So the Fish Said...

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.

- Walt Whitman

Meet the Fish

I want to get a pet duck and keep it in the bathtub.
I am addicted to chap stick and altoids.
I am freakishly flexible.

World's Most Beautiful Child


World's Most Handsome Child


Other Important Things

Clive Owen

Clive Owen
Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend

RSS Syndicate this site (XML)

Design by Emily

© Copyright 2004
All Rights Reserved.

so the fish said...
  home links archives about contact


« December 2006 | Main | February 2007 »


Massive zit on nose. Seriously, so big that I occasionally catch sight of it while walking innocently along minding my own business and nearly fall over from the shock of the thing. Appointment with Hotty Pediatrician on Friday Hotty Pediatrician will be recently returned from fun in the sun vacation and therefore morphed into Hotty Tanned Pediatrician. TELL ME HOW TO FIX THIS!


Last week, I told Sarah that I wouldn't be going to Blogher this year because I am shy. I later realized that I had told her a lie. It is true that I will not be going to Blogher for a multitude of other reasons (Reason #1: Don't Want To, Can't Make Me), but shyness is not among them. I am not shy. Or, to be more accurate, I am no longer shy. Introverted, reticent, reserved and aloof, sure, not not shy.

For a while, I was so scared of talking to people that with everyone other than immediate family I would feel like I was floating up near the ceiling somewhere watching myself talk. I much preferred to just not speak and did that whenever possible. Oddly, I could get up in front of 300 people and do just about anything without a problem.

I am no longer scared to talk to anyone, although frequently I am just not interested. That's snobbery though, not shyness. I don't know if it is age and maturity or the effect of carting a kid around with me wherever I go and being too focused on that to worry about myself, but shyness just isn't a factor anymore. In fact, I'd just as soon sit on your lap and give you a noogie while telling you my life story as look at you, so consider yourselves warned.

I mention this because I suspect that blogging has had something to do with this change, with bringing me a little more out of my own head and making it so that I am no longer afraid that everyone will think anything I say is stupid and meaningless. So thanks for that, I truly appreciate it.

(Also, hey, I wrote up the thrilling saga of teaching Mia to sign over at Playgroup Dropout today,. so if you are one of the people who have asked about that, or one of the people who has been too shy to ask but your burning desire to know has been keeping you up nights, then by all means click on over and read all about it.)

An example of when consulting the internet is not beneficial

Hey, any of you guys seen my iPod?

Mia Monday(ish) #55: Only her hairdresser knows for sure edition


During (ignore me, pretty please):


She was as good as could be. I had a pile of graham crackers, an Elmo book and Dada's camera for entertainment, but she was happy watching the hair dryers and the man with a hat and helping to comb her hair.

Like Mr. Spock, but with better hair

Fascinating. There is just no other word for it, your responses to Friday's workin' post were fascinating. If you didn't read through the comments, you really ought to. I just made it through all of them myself (mostly between 3:30 and 4:30 this morning) and I apologize for not responding to all of them, but I did not want to risk the clickity click of my typing waking my peacefully slumbering child and husband. Well, child at least, the husband snores so much I feel he gets what he deserves. Anyway, I enjoyed it greatly even though I discovered that a couple of you are nasty, stinking Campbells and will have to be banned from this site immediately in the name of my highly-diluted Scottish pride.

Oh yes, Mia Monday will be late today because we have something of an event this afternoon that I want to document for all posterity, or at least for this tiny little corner of the internet. So, to tide you over this morning, your assignment is to do two things.

1) Tell me how much you love love love my new three-column template, because it was a fucking bitch to get it done and I think it deserves a little praise, dammit, especially since I fixed it in IE and everything, which I don't usually bother to do because IE sucks. And then go ahead and tell me you hate ads and call me a dirty, sellout whore. May as well get it out of your system because they are here to stay, at least on a trial basis. If they don't turn out to be worth uglying up my website I'll replace them with, I dunno, pictures of my smokin' ass or something.

