Life has again proven that enormous jugs get you special treatment

While I’m relieved to have been tagged by Jay because it gets me off the hook of having to come up with something to write about, I’m no dummy. He tagged me because of my boobs. They are fabulous, aren’t they? And that’s after Junior! Is it any wonder I’ve gotten calls from Playboy and Maxim?

Too bad I’m missing all those teeth.

Anyway, here are six things you don’t know about me. Should you care? Frankly, I’m not sure.

1. I've been trying to find my gym teacher for 24 years. In third grade I stole a necklace from my gym teacher, Mr. McKirnen. He had taken it off and put it on the mat, and I slipped it into my pocket. When he realized it was missing he told all the boys to empty their pockets. He never questioned the girls because he said, “Girls don’t steal.” I’ll never forget this one kid, Kurt. He had turned the pockets of his Boy Scout outfit inside out and was on the verge of tears because the gym teacher kept hammering him with questions. I still have that necklace and I still feel like shit whenever I think about it. I wish I had been caught. I also wish I could find Mr. McKirnen so I could give him his necklace back. (P.S. I'm sorry Kurt! You were such a cute Boy Scout!)

2. My scar isn’t from a Sand Shark bite. I have a long, jagged scar on my knee from surgery I had as a kid (I had a huge, precancerous mole removed—huge). For most of my life I’ve told people I was bitten by a shark (can you blame me?). At my old job I made the mistake of telling the man who wrote the company newsletter and guess what was in the next issue? A little Q&A box with the question, “Who from marketing has survived a shark attack?” After that I was hounded with questions, particularly from a woman who had survived something traumatic and wanted to know if I was afraid of swimming in the ocean? Clearly she was looking for me to say something inspirational. I told her I didn’t want to let fear run my life so I swam as much as I could (conquer your fear, etc.) and while I was saying it, I felt cheesy. I don’t think you should let fear run your life, but I felt like a poser.

3. I’ve never really liked kids. Their noses run and they yell and talk back and they’re greedy. When I was pregnant, people called me the Anti Pregnant Woman (are you really surprised?). I didn’t like being pregnant and I didn’t want to talk about being pregnant. When I was 37 weeks my OB actually asked me, “You realize you’re pregnant, right?” because during my check ups I’d try to talk about other stuff, like gardening. Since having Junior I’ve softened but if you had to choose between Billy Bob from “Bad Santa” and me to teach your fifth grader, he’d be a much better choice.

4. I’ve cried during the Hills. Wait—don’t go! I didn’t cry because of the ridiculous drama. One night, when Junior was six months old, he had finally fallen asleep and I finally had some time to zone out and there it was on MTV. One of the girls—fine, LC— was in Paris and she was having the time of her life and it got me thinking about all the international travel I used to do for my last job (the shark bite place) and how free and glamorous I used to feel. LC even went to one of the bars I went to. It really hit me how much my life had changed post-Junior. I was a world traveler turned Mulletville inhabitant. My suitcase used to hold a camera and foreign street maps; now I had a diaper bag stocked with pureed peas and Burt's Bees butt cream. So yah, I cried a little.

5. I’m a reformed snooper. Once, way back when, Chuck and I took a break. We had been close to getting married. I could tell my mom wasn’t taking the news well but she wouldn’t talk to me about it so I read her journal. I know, it was shitty of me, but I wanted to know how she really felt. I stopped when I read “they would have had beautiful babies together.” From the safety of the present I can be breezy and say it all worked out; from the sadness of that moment I’ll say that I will never forget seeing those words on the page.

6. I eavesdrop. The last time my dad was over—yep, that time—he was in the kitchen holding Junior and he didn’t think anyone was listening but I was standing in the doorway. He leaned close and he whispered in Junior’s ear, “You don’t even know it yet, but you have the best mom in the world.” I stepped into the hallway and thought holy shit, I’m going to remember that for the rest of my life.

There you have it. I’ve been a thief, a liar, a kid hater, a connoisseur of junk TV, a snoop, and an eavesdropper. Since it's a holiday weekend and everyone needs a break, I'm not going to tag anyone. Your prize for making it through my six teats—I mean, treats?

A shot of my hooters the day we brought Junior home from the hospital. Crazy how my stomach went flat the very same day, huh? I must be a celebrity mom or something!

Look at my boobs, part deux

Before I begin, I’d like to thank the hundreds upon hundreds of faithful readers who sent encouraging emails promising that the rest of the week would be better. Clearly, you really care. Although, I am disappointed that after having birthed more than 100 posts my top-viewed post is “look at my boobs.”

Today, as my way of appeasing your cravings for words and breasts (hopefully in that order), I’ve given you a little of both. Do you like how that works?



