Last night I met my lover

I’m not at that big conference this weekend. You know, the one everyone and their mother is talking about. The one that rhymes with Snogfur.

Jealous? Who, me?

I did some lite reading of posts of people who are there—I’m masochistic like that—and there seemed to be a reoccurring theme. Something along the lines of The-kids-are-home-alone-with-Dad-I’m-kind-of-freaking-out-OMG-I’m-on-my-own-in-NYC-yip-fucking-yeeeeeeee.

Something like that.

And it’s funny because there was a nagging question intermingled with my jealousy which was, When was the last time you were away all by yourself, Mrs. Mullet?

Funny because I’m sitting here right now all by myself in my house. Chuck spent last night at his mom’s with Junior so they could get some QT with Grandma (and her pool). I was supposed to head down after work.

I never made it.

See, as my work day yesterday was winding down, I started picturing my empty house. The more I thought about it, the more enticing it became. By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was worried I was going to start humping the copy machine I was so excited by the prospect of having an empty house all to myself.

Me. All by myself. I could do whatever I wanted. I could do nothing or everything. I had to seize the opportunity.

Walking in my front door was like meeting a lover.

“Are we really alone?” Giggle, giggle. "Really?"

The house was deliciously silent. I yanked off my stiff work clothes and put on a pair of Chuck’s underwear. I pulled down the shades. I drank a non-alcoholic beer and watched smutty TV.

Then, as I was sitting there amidst all the debauchery, something wonderful happened. I happened to look down at my large baby bump and I said, “Hello.” I realized it’s the first time I’ve really spoken to my bump. I’m five months pregnant now and I hadn’t slowed once to actually acknowledge the child that’s growing inside of me. I hadn't once said, "Hey, I'm happy you're here. You're a gift."

Of course, that made me cry because I suddenly understood the beautiful importance of having time to yourself, not to paint your stupid nails or drink Smoothies or read frilly magazines, but to climb down off the ride and take a minute to assess and appreciate your life.

So, wow. A whole rainbow of epiphanies on my couch, and no one was there to witness it.

Thankfully.

Anyway, Chuck and Junior are on their way home now. There are a million things I still want to do, which means I’ll probably do nothing at all. Well, there are those two non-alcoholic beers in the fridge…

P.S. Chuck’s really excited about having another boy (yes, the Go-Go doctor was right after all). I am too.

It's a damn miracle, plus a giveaway

Said the harried women to the blogosphere:

Do you see what I see?

'Hanging on the ledge, blogosphere,

Do you see what I see?

Khaki shorts, khaki shorts

Almost in the bin,

With pockets as big as a chin.

(Hey, you try finding something that rhymes with bin.)

I don't come bearing celebratory silver or gold (and I am singing out of season), but I do have sippy cups. Tommee Tippee 2-Pack Explora Truly Spill Proof Sippy Cup to be exact.

Hot damn.

I like these sipppy cups because the cups are nice and big, and the side grips make the cups easy to, well, grip. They're also BPA- and phthalate-free.



You know the drill: Leave me a comment telling me how fabulous I am, and you'll be entered to win. Giveaway ends August 6, midnight EST. Open to U.S. residents only.

(I was not paid to write this post.)

Who put the cuckoo in the cookie jar? Yes, you put the cuckoo in the...

Sunday morning. Chuck, Junior and I are lying in bed.

Junior: Mommy, your butt is big.

Me: What? Chuck, is it? Is it?

Chuck: No.

I looked at him just in time to see the left side of his top lip twitch slightly. It’s Chuck’s tell. He’s a horrible liar anyway, but the lip twitch is how I know without a doubt that he’s full of shit. It’s also how I know he’d never even attempt an affair. He’d make it, like, two minutes before I busted him.

I jumped out of bed to get a better look at my backside in the mirror.

Me: Oh, God. It is bigger.

Chuck: It’s not. [Lip twitch]

Me: You’re lying.

Chuck: You’re pregnant. Everything is bigger.

Me: I don’t have a baby in my ass, Chuck. I mean, behind. I ate clam strips yesterday. I should be saying no to things like that.

Chuck: You have a right to indulge in things that make you feel good. Like food and walks.

Me: Walks? Walks? You think I need to exercise?

Chuck: [pulls pillow over head] I didn’t mean it like that.

Me: Then uncover your face!

Chuck: No!

I hate myself for what happened next: I cried. I actually shed tears over the ten (ish) extra pounds I've gained so far. I’m disgusted by myself. I’m not fat. I covered that in my damn Blubber post. I don’t even like hanging out with skinny people who think they’re fat.

People gain weight when they’re pregnant. Then, they lose it.

I don’t like all these cliched chick moments I’m experiencing. The emotional instability and hyper sensitivity are pissing me off. It’s like I walked onto the freaken set of Legally Blonde. What’s next? Tiaras and boas? Bedroom slippers with fluff balls and lilac-scented bubble bath?