2) Tell me how to keep an 18 month old child calm and entertained during her first ever haircut so that a) she doesn't end up looking like I did it and b) the nice hair girl doesn't suffer a nervous breakdown and end up cowering under one of those big 50's-looking hairdryers whimpering and admiring how shiny her scissors are.


So basically, I want to know what you guys do. I'm curious, have been for ages, and I can't control my curiosity any longer so I am going to insist that you just tell me. Now I don't want anybody getting dooced over this, so vague is fine. If you are really paranoid, you can email me instead, that's fine too. Since telling you that I'm a stay at home mom and quote unquote freelance writer isn't really a fair trade as I can't get fired from the mom gig and my job is blogging so I'm fairly sure they already know I have a blog and that I blog at work, I'm going to tell you everything I have ever done and hope you will find it equitable.

My first job was in the commercial lockbox of a bank, I processed checks all day. Chris's dad got me this job (see how long we've been together?). He just happened to be the chief executive muckity-muck at the time. Not a bad job, but due to the muckity-muckness I have nothing more to say about it.

Second job was in the children's department at Hecht's (department store that is now Macy's, in case you don't know). God, I was bad at retail. Didn't care, didn't remember people, would go to look for pants for one woman and two minutes later proudly present them to another woman entirely and have no clue I had gotten it wrong until she asked me what the hell I was doing.

Third job was cashier at Cracker Barrel. Best things about this job were the frequent smoke breaks, the bread they sold, and this dish that was chicken marinated in Italian dressing, which sounds gross but was really good. Worst thing about this job was that people are assholes.

Fourth job was assistant manager at Food Lion. Shut up. I said shut up! Hey, you know how stores always have these signs that say they have a time-release safe? We had a time release safe, but if you jammed an allen wrench in this little hole it opened right up. I looked so hott in that green apron, and never let anybody tell you any different.

Fifth job was substitute teaching. Either I made the kids cry or they made me cry every single day. I didn't last long.

Job six was paralegal/legal secretary at a law firm. I was good at the paralegal bit and lousy at the secretary bit and totally unqualified for either. Most interesting trivia from this job is that the (incredibly senior) partner I worked for was a Campbell and I'm a Lamont. In 1646 the Campbells massacred the Lamonts. I tried not to hold that against him, but I may have been the first Lamont to speak to a Campbell in 350 years.

Job seven, or jobs seven through 142, depending how you count, was for this company. It sucked at the end, but early on it was fabulous. The old people were 27, we were told that if we saw someone wearing a suit in the building we should call security, and thanks to that lovely bubble the company was making money hand over fist so there were lovely perks. Also on Fridays we danced on the tables. I started as a billing flunkie for high-end account (which at the time was anybody who had a single T3), moved to billing team lead, then to project manager for sales, and then it's all a blur - PM, analyst, trainer, marketing, PM again, flunkie, who knows.

Job eight is, obviously, MILF and mamablogger extraordinarie. Best part is never having to brush my hair, worst part is definitely the vomit.

And that's it, the whole sordid tale. Dude, you know what I said at the beginning? Scratch that. Now I totally want to know what you do and also how many total jobs you have had in your life. Spill.

Month Eighteen

Mia Bean,

I'm late writing this letter, but I feel like I just sat down to write the last one and am having a hard time accepting that another month has gone so quickly and you are eighteen months old. I love the way you are now, it's so much fun to watch you learn and explore, but lately I am feeling the loss of your babyness and taking it a little hard. You are so tall and thin and your feet are so big and I miss, just a little, the days when you were so fat that you had three separate rolls of chub on each thigh and I could fit both of your little feet entirely into my mouth. I know that months and years from now, I will look back on this time too and feel it's loss just as keenly.

You became a Toddler this month. Sure, you've been walking for 6 months, but this month you really developed the Toddler attitude. You are in charge, the world is all about you, and the rest of us had better get out of the way while you work to bend it to your will. At the same time, you are an incredibly sweet and gentle child. You love to give kisses to anything that will stand still long enough - people, stuffed animals, lamps, rugs, and especially your own knees and feet. You shiver with glee when you get the chance to be near a baby and pat her gently on the head. You love to share - toys, food, bits of trash you find on the ground, and you love to applaud your own efforts after you have handed off whatever it is in the name of sharing.

