it was a great night out except for the first five minutes.

I am having the Birthday That Never Ends. Last night, my friend K Who Lives Up The Street took me out for sushi.

Let's pause a moment to reflect on the beauty and extreme yumminess of the sushi.







And let's not confuse my friend K Who Lives Up The Street with my other friend K Who Lives In The Middle Of The State, or my friend K Who Lives in Ohio, or my friend K Who Lives Ten Minutes North Of My House. I know, it can be confusing. Much thanks to the seventies for bringing K back.

Also, because I'm all about the K today, if you haven't tried K hard cider, you totally should. Because it's good, that's why. And K + Chambourd = happy mama. Try it.

Back to mah girlie date with K Who Lives Up The Street. She came down the street to pick me up because she is a classy dame. And as fate would have it, we were dressed alike because we's some classy dames. Brown shirt, dark blue jeans... except I had a supercute babeh I was wearing as my most obvious accessory. I was wearing that guy in a green and blue paisley reversible sling that I had finished making only seconds after my friend K Who Lives Up The Street walked in the door. Because I'm a crafty, classy dame, and don't you forget it.

Eventually we left my house, and hopped in her cute little car to go to Rochester.

Here's where the Bad, Bad Thing happened.

But not to us, so just relax.

There is a little section of the major road, we'll call it Route 98, just for fun, and well, because that's what road it is, where there are four lanes. And because all of us are clever? We call it The Four Lanes. Honest to God, that's what we call it.

Well, people drive like complete jackasses at The Four Lanes. The extra two lanes are turning lanes, actually, but jackasses believe them to be PASSING ON THE RIGHT AT INTENSELY EXCESSIVE SPEEDS LANES.

The car in front of us stopped. The two cars coming at us in the opposite lane stopped. We stopped. The Complete Jackass behind us? FLOORED IT AND PASSED ON THE RIGHT.

And she killed Mr. G's grandson's beagle that Mr. G was dogsitting while his son recuperated from surgery.

Jackass Dog-Killer.

Everybody pulled over, and I got out, Jackass Dog-Killer just sat there, and people came out of the houses to see what the deal was. Fortunately, the dog died immediately, and didn't suffer or gross me out. I walked over to the Jackass Dog-Killer's car and looked at her with my Scary Teacher Eyes.

Good job, I said. That could have been a kid.

And I muttered, Asshole.

Which was not the right thing to do, but that's between me and God and I apologized to Him for saying something that I shouldn't have said even though it was true. I apologize quite a lot for saying things I shouldn't say even though they are true.

Then I got back in my friend K Who Lives Up The Street's car and we went to eat raw fish. And we liked it. The end.

****************************
If you're not already following me on Twitter, please do! Help me be the winner I've always wanted to be. I'm @Mom_17 and also @pameladayton. But @Mom_17 is the one that will lift me to fame and fortune. Or a superfab breast pump and some cool stuffs. And if you are following me? Thanks. I love you forever and ever.

come, follow me, and i will not make you fishers of anything but i will be the winner

I mentioned this yesterday, about The Sling And Swaddle Journey, sponsored by Hotslings and The Miracle Blanket and a ton of other awesome companies...

To win the game, I have to tweet at least three times a day for the entire month of June, and I have to be creative.  I think there are a few other criteria, but I'm not quite sure.  Hopefully, standing on my head whilst performing the Chicken Dance is not one of them.

Anyway, the point is this:  my new twitter id is Mom_17 .  And I would really appreciate it if you would a) follow me, or b) take five minutes to sign up for twitter and follow me.

If there is some sort of bribery that needs to take place, please tweet me @Mom_17, or direct message Mom_17.  I will get right back to you.

Also.... if I win, I get a ton of prizes.  And since I really am all set with baby stuff, I'm going to donate most of the prizes to the Teen MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group that is connected to the MOPS group I attend.  Those mamas are always in need of babeh stuff, and the Teen MOPS Team tries to set them up for success.  And I like that whole idea of setting them up for success.  (I will be giving my mom the digital camera, though, if I win.  Sssshhhh.  Don't tell.  And no, she doesn't read my blog.  Thanks for rubbing it in.)

So, to recap:  FOLLOW ME @Mom_17.  On Twitter.  Yes, you.  Please and thank you.

here's mah brilliant idea for a friday.

You may have noticed my little series emailing it in friday, where I go through my sent mail folder and dig out the weirdest, most nuttiest email that I sent that week, and post it for entertainment purposes only.

I did send one fabulous email this week, but I got a reply that said it was pure blog gold, so I'm going to add in a few details that I omitted and blahblahblahblahblah. Moving on.

A few weeks ago, I posted about entering the Sling and Swaddle Journey, and filling out their questionnaire and wondering how to describe myself?  I'm happy to say, THEY LIKE ME, THEY REALLY, REALLY LIKE ME!!!  Well, me and 29 other babymamas.  We start tweeting on Monday, and the objectives are 1) most followers on Twitter, and 2) creative content.  I'm pretty sure I can swing the creative content, but I totally need help with the Twitter thing.  And I'm not interested in buying followers on Twitter, because that is lame, and possibly cheating, but nobody from Sling and Swaddle has said Don't buy followers yet so I'm not sure about the cheating thing.  In any case, you can find me here.  (Today it says the account has been suspended, but I'm sure it will be up and running by Monday.)