It's because I’m having another boy, isn’t it? The Universe read my post about my pink leg lamps and it’s blasting me with a tsunami of sugar and spice.

Or because I’m having a girl.

Yep, my regular doctor told me on Friday that there’s no way in hell the Go-Go doctor could have known the gender at such an early stage.

I find out for sure this week. I don't know about you, but I have my money on the doctor that wasn’t dressed like someone employed to entertain crowds at a discotheque.

He’s so kinky, that Chuck

On the whole, being pregnant has made me ridiculously sappy and sensitive to my fellow man. I’m that fool crying over lame commercials and decrying the injustice of someone speeding past an elderly woman in the parking lot. What if she was scared? What if the racing car gave her heart palpitations, which sent her into cardiac arrest and the shop attendant found her lying by her grocery cart, melted ice cream dripping down her frail, little arms? What if?

Save the whales!

Then there are the other days. The days the What to Expect chick is talking about when she casually mentions that you "may be" emotional during your pregnancy. Like she's giving you permission.



Yep. Those are the days when I remind myself of Bruce Banner from the Hulk: “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Like yesterday. Chuck went to a networking function Tuesday and yesterday; he spent Tuesday night at a friend’s house. When he came home last night, it was close to 9 p.m. I was upstairs, half asleep, as I am most nights. I heard the front door open. I waited for his footsteps on the stairs. And I waited. Surely he was going to come upstairs and ask me how I was or if I needed anything. Surely.

I waited some more. And some more. I heard things clanging in the kitchen. It was 9:30 p.m.

“Relax,” I told myself, “he’ll be up in a minute.”

9:45 p.m...9:48 p.m...

The more I sat there, the more enraged I became. How dare he not run upstairs and check on his pregnant wife? He’d been gone for two days. How could he be so cold and insensitive? What kind of beast had I married? Should I be having children with this stone wall of a man? I’d birth a brick, that’s how cold he was! And what the hell was he doing in the kitchen?

I stormed downstairs and caught him red handed. Doing the dishes.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi?” I spat. “Now you say hi? Now?”

Oh, God, no, there was no stopping it.



“How could you not come upstairs—”

“I thought you were sleeping—”

“Don’t interrupt me! You’re cold! You didn’t want to check on me? See how I’m doing? You’ve been gone for two days—” Snot, tears, red eyes. “Two days!” More snot. “How could you not check on me?”

“I thought I’d do the dishes and then—”

“The dishes?! The dishes?? What about me? What if I was thirsty? Didn’t you want to see me? Didn’t you miss me?”

Once I got started I couldn’t stop. I had a Niagara Falls' worth of hormonal angst, and it was gushing out.

All in all I’d say the What to Expect rationed mood swing lasted a good half hour. Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. A strange calm came over me. I stood there staring at Chuck. I suddenly couldn’t remember why I’d been so upset. He’d been doing the dishes. He thought I was sleeping.

Holy shit, I thought, this must be how Bruce Banner feels when he comes to wearing his shredded clothing.

“I think I should get some sleep,” I said. “You, uh, coming to bed?”

Chuck stared at me, mouth agape. He nodded.

“Super!” I said.

I had every intention of apologizing when Chuck came upstairs, but he didn’t want to talk. Instead he wanted me to tie a rope around my neck and do silly tricks, like jump off a chair while the rope was also tied to the ceiling.

Luckily I've porked up enough to make that impossible.

Mwahahahaha.

I'd show you an actual picture of the penis cupcakes, but you and 600 "friends" have probably already seen them

In the good ole days, if someone brought a camera to a party and snapped a photo while you were popping a zit or scratching your ass, you didn’t have much to worry about. What was the worst that could happen? They’d develop the unflattering photo and put it in an album? Oh no, not that.

Even if they passed the photo around, you could at least grab the photo and destroy it.

There was an “Oh, shit!” moment, but it wasn’t debilitating.

Now, thanks to Facebook, everything has changed.

Case in point: Sunday was Junior’s birthday party. My 14-year-old niece, who’s my friend on Facebook, brought her camera. To say that she’s active on Facebook is to say that Miley Cyrus is kind of a poor role model. My niece updates her status every 10 minutes.

“Breathing.”

“Looking out the window.”

“Blowing my nose.”

Every time I turned around at the party she was snapping a picture. I’m not (totally) vain, but I’m pregnant and lumpy and it was 95 degrees with 100% humidity. I was chasing toddlers around. I was cramming food in my mouth. Eva Mendes would have had a hard time looking good under those conditions.

All I could think was “Fucking Facebook! Every one of these pictures is going to end up there.”

I was right. Last night, I signed onto my account and had 45 notifications that I’d been tagged. Forty-five! As I looked through the photos though, I realized something: I wasn’t as much bothered by the fact that my sweaty puss was plastered all over Facebook as I was that Junior’s face was. Chuck and I don’t like his image all over the Internet. It’s why I don’t post hundreds of pictures of him on this blog or on Facebook.