You are also good, so good. You don't touch things I tell you not to touch, you don't put things in your mouth, and you have stopped biting (can I get a hallelujah?). You know that you are allowed to touch electric cords if they are not plugged in (like yesterday when you dragged my hairdryer all over the house and styled all the stuffed animals), but that once it is plugged in it is off limits. You may stand there and point and wheedle and beg, but you know you are not allowed to touch and you do not touch. I appreciate that more than I can say, and I hope you will keep it up forever.

You are still a very particular child. Lately your obsession is with doors. They must be closed. Frequently you feel the need to open and close them, just to insure that they are well and fully shut. The transom over our front door is the bane of your existence as you do not understand why we refuse to close that hole already. (It's as closed as it gets babe, as we keep telling you.)

You fell in love with the moon this month. You learned to say it "MOO!" and ask for it constantly. For a while, Dada would show you the moon when he got home from work, and you seem to have decided that Dada brought the moon home with him from work. You were hugely disappointed the first day that moonrise happened after your bedtime and you didn't get to see your new friend.

We spent lots of time in the car this month. Not going anywhere, just parked out in front of the house while you "drove" and played with the radio and turned on the hazards and the wipers and then climbed into the back seat to open and close the buckles of your car seat. You are now able to locate the correct key on my ring, put it in the ignition and start my car. Not a very useful skill for an eighteen month old child, but an example of your amazing powers of observation and mimicry. Starting the car is exciting, but not nearly as exciting as honking the horn. I think our neighbors are starting to hate us a little bit.

You say, after a fashion at least, mama, dada, hat, ball, moon, knee, cheese, pillow, buckle, bubble, bye-bye, Elmo, banana, umbrella, book, Baba, (fruit) bar, hi, backpack and bamboo. You sign eat, more, water, dog, monkey, bear, help, clean up, share, all done, down, flower, cereal, bread, later, yellow, tree, bird, plane, car, duck, chicken, baby, star, please, thank you, type/computer, color, keys, chair, table, refrigerator, sleep, swing, shoes, socks, apple, milk and cloud.

You identify any picture of any man anywhere as "Dada," including Mr. Spock and Paul Simon. Other things you identify as "Dada" are his shoes, camera, hat, socks and especially car. You spend all day every day asking for Dada and always seem hugely disappointed by my standard response of "Dada is at work, baby." Of course, most of the time the second Dada walks in the door you decide you are a big-time mama's girl and cannot be separated from me for an instant.

This month you also learned how to take the top off a tube of chap stick and how to turn the wheel at the bottom to expose more of the chap sticky goodness, and more often than not these days you can be found carrying a tube around with you, smearing it on your lips (and chin and cheeks and Monkey and Elmo) at regular intervals. You also adore balls, plastic bottles, piling your stuffed animals in the shower, and wearing mama's underwear on your head.

You woke up halfway through writing this and I have been trying to finish up while you pulled books off the shelves and played with tape. You just came over and demanded access to my lap, and when I picked you up you just sat there for a second with your head on my shoulder and let me hug you. Now you are coloring all over our tax forms and as soon as I am done typing we'll sit here and watch the Pandacam. It seems strange to say that these past few quiet minutes have been the greatest moment of my life, but I am hard pressed to think of anything that tops it.


Much afoot

For those of you who would be interested in such a thing, Chris posted a picture of my underwear today. (Simmer down, McPervy.) Strangely, I am not embarrassed by my underwear showing up on the internet, but I am embarrassed that the underwear in question is a selection from the Decidedly Unsexy Collection. See, I can't really afford to buy anything new, so lately I've been going through this phase where I pull out something I never wear and decide that I love it, just because it is different. I eventually decide that whatever it is may be different, but it is also ugly, and back to the closet it goes. Anyway, for some reason I felt you needed to know that I never ever wear most of those, and now you know.

