 9AM in flagstaff so i am already paranoid about getting enough sleep and simultaneously waking up early enough so that i can ingest enough coffee to be on my A+++ game and obliterate opposing counsel (who honestly and unfortunately really is the problem here, not the opposing party). so my alarm went off at 5:01 AM, as it does every day, and i did my customary one eleven-minute-snooze for days that i actually need to get something done. on the second try some awful hip hop song was coming at me and i actually appreciated that i had a reason to get up and stop the madness. side note: what is music coming to these days? one day i woke up to a song on the radio about skin tight jeans and wet dreams and literally got nauseous in my own bed. i made sure to kick aaron on the way out so he could hear me belt out some expletives about how "i'd rather be chained to a pole in my county stripes busting rocks with a sledgehammer than listen to this f*ing bullsh*t in the morning."

anyway, i got out of bed and started putting myself together again, peeking in at P on the baby monitor to make sure he is sleeping soundly. i really need him to sleep in today so i can get out of the house on time -- it is hard to say good-bye in the mornings when he's all bleary-eyed in his monkey pirate footie pjs. i sit down at my computer to type a few notes about my case and see on the computer that it is 4:58 AM. wait, i did everything except blow dry my hair AND already did some work all in minus-14 minutes? did i slide into a green pipe or blow a magic whistle sometime in the last hour?

although showering is usually the most productive five minutes of my work day, the mornings are often otherwise wasted until the coffee starts pouring in. i check my phone, my watch, the clock over the microwave. they all say less than 5 AM. i check my alarm. it's set for 5:01 AM. did i dream that my alarm went off? and dream that i pushed the snooze button? and dream that it went off again, playing the worst song my mind could conjur? unlikely. and if that were the case, it should go off any minute at the new 5:01 AM. then i see the time on my alarm clock says 6:08 AM. okay, that solves one mystery, but then i start panicking about what is the real time and who can i trust to give me the right answer!?

after another minute, i realize that the answer is NOT on the only clock in the house that i manually set 10 years ago, and more likely lies with the various other electronic devices that receive time signals from outerspace. i must've accidentally pushed the daylight savings button sometime and be operating on mountain daylight time, instead of mountain standard time. and got up at 4:12 AM without a complaint...

this is not the first time i've wondered if i operate in a parallel universe -- some segment of space and time where things seem to be perfectly rational and governed by laws of science and logic and reason. because in some other world i am surrounded by petty self-important nonsensical buffoons. back to reality ... at least i've got an extra hour to pick up an imported-french-chocolate mocha (available in cottonwood of all places) and leisurely wind my way up the canyon to flag.

in other news, aaron gave P an ice cube last night -- what fun. P thinks that if he just squeezes it tighter, he'll be able to get a good handle on it. false. he is easily assuaged though by splashing around in the growing puddle of water on his tray. silly baby.

Tax-Free Gift

in addition to working as an attorney, working as a part-time bike shop girl, taking care of panzer, taking care of aaron, taking care of aaron's parents, babysitting certain co-workers, etc. i also have a full-time job in plucking my eyebrows and playing phone tag. at least jobs #2 through 6 i get to do without contributing social security or any reporting to the IRS! unfortunately, the pay is less than adequate.

so, it's no wonder i am a little overwhelmed when other little pesky tasks crop up. things like laundry (sometimes it's all i can do not to cry while looking for something, anything that doesn't need to be ironed and isn't streaked with dried peas), dishes (surprisingly, it doesn't take long to drown in tiny plastic bowls), paying bills (you mean it costs money to live like this?!), etc. thankfully, P has now taken over the job of mopping the floor. he is crawling, although i use the term loosely. he uses both his arms and legs to scoot around, but he doesn't pick his tummy up off the ground. he moves with surprising speed toward any piece of trash in his line of sight. he is less motivated to "come to mommy." instead, he'll look up at me and wiggle his little arms and legs wildly like a beached whale until i come pick him up. unless i have an expensive electronic device in my hand, i.e. the camera. then he's all over it.