And I have more good news for you, people!  My birthday present from The Mister arrived yesterday!!!  Want to see?



Is that so adorable? And the font. I love it. And because I love it so, I am plugging Canela's Etsy shop, Cinnamon Sticks.  She makes some lovely jewelry.

HB's trying to break our CD drive, but even so? There's more good news. I get to go out tonight with a good friend to celebrate my birthday. She's not a slacker, we have actually had tonight on our calendars for over a month. We are going for sushi. I didn't tell The Mister that's what we were doing, partly because I couldn't talk yesterday, but also because he's going out of town to work all weekend and I didn't want him to be harboring jealousy all weekend long. Or while he was driving, anyway, because I'm sure that once he picks up some wifi or whatever it's called he'll read my post and weep like a little girl. Sorry, babe.

I will leave you with my brilliant idea for a Friday, a replacement for the "I Love New York" campaign.

Come To New York, Where The Only Person We Hate Is The Governor!!!!

california, you make no sense. and i mean that in the most confused way possible.

California discriminates against gays. (Do I need to link up to something to give you an example. Really? You're on the internet, thereby refuting the I live in a hole under a stump theory. 

California discriminates against Christians. And yes, that is a link to (gulp) Fox News. It's the Benadryl/Zyrtec cocktail I'm on. That's the only explanation I have for plugging those people.

Who is next?

klepto in the hoooooooooouse!!!!!!

I thought about telling you how I woke up this morning. 

Okay, okay, you don't have to beg. I'll tell you.

It all started yesterday when my seasonal allergy problem hit me like a ton of bricks. Unpleasant. My midwife's office recommended Zyrtec, with the disclaimer that if I didn't drink (water) like crazy my milk would dry up. Awesome.

Did it work? Not so much.

So I took a full, grown-up sized dose of Benadryl before I went to bed. I'm still groggy. I way overslept and it was not so good, which translated into descriptive yap means that I had to scratch and claw my way to awakeness. Yes, I know that's not really a word, and I'll refer you back to the dayton time rulebook, section 438.2 which states It's my blog and I'll speak how I want.

Also not good? I HAVE NO VOICE. And I know I shouted at you just then, but it doesn't matter, not just because of section 438.2 but also because I HAVE NO VOICE. So I'm just pretending to yell. Get it?

The short people are ecstatic.

Moving on.

One of my short people ::cough::Wee Man::cough:: has a little problem with theft. A little problem that borders on being the youngest person in Juvenile Hall.

Last week at the zoo, he pinched a manta ray ring, which I discovered too late to get back inside the zoo to return it. Oops. Yesterday he tried to steal a 20 inch long tube of bubble stuff. I caught on to that right away. The lady at the store told him that she would call the police to take him away to jail if he tried to steal from her store again.

And every time we go to the Natural Foods store in town he steals a pocketful of malted milk balls.

I have a hard time blaming him for that. I mean, who doesn't love those things? I'm not being serious about downplaying the malt balls, and I don't joke about it ever, well, except for here, and that's because that kid can't read.

He knows he's doing something wrong. It's written all over his face. He will take anything that isn't nailed down, even at home, only I'm not going to bore you with stories of Wee Man took all the change off my bedside table again.

How do you get a child to understand a) what stealing means, and b) that stealing is wrong, and c) strategies to get what you want without going to jail shortly after you acquire the thing you desire?

Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Jokes about laryngitis? Anything?

wordless wednesday: flower girl

they that were, who are no longer

In Flanders Fields 

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD 

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow 

Between the crosses row on row, 

That mark our place; and in the sky 

The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 

To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields. 

oh please.

I read Alice in Wonderland, an article in the National Review Online by Julie Gunlock where she whines and complains about organic food being too blahblahblahwhinecry, and also she mercilessly mocks Alice Waters, a world-renowned chef and outspoken supporter of farmer's markets, the slow food movement and sustainable agriculture.

And guess what?  Julie Gunlock doesn't even have her own Wikipedia page, that's what.  That's how not seriously she should be taken.  Sure, I don't have my own Wikipedia page but I'm totally on that and have paid some kid from down the street fifty bucks to add me to Wiki either.

Snarkiness aside, or not, because I can't guarantee the I have my big girl pants on today, the article is so politically charged that is probably only has merit in the Big Agriculture Lobbyists break room, or possibly out back where the smokers hang out.

Let's introduce Ms. Gunlock to my friend, the CSA.

Ms. Gunlock, Community Supported Agriculture.

Community Supported Agriculture, this is Ms. Gunlock.

(This is where Ms. Gunlock squints up one eye and raises her eyebrow sort of bitchily and sticks out her pretty pretty princess hand.  And then CSA shakes her hand like a big boy and she feels slightly uncomfortable because her carpal tunnel from writing such decidedly mindless drivel is bothering her today.)