Speaking of not buying anything new, I just bought something new! I know, see how I just lied to you? I'm a bad person. Anyway, I bought a new pair of jeans, which I desperately needed because, let's face it, I'm just too fat for most of my old jeans and while I am trying to be a Hot Mama I am not interested in being a Hot Hoochie Mama, so new jeans had to be had. The thing I love best about my new jeans is that I got them for $13.83. They weren't really $13.83, but they were on sale and then I had a store credit from some stuff I returned a while ago and also had a few bucks left on a gift card someone gave me for something and so in the end I only paid $13.83. If only I had been able to use a coupon it would have been perfect. The thing I love second best about my new jeans is that I found a brand (Calvin Klein) and a style ("Missy" straight leg) where a six is comfortably loose, and you'd better believe that when I tried them on there was a resounding hallefuckinglujah ringing through the dressing room. Also, their short inseams are actually short, which is nice for stubby people like me. The thing I love least about my new jeans is that I could comfortably smuggle a couple of puppies in the waistband. Ok, maybe only one puppy, but they are too big in the waist and too big to comfortably address the problem with judicious belt application. So, this is just a really long-ass way of asking you guys whether you can have jeans taken in at the waist. What do you think?

Finally, there's a new video of Mia up today at Playgroup Dropout and you should totally check it out because a) she is freaking adorable, b) you can mock me for my pitiful video editing skillz, 3) you get to hear a couple of her newest words, and fish) there's a contest and everything, yo. I would just post it here too and save you the trouble, but tracking contest entries in two places just seems like entirely too much work to lazy (but smokin') ass old me. Come on, would it kill you to click this once? No, it would not.

And hey, I saw Hotty McBanktellersons yesterday and he gave me a sour apple lollipop. Do you think that means he wants me? I mean sure, he covered like it was for Mia, but she's clearly too young for lollipops, it was totally for me.

(Hey, I think that "a b 3 fish" thing is a way inside joke, but then I think maybe it isn't really and I just think it is. Is it?)

With an aching in my heart *

Mia and I listen to a lot of classic rock. She hates alternative and loves bluegrass, so classic rock is where we've decided to compromise. Mostly we listen to a local station that basically plays the same 200 or so songs over and over, occasionally throwing something new in there just to see if you're paying attention. Because of that, I've now hear "Going to California" more times in a week than I probably did in my entire life combined up to a few months ago. I also hear "Walk on the Wild Side" and "Born to Run" and "Baba O'Riley" a couple of times a week, to name just a few, but "Going to California" stops me in my tracks every time.

Freshman year of college I got to be friends with this guy named Rick. Rick told me once that he was looking for a woman who was "a queen without a king, who plays the guitar and cries and sings." I spent uncountable hours talking to Rick that year, and that sentence is the only thing I can remember him saying to me. I wanted to be that woman (not that I wanted Rick). I wanted to be the woman with the power (queen without a king) but also still fancied myself the melancholy poet. I at least had the cries and sings bit down, never took to guitar since it hurt my fingers too much. The thing is, I didn't get the reference. Yes, you were much cooler than me, fine, whatever. It was at some point later that I heard that line again in Going to California, and since then it always takes me back to that moment in my life, to that short time when I was close to Rick, about whom I now remember very little else.

In high school, someone once told me I was an "angel draped in mortar." This was not a compliment, which I mention in case the angel bit threw you off. Mortar was the point. Anyway, this guy was friends with my friends, we spent hour upon hour together, and those four words are the only things I really remember about him, other than a vague recollection of a conversation about his bony hips. It was in context, I assure you. I feel like I ought to be able to tell you more. I mean, I could describe him, certainly, but other than bony hips and once paid me a poetic, backhanded insult, I can't say anything about him. I feel I ought to be able to say more about Rick too, more about the ways we connected rather than just listing a few of the things we did, a few dry facts about the music we listened to and bad booze we drank.