because P also drools constantly (waiting for a few more teeth -- we're up to 5!), the front of every shirt he owns is streaked with dirt that i can't even see. he drools on the floor, then scoots over it, sopping up the drool and microscopic pieces of dirt with his tummy as he shuffles by. as for things that are not microscopic and unobservable ... P finds those, makes his way to them in record time, and promptly puts them in his mouth. assuming the spot can be removed from its secure placement ground into the floor. this morning i thought about moving everything out of the living room and spending the day scrubbing the tile, but i think it is a better use of my time and money to buy stock in spray-n-wash and/or sit on the couch watching P wiggle on the floor while shopping online for more cute outfits. the kid grows like a weed anyway. plus, even if i were to eliminate the dirt on the floor, there would still be crushed up cherrios. and the entire apricot i gave him this morning that he smeared over his entire body and then let dry in the sun.

still, my goal this weekend was to baby-proof the house before P picks up much more speed. fail. i hope to at least hide some cords and move the dangerous chemicals up up up before the end of the day. more likely i will be relying on my intense vigilance to identify and remedy immediate threats as they come. oh and i need to scrub the tub before i put P's shiny hiney in there. he isn't necessarily too big for his baby tub anymore, but he's definitely too sneaky for it. he is days away from figuring out how to crawl out of it to get to the shower curtain (ew). luckily, he is tough. or he'd better be, on many levels, if he's going to survive 17 1/2 more years of aaron and i, live up to his namesake, and take the clemson tigers to a national championship.

hrm, and now that images of the heebie-jeebies taking over my home and my baby while i make an ill-fated attempt to sleep and function as an adult are running through my head, i must desert the internet to clean up its own messes...

Wi-zard in the Hiz-ouse

one of the things i got for my baby shower that i thought was way over the top but came to realllllllly love is the video monitor. it has a little 2 1/2" color screen that shows P's tiger mobile in the perfect shade of clemson orange. at night, you can see with night vision, which weirdly picks up on only some patterns so that P's striped jammies will appear solid colored but at the same time you can see every single little monkey, vine and banana on his bed sheet. it's nice to make sure he hasn't stopped screaming only because some terrible unforeseeable disaster has befallen him.

unfortunately, P discovered that if he pulls the bumper down and looks through the slats of his cage, he can see me. although he thinks seeing mommy behind bars is perhaps the most hilarious thing ever, it is much hilarious when i am not there. so mostly i like to use the video monitor to spy on him and secretly watch his little mind at work.

last night i was sitting in bed with a bowl of ice cream on my lap watching P on the little screen after i put him down. (sometimes this is a whole evening of entertainment for aaron and i -- even better than trying to convince him that I AM america's next top model...) anyway, he fussed half-heartedly and wiggled his little legs around for a few minutes. then he would stop and give his best miss america smile to the left, right and up, at all the little animals gazing at him from the mobile and bumper. then he would fuss again. he repeated this cycle 3 or 4 times before he made what appeared to be a very concious and informed decision that he was going to sleep. he turned his head to the side, closed his eyes, and was gone. he's such a funny little guy -- way too much like his daddy for me to sleep well at night.

for example, sometimes i peer into the crib to see this:

and hear aaron speaking in best wizard voice. good-bye panzer. do not tell anyone you have seen me.

wait, whaaaaaaaat?

aaron is not one for impulse buys. nor is he a buyer of mostly useless crap. yet somehow we left the celtic bar with a panzer-sized wizard puppet, complete with purple robes and long flowing beard. i promptly named him the wi-ZARD and such began the wi-ZARD's reign over the ruda household.

the wi-ZARD appears fairly frequently, usually to lecture P on the importance of sleeping through the night, and that his failure to do so makes daddy very mad and mommy very cranky. sometimes the wi-ZARD advises P that it would be in his best interest to learn how to change his own diaper and/or stop pooping his pants altogether. P of course listens very intently, giggles hysterically, and dreams of the day he can get the wi-ZARD's beard in his chompers. which will also likely make daddy very mad.

my life is a circus and it's unclear which of my boys is the ringleader.