Community Supported Agriculture is a program, for lack of a better word, where you can buy a share of the farm.  What you get is fresh-picked produce, some CSAs offer meat, eggs and milk in addition to produce, for the duration of the growing season.

What, Ms. Gunlock?  You live in the city, no the suburbs?  Well you, too can join a CSA.  Many CSAs around the country offer delivery services to the non-farming areas.   My CSA is located between Buffalo and Rochester, and has drop-off sites in both cities.  In addition, some churches and neighborhood groups have joined together and carpool to pick up the week's produce at the farm.

And our CSA?  Costs less than $15 a week.  For organically grown produce.  I'm not even kidding you.  And some weeks?  We really have to work to eat all the veggies we are given.    

Sure, if the growing season was cut short, or if there was a drought, or flood, or other act of God, we wouldn't get as much food each week.  That's a chance you have to take with farming.

But.

I know the farmer who grows the food I feed my family.  (His name is Mike.  Hi, Mike!)

I can ask him any question I have about how he grows my food, and he answers me.

I can even ask him for suggestions about my home garden, and he's happy to help.

I can walk through the fields where my food is growing.

Even with the new food labeling laws in place, I have no idea where in California the strawberries at the store come from.  I don't know who has touched them, or how many times they have been sprayed with pesticides.  People = live creatures.  Pesticides = killing live creatures Pesticides = bad.

I admit I do not feed my family organic products only.  Because sometimes eating organic is more expensive.  In my experience, organic is not always more expensive, in fact, there are instances where it is more affordable than non-organic.

But.

If a person's only experience with purchasing organic foods is in Whole Foods, or in a specialty natural food store, or in the organic section of the local supermarket, they are most likely paying a lot of money.

Think outside the store.  Do a little research.

And for flip's sake.  Do not mock people who believe that it's important to talk about where our food comes from.*  There are people who have never seen a farm.  There are people who have only ever been to the grocery store and have never considered all the work it took to get that food into the store.  

And also for flip's sake.  Check out Local Harvest to find a CSA in your community.  For all you locals, join Porter Farms.  You can thank me later.

*Instead, make fun of whiny people.

it's real.

One day, when Miss O was about seven months old, I left her with Uncle Benna for the day. I packed up all my clothes in laundry baskets, put gas in my car, and drove away. 

I wasn't going anywhere in particular, but I needed to go.

I was suffocating and stressed and a miserable wreck. And nobody knew. If they did know, they sure didn't say anything to me. I felt broken and alone, an unpleasant cocktail of postpartum depression and birth control.

And for sure I didn't say anything. On one hand, I like to be in control. It was more than I could handle to mention that I just couldn't handle any more of anything. On the other hand, I was crippled physically and emotionally. I couldn't describe how I was feeling, I had no words at all.

I drove around in my loaded-to-the-gills minivan all day. I considered visiting a friend in Cleveland, but the thought of driving there--a trip I had made hundreds of times--terrified me.

So I went to garage sales.

I realize that makes no sense.

I did go home later that day, and I remember clearly the look on The Mister's face when I pulled in the driveway, a mixture of relief and she's-gone-off-the-deep-end-don't-let-her-know-how-crazy-you-think-she-is.

I had a pretty firm grasp on how crazy I was.

I stopped the birth control pill, and that helped enormously. Eventually things seemed to even out.

I hit another rocky patch after Wee Man was born, fortunately we were on the look out for The Crazies to return. I had a back-up plan in place just in case things started to get out of hand. People were keeping an eye on me for signs that I was reaching my limit. So even though the postpartum zombie came back to bite me again, it wasn't as bad with the safety net.

Things weren't bad at all after HB was born, other than the not sleeping at night thing he had working. Fortunately, that cleared up after eleven long months.

And now Sweets is here. I could tell this was going to be tough. Back in December I started to lose it. And he wasn't even born yet.

So I went on the Keep It Together Pills, and they've been simply lovely. Meaning, I have been lovely. I check with The Mister to make sure I'm really and truly as lovely as I think I am, because my Pamela Barometer doesn't always match up with other people's Pamela Barometer. And despite having to live with me, he does tell the truth.

Also, for the record, I was totally kidding about being mad at him for shattering my life the French Press. I felt like you all might have been concerned for him, and I want to assure you that his life is not in jeopardy. I actually had him read that post before I posted it to make sure it was all right with him. And it was. He even laughed.

Back to the story about Whack Job Me. Because it's my blog, and I can make it all about me if'n I wanna. That's why.

Where was I? Right. The Keep It Together Pills.

They're not as effective now as they were in December. And this is stressing us all out. My fuse is shorter, my house is messier, our diet includes a whole lot more empty calories than usual, I'm a little less nice... and each of those statements is in the running for Understatement Of The Year.

Why am I bringing this up? Aside from the obvious It's My Blog And I Can Make It All About Me If'n I Wanna? I know I'm not the only one. But I only know that because I've been through this tunnel before. And the first two times I was in this here tunnel, I didn't know that I wasn't alone.