Part of me says, Relax, Mrs. Mullet. My niece loves Junior. She wanted her friends to see him. And really, what’s going to happen? Plenty of people post pictures of their kids online, and I haven’t seen any Dateline specials on the disastrous outcomes.

“Child blowing bubbles viewed by 2,000 people! May be viewed by even more! Tune in tonight.”



My own cousin created a blog after she moved to Oregon so her family back East could keep up-to-date; it features tons of pictures and personal information. She enjoys sharing her life on her blog. She told me I should do the same.

If only she knew.

Then the other part says, Enough! Enough with the cyber ejaculating. Privacy and delicacy have ceased to exist, and no one seems to mind. My co-worker posted the visiting hours for her brother’s funeral on Facebook. I’ve been invited to weddings, alerted to deaths in the family and learned the intimate details of people’s divorces (along with everyone else, I guess). It’s gotten downright creepy. Call me old fashioned, but if Uncle George croaks I’d like a phone call, not a RIP status update.

And back to Junior's Facebook debut: Shouldn't I get to decide if someone else can post pictures of my child, who happens to be a minor? I'd hope someone would ask permission before they put up a billboard on Interstate 95 with his name and mug shot; isn't it kind of the same thing?

Yes, there are upsides to Facebook. It’s easy to stay connected to friends and family. If you’ve friended your ex you can look through his photo album and revel in the fact that he’s got two chins and married a woman who looks like a man. It's nice keeping up with Vag. But some days it feels like too much. Too much sharing with an entity that has a lot of gray matter. Why are we sharing so much? What are we looking for?

More importantly, couldn’t someone have told me I had artichoke dip in my teeth and that my arms look like a linebacker’s?

This year's theme: franks 'n beans

On Junior's first birthday, I outed Chuck.

On Junior's second birthday, I wrote a letter to Chuck's friend's girlfriend's breasts.

For Junior's third birthday party, my mother is helping me make cupcakes in the theme of Curious George. She suggested we use Milk Duds and banana candy to make a monkey.

"I'm thinking two Mild Duds for eyes and a banana for the nose," she said.

"You mean like this?"



"Yes, perfect."

We're running out of places to puff. And by puff I mean PUFF, dammit

Junior’s third birthday was Tuesday so—ssshhhhh—I played hooky from work and Chuck and I took him on the two-and-a-half hour Essex Steam Train and Riverboat ride. (If you’re new here, hello, my son is obsessed with trains. If you’re familiar with all the puffin' that goes on in our household, you know that going on a steam train is Junior’s idea of Heaven.)

The train ride was nice. But just as we’d settled into the chug-chug-chugging, the conductor announced it was time for the Becky Thatcher riverboat ride! Curses!

We got off the train and were shepherded towards the boat. What ensued was a 40-hour ride along the Connecticut River. Not only was the ride narrated, it was narrated by a sarcastic teenage boy whose tone said, “I’d rather slice open my limbs on rusty nails than repeat this historical crap.”

Crap like "John Connecticut discovered the the Connecticut River. I’m kidding, folks. I’m kidding." And "The Connecticut River was once rated ‘D.’ ‘D’ for dirty. I’m kidding, folks. I’m kidding."

I started having flashbacks to when my father had custody of me and my younger brother on the weekends and he’d take us on fun (read: educational) excursions to broaden our horizons. My brother and I spent a fair amount of time brutally mocking tour guides—hey, it was survival—so I was disappointed when Chuck wouldn’t join me.

The whole time we were on the boat, Chuck and I reassured Junior that we’d be back on the train any second now...just a few more minutes...

"The Connecticut River is now rated ‘B.’ ‘B’ for bite me. I’m kidding, folks. I’m kidding."

Finally—finally—the boat headed back to the dock. We got off the boat and walked back to the train. We climbed aboard.

“Here we are!” we cried. “Back on the steam train!”

All was right again. Junior jumped out of his skin when the whistle blew. He ooohed and aaahed at the steam. But no sooner had we started puffin' than the conductor announced we’d be pulling into the station at any moment.

I almost puffed into the engine room and clubbed him.

Here’s the thing. If you’re going to sell tickets ($27 per person and $17 for children over two) to a 2-hour boat ride with a train accompaniment, why don’t you just come out and say that? If the bulk of the excursion is going to consist of pimply, snarky narration on a smelly boat that’s crawling down a brown river, your website should convey that.

Another drawback? There was no recycling on the Becky Thatcher riverboat. All the water bottles, soda cans and juice containers from the snack bar went right into the garbage.

This Connecticut excursion is rated ‘NMP.’ ‘NMP’ for not much puffin'. I’m kidding, folks. I’m kidding*.

*Not.