Concrete Jungle Where Dreams Are Made

this year i thought it would be very exciting and glamorous for aaron and i to take a whirlwind weekend trip to new york city for our third anniversary. we had a good time covering every street and alley of manhattan on bike and/or foot, mostly in the rain, sat in on freud's last session which fantastically satiated our collective good humor and intellect, toasted our fate over authentic italian, and wandered into serendipity, a stuffy glittery hole-in-the-wall fit only for the mad hatter's tea party. however, i clearly watch too much how i met your mother, listen to too much howard stern, and dance around to too much jay-z. new york city is awful. how do people live their lives going from one sardine can (their apartments) to the next (the street) to the next (the subway)? here is a small sampling of the reasons i will never return:

concrete, bricks, and other conglomerations. at any given moment in new york, you are surrounded in at least three directions by hard, solid rock. more if you take the tube. i am convinced that if you dare to wear a hat -- which incidentally no one does -- you will never see the sky at all. also, go ahead and write off ever feeling the grass between your toes, and also probably ever seeing your toes again. i did get one rare poetic shot though. . .

the smell. exhaust fumes. dead fish. horse's ass. pick your poison. side note: and speaking of dead horse, when we were passing through central park, we came across a group of protestors with very graphic signs depicting a dead horse on a sidewalk. the protestors did not communicate very effectively, because i thought the horse in question spooked, someone tased it, and it died. but aaron thought the horse was electrocuted from the tailpipe of the car in front of him and died. at any rate, his blood is apparently on our hands and we should be ashamed and outraged. i'm not sure how the people in the horse-drawn carriage riding by the carnage felt. . .

taxi cabs. although taxis provide a ubiquitous and much-needed source of color, they are good for little else. they're scary, rude and apparently have an elaborate system of honks that they pass along in a never ending game of telephone as they whoosh through the streets. and as aaron pointed out to me, rudeness is just a way of life for new yorkers. it's not like they walk around pissed off all the time, they just don't know any better. thanks mom and dad for raising me to believe that hospitality is the norm and you don't need a reason to smile.

the new york yankees. what a bunch of self-important jerks -- an issue obviously shared by new yorkers who, as previously noted, essentially live their lives in a series of sardine cans. it's a mystery. unfortunately, there is not a single piece of mets paraphernalia on the entire island of manhattan, but i cheered for them anyway. they impressed for all of one entire inning, thankfully saving me from the ass-kicking of my life from the large and rabid yankee fan sitting in front of me and giving me dirty looks. luckily i was distracted by a five gallon bucket of popcorn for the rest of the game while the yankees ran away with the lead via four home runs. best part of the subway series: the dude behind me in the beer line was a clemson grad, who confirmed to aaron that it is absolutely essential as a true fan to acquire a new clemson hat and clemson t-shirt every football season and fist-bumped him for his compliance. go tigers!

skinny jeans. what a disgusting trend. and you no longer need a fanny pack and camera around your neck to scream tourist! in new york city -- flare jeans, flip-flops and a smile are a dead give-away. it doesn't matter your shape, size or sexual orientation, toast point legs are IN and in nyc you have no choice but to own it. not this big booty judy though . . . i retain my right to be comfortable and unashamedly unfashionable.

the nypd. there are police lurking everywhere in the city. there are so many that they don't even acknowledge each other when they pass on the street. on a positive note, they don't appear to actually be doing anything. also, they are presumably worried about people who commit actual crimes, rather than, for example, setting off fireworks in the city limits after a rainstorm. still, who needs that oversight?

there are a few great things about new york. for example, there is a starbucks every 10 yards, full of happy, friendly, competent and efficient people who want you to drink coffee ASAMFP. street food and the ukrainian cafe serving borscht and blini at your command 24 hours a day. also, purple hydrangeas -- like the ones i had in my wedding bouquet -- were blooming in flower boxes in front of huge skyscrapers. robin quivers was presumably wandering around somewhere and i could have run into her at any moment.

anyway, it was a good experiment. i am glad to be home. here's to another fifty years of big sky and open space, aaron ruda -- i love you!

blue skies, setting sun. cherry pies, bubble gum. lullabyes, come undone. blue skies for everyone.
{bob schneider}