It's just that the tunnel can be so dark that you can't see the other mamas who are standing right next to you. We're all holding our breath in here. That's why it's so quiet. And our hearts are all beating so loudly in our ears that we can't hear the shuffling feet and the dripping tears of the other mamas in the tunnel.

We are all there, together. Don't forget.

prom-a-palooza

It's the Bloggy Prom Weekend, hosted by the lovely Jen from Blissfully Caffeinated and The Stiletto Mom from, uh, well, The Stiletto Mom.  I love obvious.  It keeps me from having to understand irony.

Today I'm turning the clock back fourteen years.

Excuse me for a minute whilst I have a heart attack and a stroke and count my grey hairs...







That was an awful minute for me just then.  And all of you older folks :cough:Stiletto:cough: just shut up and pat me on the back in an understanding fashion.

I went to the Junior/Senior Prom my senior year of high school with Seth.  It was the Junior/Senior prom because my high school was not large.  It was, and still is, very small.  In fact, the town where I grew up has more cows than people.  MANY MORE COWS.  And yet?  I've never been cow-tipping.  But I'd sure like to watch cow-tipping.

Seth was a very exciting boyfriend for a number of reasons.

1. He was from another school district.
2. He was a colossal flirt.
3. He wanted to get in my pants.  Bad.  

I'll skip right to the end for you, so I don't keep you all waiting.  At my graduation party, Uncle IKnowThings, my oldest brother who is younger than me but remarkably everyone who meets him believes him to be much older than me (heehee), took Master Seth to the basement of our house and showed him the gun cabinet.  He told Master Seth to choose the gun he'd like to be shot with, if he ever showed up again, or touched me, or continued to see me.

At least that's the story that Uncle IKnowThings likes to tell, but somehow didn't relate the story to me until years later.  We were reminiscing, and I wondered why Seth seemed to drop off the face of the earth.  Uncle IKnowThings 'fessed up.

Anyway, here we are, in all of our resplendant prom-ish glory:

I am pretty sure it's the sun here,
but I recall he scowled quite a lot.
And because I was young and innocent,
I thought he was wicked hot.

It's pure poetry here.

The "Look At Us Being Super Fab Next To The Old-Timey Car" pose.
Except nobody said Old-Timey in 1995.
Or Super Fab.
Those were the days.

Because we were SENIORS
(WOO HOO!!! SENIORS RULE!!!),
we traveled in style.
*****OR*****
we were all such abominable drivers, 
our parents were happy to chip in for a limo.
We didn't even consume naughty beverages.
In the limo.

The requisite garter picture.
That's me in the middle.
I swear to the Almighty, I HAD to put
that thing a-waaaaayyyy up there.
The slit on my dress was high.
And I have a long torso.
Which that made the slit even higher than intended.
I was NOT allowed to be a whore in high school.
Honest.
Also, I'm curious.
Is it just New York schools that have the prom garter thing?
Or do other places have this odd custom?

We went to a restaurant on Lake Ontario (far, far away) for a fancy dinner, and then rode in style back to our school to dance the night away.  Afterwards we went to a fantastic party at Jamie and TJ's house straight home to bed like good little children.  It was tons of fun.

Be sure to head over to Blissfully Caffeinated and The Stiletto Mom to check those hawt babes out.  If you want to join up with the Prom-A-Palooza Tour, leave a comment on either of their posts.

Check you later.  I've gotta go blast some Journey.

qype dot com.

I love London, England.  The Mister and I went there on our honeymoon, three weeks after we were married, in December of 2001.  It was amazing.  The sights, the people, the shopping… the pubs.  It was only eight short years ago, but back then, I could put the pints away.

 

The most difficult part of visiting London was deciding what to do and where to go.  We wanted the fish and chips, but where is the best place to get that?  We wanted to hit the really traditional pubs, but we had no idea which ones were not to miss.

 

Enter Qype.  If only Qype had been around back then.  Qype is a review site for restaurants, pubs, arts and entertainment, health and beauty establishments, night clubs and other London events.  And oh my word, it is easy to use.  Simply click on the category you are interested in to peruse your options, or use the search feature and you’ll be provided with a list of options to suit your preferences.  For example, if you search “pubs London”, you’ll get a list of 5577.  Imagine the pub crawl you could have with that many pubs… you’d be busy for the rest of your life, or at least the next fifteen years.  From there you can narrow your search, if you were not interested in sorting through that many options.  If you’re looking to eat out every night for the next 30 years, you could work your way through the 12,877 restaurants listed when you search ‘restaurants London’.  So many options, so little time!

 

Qype is a great site for all you Londoners out there who are looking for something new to try, and also for tourists who want to be assured of the true London experience.  The next time you want to go out on the town, be sure you consult Qype to find the perfect event!

you really ought to know

A little quick business: Don't forget to leave a comment on my birthday post. For every comment, I'm giving $1 to Jenn at Breed 'Em and Weep. AND!!!! One of my lovely readers who wishes to remain anonymous, has promised to match what I donate for the number of comments. SO GO COMMENT!!!