I want to remember people more deeply. These two, and others I have lost either to time or distance or death. It's the worst with those who have died, especially young. I feel I should be able to stand in witness to their lives, to tell you about them. Not just what they looked like or what we did, but how they thought, what made them laugh, what made them sad. Instead, I have the same few snapshots of almost everyone.

And I'm not going anywhere. I've been trying to come to a point, but I don't have one. Other than Zeppelin reminds me of Rick and Michelangelo's Pietas remind me of that high school guy (not angels, no, but something about suffering and stone) and I'm sorry that the people I have known are reduced to a couple of images, like slides of a moment captured and dustily projected years later on a stretch of wall between the photographs of my life since then.

There's good in it too, I suppose. At least Zeppelin always reminds me, happily, of the friend I lost along the way.

*from "Going to California," obviously

Mia Monday #54: Budding Gymnast Edition

Yes, that is a tube of lip balm. Like mother, like daughter.

The Food Meme

So, I've done that 5 weird things or 5 things you don't know about me meme 8 times or so, and have been tagged for it about 14 times since the last time I did it. If you tagged me, I'm sorry. I'm usually pretty good about keeping track of that stuff and getting to it eventually, but this time, not so much. Anyway, so the fish said proudly presents: That Weird Meme Thing, Food Edition.

1. I'm not really a vegetarian, I eat some fish. I would rather not eat fish, but then there is sushi and crab cakes and they win every time because of the extreme yummyness factor. One of my huge pet peeves is people who say they are vegetarian because they don't eat red meat. Um, that's not vegetarian, and neither am I.

2. I only drink water, coffee, orange juice and wine. And never at the same time. Like in the morning if I have a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee I have to finish all my juice before I start my coffee. There can be no interspersing of beverages, that just isn't right.

3. My marriage suffers from an inequitable distribution of leftovers. Chris is of the opinion that once something hits the fridge it is dead to him. Me? I can find a gladware of three month old chili in the back of the fridge and my unfailing reaction is "throw some shredded cheddar on it and it's fine." This is probably the single most contentious topic in our relationship, even worse than that time he, well, nevermind. Worse than that though.

4. I don't like things that are overly crunchified. I mean, I like raw veggies and chips, but have an absolute terror of hard cookies and croƻtons and overly toasted toast. They make my teeth hurt.

5. I could go the rest of my life without sugar and rarely, if ever, miss is. But, you can have my salt shaker when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.

So come on now, brighten my Friday and tell me about your own food weirdness.


Last night I dreamed that I had a torrid affair with Clive Owen. Except it wasn't much of a torrid affair. Sure, there was one point where we were lying in a hotel bed somewhere (with another woman, strangely) but we were all fully clothed and just sort of chatting. Naturally, I decided to explain to Clive about how he was my Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend. I made a big deal of the fact that he had been my PCB since before he was very well known in the States. I assume I was trying to impress him with either my loyalty or my prescience. That part is probably pretty realistic. I mean, confronted with Clive in the flesh I would certainly go out of my way to make a total ass of myself. That's just how I roll.

Eventually it came out that I wasn't having a torrid affair rather boring little chat with fantasy-man Clive after all, but rather with a Clive look-alike. I would have been ok with that, I mean, it isn't like I'm interested in his mind, but nothing ever came of it because I woke up am happily married.

It's a little depressing to realize that I am never going to have a hot, scandalous affair with a hotty movie star. I mean, not that the odds of that were all that high to begin with, but now that I'm married and a mama and have the flabby belly to prove it I would say the odds have definitely gone from slimity-slim-slim to none. I suppose I should adjust my thinking and embrace the idea that maybe someday I'll run into Clive and we'll go have coffee and talk about our kids. And maybe he'll let me lick him, just a little bit. But probably not.

(Hey, new passphrase, peeps. Check it.)


The problem with being a stay at home mom is that I have entirely too much time and opportunity to swim around in my own navel.

I used to have this friend, you can read a bit of the history here, but the short version is that we were close, we fell out senior year of high school, and we never put it back together. Over the summer, a mutual friend mentioned that he had been in touch with her through Friendster, and I sent her a note. Very generic - hi, so-and-so mentioned you, I hear you got married, sentence about my kid, hope you are well. I never heard back. Maybe she never saw it, maybe she never wanted to hear from me, whatever. I wrote it off.