Enter Pecans McWalnutson

when i have time to breathe, i like to try to remember what 2010 was like. i spent 41 1/2 of 52 weeks of 2010 growing and incubating another human being inside my uterus. (but only 1 of 52 weeks getting that process started ;) it is hard to believe that six months and eighteen days ago, i was forty pounds up and P was happily whirling around in the dark, without any idea of the carrots and chocolate icing that awaited him today. for those of you who missed out on the day-to-day joy ... here is a small sampling of my very own fact or fiction:

#1 you can buy the unscented kind. false. everything has a smell of some sort and that smell is vomit-inducing. is it okay to avoid washing your hair for the entire first trimester? to pass down an edict on your assistant that there is to be NO ripe cantaloupe in the office? to ask strangers to pump your gasoline? people will make a lot of exceptions for pregnant ladies, but you have to draw the line somewhere. plus, no one has yet attempted, at least not to my knowledge, unscented mexican food.

#2 pregnancy is the most beautiful and glorious time of your life. false and false. interesting, yes. miraculous, yes. glorious . . .uh, no. remember the extra 40 pounds? add a few uncontrollable and unexplainable emotional breakdowns, a big dark manly stray hair in a very visible and completely unacceptable location, and a constant pressure on your bladder and see how glorious you feel.

there is an additional layer of falsity in that the nine-month pregnancy is a big myth. i was pregnant approximately 287 days, give or take 24 to 48 hours. (yes, that is how accurate the measurements get). with 30.41666666666 days per month in a non-leap year, i was actually pregnant 9.52 months. to add insult to injury, most people assume that after 4 weeks, one month has passed. according to this (faulty but widely-used and easily-applied) method, i was pregnant for 10.25 months.

#3 it will get better once xy and z happens. false. sure, eventually your sense of smell tones down and you can begin to moisturize again -- thankfully just in time for the real expanding to begin -- but also just in time for you to develop a debilitating reaction to dairy products (which incidentally prior to pregnancy constituted 3/4 of your diet). okay so maybe you reach the point where people can tell you have a little pregnant baby belly and don't just think you've had too many late night french fries anymore -- definitely a plus in terms of door-holding, grocery-carrying, restaurant-choosing, etc. -- but right about that time you realize that your plan to just be a cute pregnant person in loose airy sundresses all summer is out the window because you could be mistaken for dumbo from the knees down. you eventually regain the ability to eat again, but you don't want to risk the unbelievable heartburn. oh and "once you have the baby, you'll go right back to normal." sure. see #4 for more exciting details.

#4 after you squeeze the baby out of your hoo-ha, you're going to bleed like a stuck pig. true, unfortunately. specifically, my mom alerted me to blood clots the size of a dinner plate. first, that is REALLY big. P wasn't even the size of a dinner plate. second, this is a weird comparison that made me second-guess the whole miracle of life video we watched in mrs. j's 10th grade biology class and consider that maybe the new baby is just deposited out of your hoo-ha by a saucer-shaped UFO with friendly three-eyed green dudes waving you off into your new life. at any rate, thank you to those who gave me the friendly warning.

also, unthank you to those of you who forgot to mention the giant disposable mesh granny panties. although admittedly, this is the only reasonable solution to problem #1, so perhaps this was an open and obvious condition of which there was no duty to warn or protect.

#5 it will never be the same. true. this is especially apparent to me as i break into a full-body version of silly kindergarden/camp songs a la do your ears hang low? do they wobble to and fro? and bananas unite! bananas split! or most recently, when i tell P a bedtime story i made up as i go along, about a squirrel named pecans mcwalnutson who wants a shiny new green bicycle sooo badly. naturally, he gets on the internet and applies for a credit card so he could get what he wants right now. i then spent the next 2 nights attempting to correct my poor choice on night 1 by explaining all the industrious things pecans did with his bicycle to earn money to pay off his credit card before incurring too much interest and fees. i guess pecans and i both will be learning it as we go . . .