************************

I woke up to a wet-mouthed HB talking loudly in my face. Right in my face. MAMA!!! Da sun is up and it is good MORNING! GET UP!!!! I!!! AAAAAMMMMM!!!! HUUUUUUNNNNNGRYYYYYYY!!!!!

I considered his logic. Yes, I am the mama. Yes, the sun was up. Yes, I was pretty sure he was hungry. But good morning? I was not convinced.

You see, something has been really wrong in my life and I've been just way to upset to even bring it up. It's hard to pick up the pieces from shattering events... I believe I am suffering from PTBFPD*.

This latest episode of PTBFPD* was brought on by The Mister. I don't really talk about our marriage here, but with the whole Jon & Kate media frenzy going on right now, I wanted to put this out there first, before he can get a word in edgewise. Because it's totally working for Kate.

Anyway, I just wanted to assure you that The Mister's actions have not yet risen to the level of DEAL-BREAKER, but there most certainly is something going on, and being the sort of call-it-as-I-see-it girl I am, I'm going to call it out here.

I am, once again, suffering from Post Traumatic Broken French Press Disorder. Did you miss the first time he broke my French Press? You probably did, most of you weren't around then.

But now it's happened again. And don't tell me that because the length of time in between breakages was SO LONG that both breakages were accidental. Because I see a pattern here. He broke it. And then he broke it again.

He's jealous. I just know it.

Men, really, if your wife had a boyfriend, wouldn't you smash him to bits? Don't deny it, well, unless you don't like your wife, or if you were the one who set them up.

That is just what he's doing. He's trying to keep us apart. He thinks... well, to be honest, I don't know what he thinks. Because let me tell you, Mister The Mister, I will just go and BUY ANOTHER BOYFRIEND. That's what I'll do. And I'll buy another and another... Go ahead, keep smashing them, just try to keep us apart. It will never work. NEVER!!!

That being said, it's costing you about $15 every time you put a hit on my boyfriend. So maybe you could find another way to keep us apart. I'd supply you with a list of suggestions, but, well, I'm not going to do that. You're clever, you can figure it out on your own.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I really do appreciate the compost-taking-out that you did last night, but that was the leftover SCRUMPTIOUS BIRTHDAY SALAD that I was going to eat until my farts smelled of ginger and cilantro I was tired of it. I'm really working on not being a petty pissant graciousness and forgiveness, so I'm only going to dutch oven you once or fifteen times every night for the rest of the week going to just let this one go.

*Post Traumatic Broken French Press Disorder

it's my birthday so you had all better show up with some good cake. presents are good, too.

Today I am 32.

I will cuddle in bed with my boys and nurse my littlest one 9,325 times, or all day, whichever comes first.  I will probably wash my face, most definitely put my contacts on my eyeballs, wake up my daughter and get her ready for school.  I will watch the boys not eat breakfast yet again, and I will drink coffee until I feel like stopping.

I will eat lunch with friends and we will squee over pregnant bellies and watch our short people run around my back yard and throw sand at each other.  I will yell at any person, short or tall, who walks on my vegetable garden.

I will nap with my boys, and if the weather cooperates, we will take a walk to the school to fetch my girl at the end of the school day.  And we will eat popscicles and go to the playground.

We will eat dinner with my mother and The Mister's parents, maybe his brother... homemade pasta and sauce, salad, and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.  And maybe, just maybe, there will be presents.

We will put the short people to bed, and maybe they will stay there.

***********

The first blog I ever read was written by Catherine Newman, an author from New England. She blogged at BabyCenter, and then at Wondertime, and now you can find her here.  I loved her blog so much, The Mister bought me a copy of her book Waiting for Birdy for Christmas or our anniversary, or because it was Tuesday or something.

All that to tell you that the SECOND blog I ever read was Breed 'Em And Weep.   And there is no other bit of writing I look forward to more, other than the 10 day forecast on The Weather Channel, but that's for an entirely different reason.  Jenn Mattern is an amazing writer, and I just can't even tell you how much amazing she has going on because she is just that awesome.

She's been having a wicked time of things lately, mothering her beautiful daughters while battling the polar bear disease and unemployment and dealing with an enormous loss... and her roof sucks.

Anyway.  See all those ads I have rocking over there?  On the right?  And at the bottom of the page?  And at the ends of posts?  Give 'em a little click.  We'll call it Operation Sucky Roofs Suck.  I will send all of my ad money for the first half of the year to Jenn.  That sounds really exciting, but anybody with ads knows that is not huge.  So, to up the ante a little, I will PayPal Jenn one dollar for every comment you leave between now and Friday (05/15, at 11:59 p.m.), up to $125, because that is what we can afford this month.  And she can put it toward her roof fund. 

Because it's MY birthday, and I get to do what I want, that's why.  

So if you are checking me out in a reader, click through and then click an ad or two, and be sure to leave a comment!

(I should mention that I am totally stealing this idea from Ree at The Hotfessional.  It was her birthday last week, and she's donating her ad money, too.)

notice to my brothers: gratuitous use of the word vagina.

