Tampax has a nice ring to it. No?

According to ivilliage, I've graduated from growing corn to cabbage. Soon I will be able to make a salad.

Every time I try to think of more appealing things they could have chosen for comparison I'm stumped.

Size of your baby: Manolo Blahnik pump, size 7?

Size of your baby: Big ass sunflower head?

See? It's hard.

It's also hard trying to nail down a name for kid #2 because every time I imagine a baby boy I picture Junior, and then I find myself choosing Junior's name all over again. Though I am still partial to Diddlydoo. Just for shits and giggles I Googled it. According to Urban Dictionary, it's "a nice word to describe feminine hygiene products."

Knowing this, I can't in good conscience name my cabbage after a tampon. And ew, does "feminine hygiene products" encompass stuff like Vagisil? It just doesn't seem right. So I've decided I am going to wait until I see him to make up my mind. It's kind of refreshing, the idea of waiting. Thanks to modern technology, we know so much before babies are born (gender, what color to paint the nursery) I rather like the idea of a surprise.

And, as an added bonus, it drives family members crazy when you won't list off possible names.

I'm going to bed now. I failed my damn glucose test and have to take the 3-hour version at 7 a.m. tomorrow. Ordinarily I'd feel crappy about that but thanks to women like Trista Sutter from ABC’s The Bachelorette, I now know that skinny, pretty people can get gestational diabetes too.

I mean, yay. Thank gawd she came out and shared her story (like, OMG, how "it’s difficult to see cellulite on your arms when you didn’t have any before!").

So difficult!

But hey, maybe I shouldn't knock her. I considered naming my son after a maxi pad.

George better be at his desk tomorrow

Thank you, everyone.

In response to the question, “Should Mrs. Mullet get negged for Portrait Painter Man” an astounding number of you—36!—said yes, I should do it.

Hah. It’s so easy to suggest someone else take her clothes off. (For the record, 11 of you said no, 6 of you didn’t care—yet you cared enough to vote—and 8 of you stopped reading after the heinous foot picture.)

And now…dun dun dun…my decision:

Forgettaboutit. No way, no how. Nope.

I know—you think I’m a wuss. Actually, I was all set to say yes. I had even psyched myself up for it (as much as one can). But then, I went back to Portrait Painter Man’s studio for another sitting, and we started talking about how he chooses poses. I joked, “Surely I’m the first to sit astride this armchair [because it’s such a silly pose]” and he put down his brush and showed me his collection of paintings featuring other women sitting in the exact same pose. Some were naked. Ok, many were naked.

And I had an ew moment. Like, ew, I don’t want to join his collection of girls. I thought I was special. Now? I feel so…so…cliché. Sniffle, sniffle.

But I’ll get over it.

Something else factored into my decision, and that was lack of time (or, rather, lack of desire to lose any more time sitting on top of an armchair). And it, um, is a good segue into my next decision. I’ve been struggling lately to manage work, life, cuddle time with Junior, couch time with Chuck, groceries, stressing, vacuuming, laundry, eating, sleeping. I need to fricken relax more. I’ve had an idea for a children’s book for 10 years—10 fucking years!—and it finally hit me that it’s not going to write itself. So I’m cutting back on my posting. I realize I’m probably committing blog suicide by doing this, but it’s a chance I’m going to have to take.

Fully dressed, of course.

Obligatory blog post title. Please don't throw popcorn

On this 'versary of my blog
I'd like to thank that little frog
And think of all the dreamy men
Who sometimes dribble in my den
They come from lands both far and wide
And take from me my precious Tide
But still I love them quite to death
Oh joy to me I'm...

...I'm...

Married with a kid. And I have a blog. That's a year old.

Yah, shit, that about covers it.

(You may send gift cheques and BMW 328i Sports Wagons in Cherry Red to Mrs. Mullet c/o Mulletville. Thanks for reading!)

Last time I checked, wearing hooker heels was not in my job description

When I got in this morning, my boss looked at my feet and asked, "What size shoe do you wear?" When I told her "seven and a half," she took off her shoes and handed them to me, then looked expectantly at my feet.

Apparently she needed to run an errand and her shoes were giving her blisters so she wanted to borrow mine for a few hours.

Ew, ew, and ew again.

There are certain things that skeeve me out; sharing shoes is one of them. Also on the list? Sharing straws, gum, and spoons (but oddly, not forks). The words "moist" and "washcloth." The sound of anything liquid poured into a cup, especially milk. Listening to someone sing in an intimate setting (I get embarrassed for them, even if they're doing well). And eating homemade baked goods at work functions (I can't get past the image of people in their bathrobes and curlers licking their fingers).

I did what I could to dissuade my boss—I claimed that my feet were sweaty, my shoes uncomfortable, my stumpy heels…stumpy—but she wouldn't hear it. She whipped out a bottle of Shower to Shower, sprinkled my shoes, and fled.

So there I was, stripped of my one-inch-heeled, Nine West, four seasons' old black shoes and upgraded to her five-inch-heeled, designer lacey strap-ons.

You know how you liked to walk around the house in your mom's (or dad's) shoes when you were a kid? How it made you feel kind of big and badass? That's kind of how I felt: abnormally taller, wobblier, and badder (after I got over the initial skeeve factor). The heels didn't exactly go with my outfit (I may live in Mulletville but I don't usually pair hooker heels with gray pants and a cardigan) but yah, I strutted around like a happy little rooster.

Then she came back. Barefoot.

"I thought my shoes were bad," she said.

She put my shoes on my desk and waited for me to hand over the goods, which I did, albeit reluctantly. My shoes looked kind of sad and forlorn after that. Kind of librarianish. Kind of ew.

But hey, I learned a valuable lesson today. If you want a raise from your boss, let her walk a mile in your shoes.

P.S. Thank you, Tina, at the Adventures of a Working Mom for my first ever blog award. As per the award's rules, I have some blogs I'd like to send the same nod to (they're damn funny):

Diapers and Wine

Football, Ballet, and Beer

Thoughts from the Toilet Bowl

Practically Wisdom

Check em out!