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

i was lazily flipping through our 5 channels last night and came across a breaking news story: osama bin laden is dead. of course, i immediately consult with the internet (strike one) via wikipedia (collaborative writing by anonymous internet volunteers: strike two) to confirm that osama bin laden did in fact die on or about april 24, 2011, which death was reported by the mass media on may 1, 2011. the internet also stated that the u.s. government was in possession of bin laden's "corpse." this time, i am declining to preserve precious space on the internet and choosing instead to offer my comments.

anyone else dies, it's a "body" or "remains." a terrorist leader dies, it's a corpse. also, why does the u.s. government think it's okay to take possession of said corpse? leave him where he belongs. let's not risk the possibility that jihad is contagious. (go ahead and laugh; i guarantee you some university student is researching the genetics of extremism as i type.) also i hope no foreign government will risk the monumental hex i am preparing in anticipation of this possibility and will leave me where i belong when i am gunned down by a tranvestite weilding an automatic weapon. (long story.)

today, of course, the story has changed. the u.s. government, probably confronted with criticisms set forth above, now claims it has disposed of the remains in accordance with the muslim tradition of interring a body within 24 hours of the death. i don't know anything about muslim tradition in general, or muslim funerals specifically, but i'm pretty sure it does not encompass pushing a corpse, weighted down with cinderblocks, out of the plane on your way over the pacific ocean.

to add icing to the cake, the illustrious president obama then got on the tv to make sure the world knew that he, personally, is responsible for bin laden's death. right. if "personal responsibility" means he got a message handed to him advising of same during the first 9 holes of obama's weekly golf game (apparently cutting the game short), then okay obama, YOU DID IT! YOU SAVED AMERICA! except wait ... his speech continues to assure us that the war on terror is not over. in fact, far from it.

and terrorists rest assured that if obama continues to devote a significant portion of americans' hard earned money exclusively to finding and destroying you for an entire decade, he will find you. #1 like terrorists give two shits if we find them. they want to be found, and then martyred for their cause. that is the whole problem with those nutcases. and #2, even i, a non-terrorist, would be tempted to commit some violent crimes against unnamed (although deserving) persons nearer the end of my life if i knew i had ten years of freedom before the authorities caught up with me. ugly ex-girlfriends and coldwell-banker property management, watch your back.

i am frustrated with the media's intensity and sensationalism of otherwise unnoteworthy events a la the current tally of tiger woods' mistresses and the idiots who voluntarily participated in a ridiculous sweat lodge ceremony while dehydrated and malnourished in their quest for spiritual strength and brett favre's (repeated) struggle with retirement. yesterday's breaking news also reeks of falsity and hopes of re-election. so i thought, if everyone else can do it, why not me? thus, aaron and i have decided that we are going to capture a terrorist this week. (i think it will be this guy: he has the longest name on the FBI's most wanted terrorist list at muhammad abdullah khalil hussain ar-rayayyal, and seems like a good choice as he has far eluded authorities for more than the 10-year window of safety obama has informed terrorists they can expect.) we will then hold a press conference, complete with claims of DNA identity confirmation and grainy photographic evidence of the offender a la the georgia big foot hoax. we will then announce that aaron's bike shop, sultana cycles, is personally responsible for the capture. and if you hate terrorism and/or love america, you will come purchase a bike to show your support. then we will have all we need to escape what is soon to be the third-world country: the US of A.

in sum, i <3 propaganda and brute force. that's how crimes against humanity happen. get there, america.

p.s. big thank you to the onion, which has commemorated bin laden's death with all the glory and sarcasm it deserves, noting among other things the "terrific news" of the violent death of a human being, and reminding me that there is still hope.

The DeLorean

for some time now P has tolerated traveling in the car with little patience. i assume that he is bored back there, where he is required to be rear-facing until he's like 6 years old, staring at drab gray leather and what he may or may not be able to see of the very top of the sky through the side window. i ended up buying him a string of little toys that hang from his carseat handle, which he likes. upon realizing that the toys amount to a mirror/crystal ball, a drum with fringe, and a shrunken head all hanging from a whirly-doo of stars and moons, i have nic-named it his "fortune-telling playset" and constantly demand he reach into the future and resolve all my mysteries. he responds appropriately by banging the drum, staring into the eyes of the shrunken head, and bringing the mirror close to his face so he can chew on it thoughtfully. unfortunately, i can't tell you what he said because it's like your birthday wish -- if i tell you, it might not come true. sorry sucker. here, it has hypnotized him to sleep and the shrunken head has retreated unassumingly to the corner to watch.