Anyway. The nanny’s tardiness as of late has been stressing me—so badly that by the time she arrives I am sweating profusely and suffering from terrible heartburn (are you having trouble concentrating?). Handing your kid off to a nanny is hard enough without covering what time he woke, what he ate for breakfast, when he last pooed, what kind of mood he’s in, and 100 other various things while you’re racing towards your car.

Yesterday, be still my fragile ticker, she was on time. Why? Because I finally asked her to be.

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?

What you don’t know is that for the last week I have been pestering Chuck with my incessant questions: Should I say something about her being late? Should he? Should Junior? He kept telling me I was being ridiculous but, to be perfectly honest, I was scared. You know how when you complain to a waiter that your soup is cold and he smiles nicely and says it's not problem but it really is a problem and he and the cook laugh and spit and Lord knows what else in your soup back in the kitchen because you had to open your big mouth? I was worried it would be like that.

Or worse.

What if she pinched Junior hard on his fat arms? Made him sit in the litter box? You know, sneaky mean things. You just don’t know these days.

All day at work I sweated and downed Tums. And then I heard Chuck’s sweet—although mildly patronizing—voice: “Trust someone until they give you a reason not to.”

Grammar aside, he’s got a point. It’s a much better outlook, and it doesn’t leave you mentally exhausted. Think about it for a minute while you gaze lovingly upon the ample bosom below.



All set?

When I got home I found that Diana had spent the afternoon coloring with the boys. She had even saved Junior’s “drawing” and labeled it “Jager,” along with the date. She had also taken the boys on a long walk and couldn’t wait to tell me how they’d held hands and giggled for most of it.

Chuck was right! It is better to trust and relax than obsess and panic. And as soon as I get Junior’s drawing back from the handwriting analysis people I’m going to tell him so.

(About the boob thing, I don't feel too bad. This blogger's most popular post was about butts. Can we manage to get out of the gutter for like 0.2 seconds?)

If yogurt makes you happy in your special place you might want to try match.com

I hate Mondays.

Every Monday, one of my co-workers brings in the leftovers of what she baked over the weekend. It sits on the edge of her desk and every time you walk by she says hopefully, “I made cucumber zucchini mango melt aren’t you going to try some?”

If you don’t stop and take a bite she stares forlornly at the fax machine. By four o’clock you are so tired of her dejected gaze that you finally take a taste and by then whatever has been sitting on her desk has now been sitting there for close to seven hours and tastes a bazillion times worse than if you’d just broken down and tasted it at nine in the morning.

I really resent the forced feedings. And poor Keith Gordon! He’s on the skinny side, you know, so if he doesn’t stop more than once she acts like he’s a babe rejecting Mother Earth’s teat.

Today I grudgingly took a bite of her Equal-grapefruit-soy-loaf then hurried off to a meeting, only to find that another co-worker had brought in Chobani Greek yogurt and likened it to finding Sri Lanka (her orgasmic exclamations were really unsuitable for 9:15 a.m.; if you're going to squeal breathlessly it should really be after 3).

To shut her up, I ate the damn yogurt. And I did not experience Nirvana. I did, however, experience complete disgust when a coworker from IT who couldn't find any spoons reached into my empty Chobani container and brought my used spoon to his mouth. He didn’t ask, nor did he refrain from licking it clean.

We are not cats, people. And if he read my blog he’d know that sharing spoons, even in reverse, makes me want to shower incessantly.

If I hadn’t been so nauseous from the soy-loaf nugget I’d just washed down with Cho-gurt I might have cared that the table of eyewitnesses now probably think me and the IT guy are splendoring in the grass.

Go ahead and tell me Tuesday’s gonna be better.

I dare you.

I'm getting a real sense of how this mom thing is going to go down

My mom babysat last night so Chuck and I could go out with some friends. Junior spent the night at her house. When I called this morning to arrange for Junior's pick-up she said,"There's something I need to tell you. Please don't be mad."

"Go ahead..."

"He woke up at nine."

Oh, Junior, your father and I are happy for 7:20 a.m.

You are on thin ice.

In Mama's Mulletville, you'll get hair and buck teeth if I damn well feel like it

Chuck liked the new header I designed but he had some questions, like where was his mullet?

I love that my husband wants me to draw a mullet on his head.

Tragically, I had to tell him that he doesn't have hair. In real life or in Mulletville.

Then he wanted to know where his crown was? I told him that I gave myself a crown. It’s my blog and I’m my own frog prince.

He did need some kind of head dressing though. So yah, I did him up Viking style.