It's well after nine o'clock.  

The baby has been firmly attached to the creamery all. day. long.   And he is finally taking a nap asleep for the night (think positive, Pamela...).

And by asleep for the night I mean I will awaken only momentarily a maximum of three times between now and 6:30 (when the big boys jump on my head) to roll over and suckle mah babeh. Moving on.

Today I have eaten like a moron. Three cups of coffee for breakfast. Two cookies at 11:00. A box of Kraft SuperExtraStupidFatty Creamy Macaroni and Cheese. Also one large handful of baby carrots, but those don't even matter because by this point there's just no use. There was some snacking that happened, but to be honest, I have no idea what I ate. I did make a healthy dinner: homemade refried beans (from dry beans, too!) and guacamole (also from scratch). Some people had burritos, the rest of us ate it with blue corn tortilla chips. And half of a store-bought marble cake with white frosting and hot pink flowers moving on. That's right, people, moving on, there's nothing to see here except a bunch of crumbs on the keyboard and a smudge of hot pink frosting on the corner of my mouth.

Also, because my life is totally lacking in the Excitement and Special Effects Department, I had an ultrasound today. Pick your slack jaws up off the floor, NO I AM NOT PREGNANT ALREADY AND BANISH THE THOUGHT WHILE YOU'RE AT IT. There has been some really very terrible cramping. Please recall that I did have a baby six weeks ago, and I still remember the really very terrible pains from that event, and notice I am using the verysame vocabulary to describe both events. I'm doing that on purpose. Mah Midwife thinks I may have some intrauterine stowaways, and so I had to have an ultrasound. And no, I haven't heard what, if anything, is in there, but I'll keep you posted if it's something that is related to Excitement and Special Effects.

So I had an ultrasound.

And then I had a transvaginal ultrasound. Which should be more appropriately titled, The Here, Sweetcakes, Let Me Stick My Enormous Picture Wand Up Your Hoo-Ha So I Can Get A Better Look At Your Ovaries.

Except I had to *ahem* place the picture wand for her. Also? The technician said Beautiful as she watched me do it.

Say it with me people: AWKWARD!

There has been a lot of transvaginal viewing by members of the local hospital staff, but none of them, to their credit, called my vagina beautiful. And yes, while I'm at it, I might just write them a thank you letter for not openly ogling my Special Parts. As we tell the children, Your private parts are special for you. They're not special for everybody.

Seriously, I'm sure my vagina's just as much of a looker as anybody else's. I am not a vaginal expert, and I haven't done any research, or spent a lot any time looking at p0rn lately ever, but complimenting it? Really? That's a bit much.

I suppose I could have misunderstood her. Maybe she was just admiring my uterus.

emailing it in friday: to wrh

dear wrh,
you should totally take those awards if you want them.
and best of all?
i'm completely PLOWED right now.
jon made me a bourbon and coke that might make me grow chest hair if it doesn't kill me. not KILL ME, kill me, just, well, whatever. i'M about drunk. and it's fun. I tell you What, though, that guy had better not be trying to violate The six Weeks Of No Sex. Because then I'll be mad at him.
Anyway.
I need to go finish mah bourbons like a good girl.
xo
pd

telling my story

I'm not really here today.  

I have shared my story with Maggie (and the rest of the world) over at Violence Unsilenced.  It is a story that I have only shared with two people in my life.  I am telling about my experience because I know there are other people living the same thing, and others who are not living it any more.

And that is not okay.

Domestic violence happens to one in four women in this country.  And that statistic is based only on the  number of instances that are reported.  Those are only the ones we know about.

It is likely that someone you know and love is being hurt.  Please, say something when you see a bruise.  Ask the uncomfortable questions when your gut is clenched and telling you things are amiss.  She might be waiting for someone to show her the way.

*********
Just a note:  I'm sure there are some of you in my everyday life who are wondering why I haven't mentioned this to you before.  One reason is that it's not really something that comes up over coffee on an average Friday morning, but really, I just don't want to talk about it.  And that is my decision.  Please do not presume it has anything to do with you, because it doesn't.  

do you know me?

I know who I am, really I do, wife, mama, friend, antagonist, protagonist, teaser, instigator, cat-kicker, chef, baker, washer of clothes, doer of yard work...

I just don't always GET me.  

I'm not sure why exactly, and I don't really know how to comprehend me any better.  

I do a lot of things that I don't ever blog about.  Things that unless you know me in real life, outside of West Blogoslovakifornia, you will never know about.  Not because I especially care who knows what it is I do on a daily basis, but because I just don't see myself writing, And today I made dinner for K, and coordinated this and that... That's not why you come here.  And it's not what I want to write about.  

Except here I am, not really writing about it.

I have been taking a break from most of those extracurriculars lately, you know, the whole new baby thing and whatnot.  It's sort of hard, to be honest, because I  love to help people.  I thrive on being useful.  I'm the master, or mistress, of fitting just one more thing into my day with fluidity, never missing a beat.