anyway, i recently discovered, in a public restroom no less, that P loves jazz muzak. he wiggles his little body and smiles and bops his head along anytime he hears some big brass. since we finally got our satellite radio set up in the wagon, yesterday i thought i might be able to appease P with some jazz tunes and flipped over to station #72 as we wound our way over mingus mountain to prescott. so, the sun is shining. P is gurgling happily in the back seat. saxophones are streaming peacefully through the speakers. and i try to picture the rest of my life set to a soundtrack of bebop.

right. because for the last 15 years, i've spent every moment alone in a car singing angrily at the top of my lungs, a la:

step one: slit my throat
step two: play in my blood
step three: cover me in dirty sheets and run laughing out of the house
step four: stop at lake michigan and rinse your crimson hands
you took me hostage and made your demands
i couldn't meet them so you cut off my fingers
one by one.
{alkaline trio}

love songs of course (because aren't all songs love songs?), but in the angsty terms of revolution and setting things on fire and moldy milk. not g-rated. unfortunately, jazz is my future according to P. next thing you know, i'll have a closet full of flowery cardigans and blush when someone says the word "crap."

at any rate, though i'm still angsty at almost-29, i'll still give P a fair chance at loving life, at least until he turns 15 -- then we can break out the old "records" just in time for my own mid-life crisis. on the way home, we compromise with oldies and motown. alas, i try to remind myself it could be worse; P could be into dave matthews or nickelback or john mayer .... ugh.

The Heavyweight Title

last night i asked aaron to tell me a story. (i usually do this when i need a distraction from whatever worry is running circles in my head, keeping me from sleep.) this is how the conversation progressed:

aaron: want me to tell you a story about how pretty you are?
kelley: ok.
aaron: this one time, i looked at you and you were sooooo pretty.
kelley: *giggling*
aaron: and i never had to look at you again to know it was true.

this was a much better conversation than the one we had earlier in the day.

aaron: what's your freakin' problem?
kelley: i'm exhausted because i got up with panzer 4 times last night.
aaron: no, i got up with panzer 4 times last night.
kelley: well, 2 of the times i got up with him, you were still awake so there was no need for me to even get out of bed.
aaron: no i wasn't.
kelley: yes, you were.
aaron: no i wasn't.
kelley: you're right, it's a contest, you got up more times with panzer, he weighs more when you're holding him, you change more poopy diapers and you've soaked more spit up into your t-shirt! they're all contests and you win them all! side note: all lies, i am the mommy, and i have endured more of everything, and to prove it, here is a small sampling of my collection of world championship mommy belts:

later that night, i realized it was a contest. i've been ooey-gooey with P since he popped out his first 2 teeth last weekend, ending his 2-week streak of finally sleeping through the night. my wisdom teeth are still working their way in, and i know first-hand that teething sucks, so i have given P the benefit of the doubt that he is probably miserable and needs me. plus, he has recently become proficient at rolling over and i'm paranoid about him having his face smashed into the mattress until he figures things out a little better. plus, who wouldn't want to spend a few minutes, even in the middle of the night, with this face?

that was, until last night when i got up with him at 1AM and rocked him to sleep and set him down in countless cycles for an hour. OK, mommy's a sucker, but she's not stupid. panzer goes down crying at 2:04 AM. aaron asks if i want him to take a turn and i say no, let's give him an hour. we briefly discuss the difference between the cry of distress from what we were hearing -- whining. and settle down to wait.

at 2:24 AM, there is silence. i grab aaron's arm. did we just win?

well, the answer was not for another 22 minutes, but at that moment it became very clear to me that it is not me versus aaron, but us versus him. and we had better win even if it means sharing a few of my awesome gold belts.