A few weeks ago, this former friend added me as her "friend" on myspace. I was surprised, and I waited. Surely, I thought, I would hear from her. I never did. And so, a little more than a week ago, fueled by my masochism and need for closure and I suppose a small hope that we could at least end things on a pleasant note and certainly also by a splash or two of wine, I sent her another note. Hi, was surprised to see you, sorry we lost touch, hope you are well.

The thing about myspace is that I could tell she read the email almost immediately. So I waited, and I didn't hear back. I decided that was it then, I wouldn't try anymore, just ignore her the way she ignored me and do nothing. But then yesterday, in a fit of, I suppose, pique, I deleted her from my "friends" list. Because I'm twelve. Because I'm twelve and spiteful and hateful, because I hold onto grudges like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver, and because if you hurt me you had better believe I will do my utmost to hurt you right back, preferably worse.

I don't know why I do that. I don't know why I feel compelled to rip off those old scabs, to poke poke poke at the bruises and soft spots. I don't know why I feel the need to bring up something that happened five years ago or eight or twelve and go another ten rounds on it. I don't know why, but I'm tired of it. I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't want to carry those heavy recriminations and injuries around with me anymore. I don't want to continue to suffer the thousands of ruptures in my thin skin.

So here it is. I forgive everything. Everything. And I apologize for everything, even - especially - those things for which I have no right to expect forgiveness. I know it isn't that easy, but I am going to work on it. It is going to be my new thing, being gracious and forgiving and letting all the crap that doesn't matter roll off my back.

I don't want to be twelve anymore. It wasn't that much fun the first time and it's time to grow up.

Help, I'm geeking out over here

I learned a couple of important lessons this weekend. First, when the toddler sleeps until 7:15 on Saturday, you should insist on being the one to get up with her while your loving spouse sleeps in. Otherwise, when the toddler decides it is time for breakfast at 5:15 on Sunday, it will be your turn to get up.

I also learned that when you finally convince your husband to let you migrate his blog to the fabulous new server and upgraded publishing software where you have already moved your four other websites you should not make a stupid mistake that screws up his DNS and takes his site down for 12 hours. But, if you are going to do that, you should totally do it after he goes to bed and then get up with the toddler at 5:15 the next morning so that you can have it fixed before he wakes up and he will never be the wiser.

Not that that happened to me, and not that I spent two frantic hours clearing the DNS cache on every computer in the house until they were all picking up the site. No, absolutely not. It was an entirely smooth process with absolutely no wife-caused downtime.

Also hey, thanks to Brad who complained and also sent me a template, those of you who read this site at work and think the purpleness and the fishiness give you away, you can find a boring work-safe version here.

Also also, I ditched the comment pop-up window because it annoyed me and I also moved the comment box to the top instead of the bottom, so scroll down if you want to read. Or don't. Also, I made it so you can tab from the comment box to the Post button instead of having to click, because I love you. Which dude, I just realized it was Brad who told me how to do that tab thing too. Brad is now officially my html guru. Here he is holding a baby. Married, sorry. (Hey, Brad, wanna fix my cron job for me?)

That's enough dork talk. I would like you all to know that I am the proud owner of a video of Chris entertaining Mia by dancing around her room in socks, boxers, and a fleece pulled over his head. What will you give me for it?

Mia Monday #53: First Anniversary Fiesta Edition

Not that there's anything wrong with that

Hey, did you guys know that a thing of tape flags can entertain a toddler for like 20 minutes? I recommend you all get yourselves to an office supply store post haste. However, I do not recommend handing over the staple remover unless you are a fan of puncture wounds.