High functioner.

That's what my therapist calls me, or at least he used to, when I was seeing him.  A highly sensitive, high functioning person.  I wasn't paying him money to tell me that exact bit of information; I know I am those things.  I was paying him to help me sort through quite a bit of other baggage I had acquired since birth.  But that is a whole 'nother post for a whole 'nother day.  Or not.

The Mister tells me all the time how wonderful I am, how much people appreciate me, how I make a difference in the lives of other people.  And while I know that I do all of the things I do, I can never really understand why that makes me different from other people.  Maybe that's a good thing.

I'm just living my life.  I'm not trying to be important to people, I'm not trying to earn their appreciation, I'm glad they enjoyed dinner, really I am, but seriously.  What's the big deal?  Does nobody else do anything nice for people?  Does the average person not hear the tired in a friend's voice?  Or do they hear the tired and not think about something they could do to help?

Where is this coming from?  Do you want to know?  Great.  I will tell you.  You had to imagine I would.  Someone tweeted about The Sling and Swaddle Journey, hosted by Hotslings and the people at The Miracle Blanket.  These companies are looking for 30 moms to try their product for 30 days (the month of June) and tweet and blog about their experiences.  NATURALLY I am applying for this, because I LOVELOVELOVE my Hotsling, and would love to have a new one, because really, people, you can't have enough of those things.  (I'd pick a fancy one, for the record, because I already have the basic black and basic brown cotton ones.)

Anyway.  The Selling Yourself To The Company Questions.
What one thing makes you a must-have to be one of our 30 moms?

Why will people want to follow you on Twitter?

List three adjectives that best describe you.
What is the most unique characteristic about you?

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH.

I don't know.  What makes me a must-have?  Why do people follow me on Twitter?  Why are you people here?  Adjectives?  I know what they are, but seriously, I'M supposed to come up with adjectives for MYSELF?
 
My most unique characteristic is that I need to have my dose upped in order to answer these questions without hurting my brain.  Somehow I don't think CRAZY is the adjective they are looking for.

Can you tell I haven't applied for a job in a really long time?  Oh my WORD, people.  This shouldn't be this hard.

Ummm, hi, I'm Pamela.  Sometimes I'm funny on my blog.  Sometimes I mock people who work in the political arena, sometimes I make fun of me.  Sometimes I post pictures of my short people looking totally nutso.  I forgot to pay the company that picks up my trash last month, and now my dumpster is full, and today was garbage day.  Honestly, I have no idea how I got here or what is going on, and my husband is doing the dishes right now while I sort my crap out here on the interwebs, but you should TOTALLY PICK ME!!!  I'M AWESOME!!!  I LOVE WEARING MAH BABEHS!!!  

I have nine days to figure this out.

ink sucker

Have your children hijacked your printer?
Do you spend more on ink than groceries?
If so, you have a problem, my friend.
Check out this supersweet contest over at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

But totally don't enter, because I want to be the big WINNAH!!!!

Oh, all right.  Go ahead and enter.  It'll just make it all the more spectacular if I win.  You know, the whole, against all odds thing.

it's a monday

Wee Man and HB were fighting over the little plastic strip you peel off a frozen juice concentrate container. Shrieking. Howling. Punching. Over a piece of trash. In some people's houses, I'm sure it's a piece of recycling, but it's a Monday, and it's going in the trash.

There are tiny little men inside my skull Riverdancing on my right frontal lobe. I want them to go away. It is Monday.

HB is plugging the words Mama, Mommy, and Mom at the beginning and end of everything he says to me. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, he puts one at both the beginning and the end of each sentence. It is really a Monday.

I made some coffee. The beans we get from Equal Exchange come in a two pound bag (five in a case, $60, super deal). We're about a pound down in this bag, and as I held it in my left hand, scooping with my right because I'm terribly right-handed-only, the bag started to slip... Hello, Monday.

The boys and I hit the grocery store last night because we were out of cereal, and if we hadn't gone I'd be writing about NOTHING FOR BREAKFAST, and IT'S A MONDAY. But we did go, and for some odd reason, a ginormous lemon meringue pie found its way into my cart. It was some seriously yummy pie. But today, I can't find the other half of the pie. It has disappeared.

Freaking Monday.

The barfing flu has kicked Miss O in the shins. Well, belly. And head. We need to bust out the carpet cleaner. Damn flu. Stinky Monday.

I'm going to go drink coffee with heavy cream and fancy French bourbon sugar in my bathrobe.

For the rest of the day.

rewind. take two. let's try that again.

Me: whineblahblahblah haven't been on a date in a year blahblahblah sick kid blahblahblah The Mister is on the couch blahblahblah whine

My Mother: Sometimes it was longer than that before your father and I went on a date.

Me: Well look how well that turned out.


Hear that sound? That's the lead balloon, hitting the concrete.

fluff friday

Do you like how I make stuff up?  Like this whole Fluff Friday Thing?  I am awesome.  And that is why I am delivering you a healthy dose of blog awards and, everybody's favorite... THE MEME!!!!!  And because I am That Flavour of Awesome, I have the same meme for you TWO TIMES!  I am sure all of you at home watching are actually standing and applauding and cheering your little...