Just Call Me Death Warmed Over

now i've never committed murder but i am fairly certain that homicidal rage can occur in one of two ways. either there is a big monumental rage-causing event (such as discovering that your husband has thrown away the half-pan of brownies you were saving for dinner when you were 9+ months pregnant because he did not want them. side note: who does that!?). or it can be the accumulation of a lot of seemingly inconsequential things. likely compounded by a serious lack of sleep and picking green beans out of your unwashed, uncombed hair on the way to work. it was this second type of homicidal rage that overtook me yesterday.

the details themselves are mundane so i won't waste space on the internet. however, the state of homicidal rage provides a strange heightened sense of awareness. when i was riding my bike home barefoot (long story) and the little nubs of my purple glow-in-the-dark plastic pedals were boring into my previously-perfectly-pedicured feet, i had the opportunity to visualize and ponder the phrase "when the shit hits the fan." it is truly representative of the lead-in to the homicidal rage. having become more closely acquainted with poo in the last 5 months, i believe whole heartedly that shit itself, existing quietly in a pile perhaps even in an easily-disposable package, is bad enough. shit in motion is just plain wrong.

also, i can now officially appreciate the phrase "bone tired" and it doesn't have anything to do with fatigue in the bones. it's actually when you finally get a chance to lay down and you feel like your skin is so tired and worn out that you're not sure it's going to keep holding your bones in.

Through the Looking Glass

i <3 my little family.

i have come to the realization, however, that i live in a parallel universe to the one i previously inhabited -- everything looks the same but, among other things, i am no longer allowed to call my husband by his first name. he is now "daddy" and the one time i slipped and called him aaron -- the same name i have been calling him for the last 2 1/2 years -- i was scolded for being confusing. hello, i am confused! i haven't used the word daddy in 25 years myself and it certainly wasn't in any sort of context i now want to attach to my husband. nor do i associate my black glittery toenails hidden by hot pink patent leather boat shoes with the word "mommy."

it also has become necessary to speak, at all times, in the third person. look P, mommy is in the kitchen. mommy is smashing up some carrots for P. mommy is pouring the smashed carrots into little bitty cups. all the better in a sing-songy voice, if not a full-fledge song (preferably to the tune of the beattles' yellow submarine). i try not to think too hard about narrating my own, pathetic existence. P thinks its fascinating when i dictate letters about discovery deadlines and settlement offers in song mode at home. i doubt he has a lot of strong feelings one way or the other regarding my other activities.

along the same lines, having a baby invites the most passive-aggressive communication i have ever experienced. first, you can use your baby as your mouthpiece to boss people around. for example, when a crowd gathers uncomfortably close to watch you clean up the worst poop you've ever seen (a record that is broken time and time again), just say: get out of my face grandpa, i need some room to breathe. translate: P could give two shits, literally, who is stuck up his butt, almost literally, but mommy needs some fresh air.

you can also comment on pretty much anything through your baby by telling your baby to "say" something. say "that sweater is ugly, dude." translate: mommy thinks that sweater is ugly, dude. but it's cute when a baby says it, so it's okay.

then there are the rhetorical questions. like when you've asked your husband to empty the diaper genie 47 times but it is still full and the squish of pushing yet another saturated diaper in is making your stomach turn a little bit. you say: hey P, is daddy ever going to take out the diaper genie like he said he would 47 times ago? or is mommy going to have to keep pushing your big stinky squishy diapers in there foreeeeeeever? translate: i am annoyed because you have not done as i have asked. or: for the 48th time, please do what i have asked. also hidden in the translation: i am annoyed at the existence of the diaper genie, which is a $25 plastic bucket that requires $7 proprietary plastic bags and teases you with the unattainable possibility that you might ever stop smelling poo.

also popular: is daddy a big fat poo-poo head? translate: i am accepting apologies. and wouldn't it be nice if __________? translate: do ___________, preferably ASAMFP.

you really have to be careful not to let your guard down when you're using these techniques because it becomes second nature and the baby monitor can turn on you any second as it broadcasts your smart-ass remarks to who knows where. you can follow the white rabbit into the hole but you've gotta be quick if you're going to outlast and outsmart him and avoid becoming a significantly less glamourous pile of mushy mommy with pleated jeans, tangled hair and a family of fanny packs.