We watched a lot of Elmo while Mia was sick, because it was the only thing that made her life seem worth living. Since then, she asks for Elmo by name ("Lala," as in la la la la, la la la la, Elmo's World) all the live-long day. Yesterday at 4:00 I decided to sit her in front of the tv for 10 minutes to I could clean up the breakfast dishes before Chris got home. However, since another second of Elmo would have caused me to pluck my own eyes out with the staple remover, I put on Teletubbies instead. When Mia realized it was not her beloved Elmo she broke down into 20 minutes of bereft weeping. Fuck you, Elmo, and your goldfish too.

Finally, if you read me via RSS you will have noticed that I've switched from a full feed to an excerpt. Sorry, I know that is sort of annoying, but a couple of days ago I found a piece of a recent post on a gay porn site. I have nothing against gay porn, mind you, but I do object to the juxtaposition of gay porn and my kid. So you guys are just going to have to click through from now on.

(Y'all, Technorati tipped me to the link, I wasn't surfing for gay porn. I mean, who has time for that with a toddler?)

Whoops, we just ran out of tape flags. Later, gators.

Click and pucker

So, I'm doing this thing over at my other place and launching it today, and if you would be so inclined as to go on over there and check it out I would greatly appreciate it. I mean, you don't have to, if it's too much trouble, or whatever. And you don't have to do the thing or even really read the whole post, which is sort of long. I mean, you can, if you want to, but I would understand if you had something more important to do, like clean out under your fingernails, maybe. But I would appreciate if you would click on over. In fact, as a special, today-only offer, everyone who clicks over wins a super-duper make-out session with yours truly. So go ahead and click, and then pucker up.

Oh, this is what I have been busy with. I have not been busy with getting busy in my bed, as so many of you suggested after the picture I posted yesterday. Well, I mean, I have been busy getting busy in my bed too, but that's not something I would ever blog about.

Oh. Um, oops.

Also, no, I'm not pregnant. And in fact, if I were pregnant I think I would not tell you guys until I went into labor, just for laughs. And the lump under the new comforter is the bedrail, because I tend to fall out of bed. Oh no, I mean Mia. Mia tends to fall out of bed.

Nevermind. Just click and pucker, click and pucker.

(Also, I've known this for a week and a half and now you know too. Go congratulate, ok? Double make-outs if you do.)


Am busy. Tell you why tomorrow. In the meantime, how do you like my new comforter?

Mia Monday #52: Claudia's Coat Edition

Sarah gave Mia a bunch of hand-me-downs. I finally had to hide this coat after she refused to take it off for three days.

Why I want to make out with the inventor of "Casual Friday"

Y'all, my bank teller is a hotty. I don't mean hotty like the Hotty Pediatrician is a hotty, because really the Hotty Pediatrician is far less a hotty and far more just my type (geeky, skinny, a little bumbling, rawr). Hotty Bank Teller though, wow. Gorgeous. Legitimately gorgeous. He always works the drive-through, so I only use the drive-through, and every time I do it takes every bit of my willpower to resist flinging myself out my open window and licking the glass that separates me from the Hotty Bank Teller.

Did I mention this guy is built? His biceps are easily the size of my thighs, and I have rather formidable thighs. So not my type, not at all, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't be willing to try it, just once.

Anyway, usually he is sporting the button-down and tie look, which is nice, because while he is doing his paperwork or whatever I can entertain myself with a mental image of pulling on the shirt until all the buttons pop off and... wait... was that too much information? Sorry. Let's just stick with the fact that he usually wears a button down. But then today? Today I went to the bank and realized that my bank observes Casual Friday, which meant Hotty Bank Teller was sporting a short-sleeved, tight-ish but no so tight as to be nasty, polo shirt. It was nice.

I guess what it all comes down to is that I have two questions:

1) Do you think there will ever be a Shirtless Friday? And if so, or really even if not, do you think it would be inappropriate for me to ask if I could maybe just rest my head against his chest for a minute or two? And,

2) Do you think he noticed that I was so busy staring at him today that I sort of forgot to drive away for a while? I don't think it was obvious. I mean, at least not until the bitch behind me starting honking.