Who am I kidding?

Nobody cheers for memes.

Especially when there's two of the same one on the same blog.

Alas, it seems I suck.

Here's something that does not suck: Fancy French Bourbon Flavoured Sugar. In mah coffee. With heavy cream and not half and half. Have I ever mentioned that my MIL is good like that? Another flavour of good: going to a stupid meeting and coming home to FREE BABYSITTING!!! (knew about that before I left) and CLEAN AND FOLDED LAUNDRY!!!

I have been trying to NOT mention this, but the short people have been barfing and pooping ever-whar for a week now, thereby generating about eight loads a day. Needless to say, I have been a little swamped with the laundry.

I even put most of it away, IN DRAWERS, last night.

But this post is not about The Barf and The Laundry.

Before I get to the real point of things, though, I just wanted to say that today is the first time I've seen one of my posts on the BlogHer Ads list of posts over there on the right. It's Wednesday's post called 'bloom' and I'm not linking to myself today. But it just plain tickles me to see it there. Oh stop laughing at me. It's been a long week.

First up: THE ZOMBIE CHICKEN AWARD.


The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the Zombie Chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.  These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie cihckens just to be able to read their inspiring words.  As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers.  Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all.

My five choices?  Five lovely ladies (smell them in the air) who would appreciate a good zombie award.
ChurchPunkMom from Embellished Truth and Polite Fiction
Jen from Blissfully Caffeinated
Jenbo from SteenkyBee
Jenny the Bloggess 
The Stiletto Mom (because she's all recovering and stuff, and needs something new to think about)

I got the Bella Award from Jess over at This Life Is Mine.  This is Jess.  Hi, Jess!  I stole this picture from her blog because I'm assuming (you know what they say about assuming, right?  it makes an ASS of U and ME?) that she'd be cool with it... 

She's so sad-looking because it took me like ninetyeleven years to post this, and she was thinking I didn't appreciate it, or that I didn't like her... or maybe she's hung over.  Who knows.  Anyway, Thanks, Jess.  The Award is for bloggers you have just discovered and really enjoy reading.  I haven't even been able to keep up with the blogs I usually read, so I'm not going to pass it on right now.  But if you have recently found a blog that you enjoy, please feel free to pass the award on.  

Anyway, to show you that non-recognition of recognition is par for the course, I offer you Exhibit A:  The Superwoman Award.



This is from my knocked-up, already-married-but-having-the-party-in-four-weeks pal Danae from Beauty In Distress.   She's lovely, and she has morning sickness, so you should stop by and tell her nice things about being pregnant.  Do NOT even go over there and tell her about being completely lame (unable to walk lame, not pathetic) for the last two months of pregnancy, or about how you were in active labour for three weeks before they stuck a massive pair of tongs up your bajingo to yank that monkey out, because I will personally come over and kick you in the teeth.  Because I'm not pregnant any more, and I can totally kick that high.  Also, I hear kickboxing is a great workout, and I need to lose that last five pounds of baby skin weight.

Exhibit B:  The Good Buddy Award, from a highly esteemed blogging colleague who will remain nameless because I'm a colossal ass and saved the jpg to my little folder and wasn't clever enough to bookmark or otherwise record the person who loves me so much.



I always wanted to be a great buddy.  Maybe I'm not... maybe you should take your award back.

Exhibit C:  Sardine Mama from Sardines in a Can gave me this award, in March.  (See, Jess?  I'm just a slacker.)  And this is what she said about me: Pamela over at the Dayton Time deserves an award because she just popped out a baby. And she is funny. She has guest bloggers this month at her popular site while she recuperates and is waited on hand and foot and stuff. Anyway, Pamela just makes me laugh. I like laughing. So I like Pamela.  Awww, shucks.  Thanks, Mama!  I like you, too!



I got this award from Ree at The Hotfessional (this week) and also ChurchPunkMom from Embellished Truth and Polite Fiction (oh I don't know, maybe two, three months ago?)  



Here are the rules for the award:  List 7 things you love (or six things that make you happy, or pick your own set of rules...) and pass the award along to seven friends whose blogs you love.

1. I love my family.
2. I love Jesus.
3. I love my house.
4. I love my French Press.
5. I love my camera.
6. I love cake.  (And Cake's pretty good, too.)
7. I love my garden.

The seven friends whose blogs I love:

1. The Mister.  Duh.
2. Jill at The Daniels Five.  Because I miss that girl, I tell you!
3. The Well-Read Hostess
4. Joce at Tillaboro Orchard
5. Styro at Speaking in CAPS (Jim's new to Blogistanifornia, and just celebrated his one month birthday.  Kind of like Elliott, but hopefully Jim uses the big boy potty.  Check him out.)
6. Jen from Coconut Belly because she and I think alike.  So if you like me?  You'll like Jen.  Also, I want to say that it's hard to type three L's all in a row.
7. Sardine Mama from Sardines in a Can