Bringing Sexy Back

i have been inspired to resurrect my blog by, of all things, the lameness of others. i am a firm believer in it's-never-too-late. for example, it's never too late to eat a bowl of ice cream. it's never too late to pick up the book you started 6 months ago and put down 5 months ago. it's never too late to file some marginally-applicable authority (and well disguised argument) with the court in a desperate effort to get the last word in. thus, i feel no shame in picking up the pen after many, many months of saying nothing of my glamorous life.

arguably, if you even have time to update the internet on your goings-on, there is a problem. however, i promise i will never recount everything (or anything) i ate in the last 24 hours or blindly list every mannequin featured at madame tussaud's. i'll save those gems for after P checks me in to a nursing home, the posh-ness of which is a direct reflection on his assessment of my parenting. because in all seriousness, until that time i have many, many other things to report on.

the complete failure of humanity comes to mind. i've managed to keep 9 3/4 months of pregnancy (the perils of which will no doubt be the topic of a future episode) and the subsequent 4 1/2 months of motherhood pretty light-hearted -- although i should have anticipated that a baby who made his appearance at 4:55 a.m. would consider that an appropriate time to wake up every morning thereafter. at any rate, a judge ruled today that there is nothing inappropriate, dishonest, or outrageous about baiting an obviously mentally ill homeless man with cigarettes, secretly videotaping an innocent conversation, and spinning his responses to parallel the characteristics of a fugitive on the FBI's most wanted list for decapitating his family and setting his house on fire, and broadcasting these so-called "uncanny similarities "on a statewide newsbroadcast. is this easily-recognizable local homeless man actually a mass murderer? tune in at 10 to find out! . . . to find out that, although they both have blue eyes and attend prayer meetings, the answer is unequivocally NO because local legend, affectionately known as parkaman, is six inches too tall and has a verified identity (even if he's not sure what it is). no matter that he received death threats after the story aired. no matter that he was forced to relocate his "home" from the ditch in front of walmart store no. 1299 to an undisclosed location. again -- makes my stomach turn over, but, as a matter of law, not outrageous.

this is what we in america call free speech. you need not speak the absolute truth, even if you know unequivocally what it is, but only the "substantial" truth skewed in a way to maximize your ratings. you need not respect the space of a homeless man because "there is no right to privacy in a public park." the word "no" actually means "yes" when you lack the wherewithall to recognize when someone is duping you with tobacco. and oh yes, there's nothing wrong with secretly videorecording and publishing a conversation as long as one person -- presumably the person with the camera -- knows it's there. this is the america i must raise my son in and protect him from.

so i get it -- that's the law and it's a balancing act of one person's rights and responsibilities against another. and maybe it works well for the average person. being the outspoken author of a blog, i may myself have to rely on the substantial truth defense some day. but why does the law leave behind the people who need it most? the people who can't stand up for and protect themselves. the unsexy. imagine if someone compared me to a mass murderer on a statewide television broadcast . . . i'd make a career out of making bad publicity for those jerks and good publicity for me. use that as a jumpstart to write some legislation demanding the return of integrity to the news media, spend a few months lobbying in D.C. and finally be interesting enough to appear on the howard stern show. presumably to explain how my proposed legislation gels with my love and respect for howard stern. in fact, aren't there any hard-nosed journalists who would do just about anything to get a story out there that want to fabricate a story about me? i guess i'm not exactly an easy target.

in other news, P has a new trick: what i like to call the NEED IT NOW. this presents itself mostly when P is sitting in my lap while i am trying to get some work done at home. as long as i'm writing, P is happy to sit in my lap, grunting quietly and kick-kick-kick-kicking his little legs (and only every 6th or 7th one will hit my hand, sending my pen skidding across the page). but as soon as i pick something up -- my phone, my dictator, a sandwich -- P comes to life! he immediately perks up and i can hear the unformed thought screaming through his head: "i don't know what that is but i NEED IT IN MY MOUTH ASAMFP!" as he stretches his little arms and pants and groans with effort. (his little trick presents itself at the end of the video, after much wiggling and jiggling and giggling). so far, P is content with just wanting, and not actually having. this will not last long . . . but his excitement and curiosity at the unknown are uplifting.

today i feel the weight of both the bigness and the smallness of the world. and so, i am back.

get your sexy on

go 'head be gone with it.