Just my usual mish-mash

Thing the first: Helpful Tip from Beth

If you are a smallish person and are rearranging all the furniture in the playroom out of sheer boredom and want to move the very heavy couch with pull-out bed and you have no help other than a toddler whose sole contribution is attempting to get herself smushed between the couch and the wall and you have not worked out with any regularity in somewhat more than seventeen months, well then, you should take a tip from me. Move the fucking piano first, because it will make moving the couch seem like nothing.

Thing the second: Two clarifications on yesterday's post

Clarification one: Chris feels I did not appropriately describe the situation around his random wang exposure to the elements. I would therefore like to clarify that the wang slip was not intentional, and was rather caused by a combination of flannel pajama pants with one of those fatefully unsecured flaps and what I can only assume is a natural, pendulous movement of the object in question that accompanies normal movements such as walking. (Somehow, I don't think he is going to prefer this clarification to the original.)

Clarification two: The lingerie my in-laws gave me is definitely of the racy variety, not the pajama variety. They gave it to me in front of my parents and two family friends, one of whom I used to babysit. When I opened the box, my mother-in-law grabbed it away from me and removed the items in question, held them above her head, and displayed them to the room. Then I died. My mother-in-law then told me (and the gathered crowd) that when she was deciding what to get me for Christmas, she asked my father-in-law whether he thought she should get lingerie or earrings and he agreed it should "definitely" be lingerie. Then I died again. Too bad, you will miss me. I should point out that my in-laws are wonderful people of whom I am very fond and I have no idea what in the hell came over them.

ETA: Dudes, I almost forgot! Two years ago for Christmas my in-laws gave me these really really skimpy Victoria's Secret pajamas, which was vaguely inappropriate but still technically pjs, so whatever. They were extra-small. (Unbeknownst to them I was pregnant with Mia in the time and porking up like nobody's business, so ha-ha, never wore those.) The lingerie this year? Medium. So it like here, honey, you can still be sexy even though we can all tell you have gained so much weight. Somebody just shoot me, please?

Thing the third: Gratuitous baby video

Yes, I let her eat puffs off the floor, because she likes it and because it is funny and because it sometimes buys me 32 seconds to pee all by myself. However, I have no idea where she got the trick she is showcasing in this video, so I have decided to blame her father. I should have cut out the middle of this as it has no relevance to the point at hand, but she's so freaking cute I couldn't do it. Just ignore my annoying, croaky man-voice please.


Um, my in-laws gave me lingerie for Christmas. Lacy lingerie. Do you think they're agitating for another grandchild? Also, should I keep it, or exchange it for something that doesn't oog me out as much as lingerie from my in-laws? See, I just can't see wearing the lingerie for sexy time and saying "hey, do I look hot in this thong your mom bought me or what?" See, oog.

(As an aside, last night, Chris walked in from checking the mail, which oops, federal holiday, and said "my wang just popped out in the cold night air for no reason." That's just how things go around here.)

Sad Day

You know how a couple hours of concerted vomiting can just ruin something for you? Like, the last time I had a stomach bug the last thing I ate before getting sick was chili, and it was years before I could so much as look at a pot of chili again. Well, the last thing I had before getting sick last week was a Gingerbread Soy Latte, and I may never be able to look one of those things in the eye ever again. It is a sad, sad day here in Fishland.

It is also a sad day because Chris has gone back to work and I have spent the last three hours explaining to Mia that Daddy had to go bye-bye in the car but that he will be back this afternoon. She is not at all happy with this explanation and seems to be of the mind that we should get in Mommy's car, find Daddy, and bring him home. I would be in favor of this plan, if not for the fact that somebody has to pay the mortgage around here and it sure as hell isn't going to be me lately. Although, I am the one who physically pays the mortgage every month, so I feel I should get partial credit.

In other news, Mia was up half the night screaming for reasons unknown, and is dead-set against the very idea of a morning nap and is doing her best to make it known that I am the meanest mommy in all the land for plopping her into her crib for 10 minutes. So, off to rescue my offspring I suppose and go play hide and seek for three hours. Which really, I wouldn't want to spend my morning any other way.

Mia Monday #51: Happy New Year Edition