While we’re on the subject of hair, or lack thereof, I took Junior to the park yesterday after work. We were talking to the ducks (Junior does this kind of throat honk that's really cute) when a bald dude walked by. Junior stopped and very seriously whispered “Dada.”

Outwardly, I had a good laugh but inside I was seething. The little shit says “Dada” nonstop. He also says “whoah,” “boom,” “buh-bye,” “illy” (for kitty), "baby," "out," and “hi-ey.” The one word he has yet to utter?

“Mama.”

But I’m not bitter. I definitely have not considered drawing my frog child with snaggled teeth, a crater-like head, and minscule eyes, like this:



Nope, because a mother’s love is never, ever petty.

Did you hear that Junior? Did you just hear what mama said? Mammamamamaamamamamamama.

Little peckerhead.

If the cats do it first then I'll definitely follow suit, I swear

The eerie thing about blogging is how aware you become of themes in your life, depending on the week. This week's theme seems to be "Who the hell am I?"

For instance, this morning there was a message in my inbox from Mr. New Boy. It read, "I found an old picture of you."

The following image was attached.



Yes, yes, I deserved that after telling him he looked like Keith Gordon. But it's clearly not who I am. I'm much cuter.

Message number two was from Chuck:

"The &**#ing DMV wouldn't let me register the $%#^ing new plates for the car because your %%^&ing last name doesn't match mine and the %^#&ing guy didn't believe you were my wife."

And here we are. The name changing issue again rears its ugly head.

Sometimes I wish my last name had been Snuffleofagusapelouski. Or Guggeinhickup. Then I would have loathed it and gleefully adopted my husband's last name. Instead I have spent 33 years very content with my name. And my dear husband, who is secure in his masculinity—blah blah, barbells and beer—hasn’t asked me to change it.

Until now.

Lately it's becoming apparent that life would be a lot easier if I did change it. Like when I make doctor's appointments for Junior and the doctor can't find his chart because it's under a different name. Or like when my dad writes me a check for Junior's birthday and he makes it out to my "married" name when he knows very well that I haven't changed my name but he's old fashioned and wants to slight my decision.

I don't know what to do. Hyphenation isn't an option. I think if you're going to go ahead and do it, you should go ahead and do it. With gusto!

Which leads me to Chuck's last name. It has plenty of gusto. It's rather, um, festive. It's the kind of name that appears on bar signage. That drunk people yell out. The kind of party name that makes a very serious first name for your child a necessity.

So there you have it. I don’t have big ass hair but my last name could soon be all the party I need.

Sigh.

If you're going to say someone resembles a movie star, you should probably pick someone attractive

I'm sure I've mentioned that my office is a wee bit saturated with estrogen? Well, we have a new employee at work. And I'm happy to report that he's a man.

Clap, clap.

Well, kind of—he's only 20. So I guess he's not a manly man, but he hath brought with him many of the gender's trappings: unsavory cologne, slouchy pants, and white socks with black sneakers. (For those of you who wear great cologne, snug pants, and sexy brown loafers, call me: 1-800-MA-LIKEY).

Mr. New Boy sits right outside my office door and after a few hours of squinting at him I realized exactly who he reminded me of.

"You look just like the guy from the Legend of Billy Jean!"

"Who's Billy Jean?"

"You've never seen the Legend of Billy Jean? It's an 80s classic."

To which he said—are you ready?—"Nothing good came out of the eighties."

Sputter! Gasp! Whaaaaaaaat?

Was it possible he had never heard of leg warmers? Madonna? Thriller? MTV? Fricken' Boy George? The 80s were, like, one of the best decades ever. What about The Breakfast Club? Tie-dye jeans? Socks rolled over your pants?

How could he say that about my beloved 80s? Especially since the residents of Mulletville religiously pay homage to the decade with their big hair and stonewashed jeans! He's surrounded by tributes to the 80s every day for fuck's sake.

"It's a good movie," I said. "Some old guy tries to steal from Billy Jean because she's hot so she runs away with her friends and becomes famous. You should rent it."

Nothing.

"Here, I'll show you who I mean." I made him Google the movie. Then we Googled Keith Gordon. Then we experienced an awkward silence as several unflattering pictures of Keith Gordon came up. Like...



And...



Even better...



"I think I was thinking of someone else," I lied. "You really don't look like him at all."

"He's bald."

"He wasn't when he was in Billy Jean. And he was cool in Christine."

"What's that?"

See, until he asked that I felt kind of bad. But I decided that after he's taken an 80s refresher course and can tell his Thompson Twins from his John Cusack I'll pick a more attractive doppleganger for him.

Until then, I'm sticking with Arnie.

Did I miss anything else from the 80s?