The Mentalist

I was perusing the newly released DVDs when I felt a pair of eyes on me -staring. Not wishing to be rude, I flipped around to the endcap and shuffled down the next aisle.

"Hello!" said the staring stranger as he managed to block an entire Walmart aisle with his 5 foot frame. He smiled warmly at me from under a barrage af misplaced tattoos, piercings and rebel flag gear.
Not wanting to be rude --- or hacked into a zillion pieces in the Media section , I chirped "Hi!" back, smiled a big fake smile and then walked briskly back to my menfolk.

When the Harrys and I finally left I remarked I was relieved and told him about the guy who was staring at me.

"Oh," he said. "What, was he like old or something? Mental?"

I paused in the act of strapping in our wiggly 11 month old and met Big Harry's eyes in the rearview.

"So, lemmie get this straight. You think that the only reason a guy would stare at me is if he was senile or crazy." I tried to keep a straight face. "NOT that he thought I was cute or anything? Dick!"

"No, I, no!" my husband sputtered as he put the car in gear and avoided my gaze. "You said he- you made it sound - see? THIS is why people think I'm an ass! Don't post this on Facebook!"

"I won't," I assured him. "Dick."

Winkies, Pinkies and Ding Dongs

Why do parents insist on naming their child's man bits things that are bound to scar them for life?

I know grown men who still blush at the word "penis" and balk at the word "vagina."

I blame the baby boomers.

THEIR parents just didn't talk about body parts. Such things weren't discussed but baby Boomers? They were Bound and determined to be more open.

Mostly.

So "willy" and "johnson" and "peepee" and "dinky" were so christened.

My mother followed this crooked path as well. I was in my twenties before I could pronounce the name of the female and male sex organs without dissolving into ugly fits of girlish laughter.

But I still can't look anyone named "Lucy" straight in the eye.

;)

Cherry-poppin' McD's

Tonight I decided to partake in a little fast food "food." since nutritional value was not a concern my first instinct was for a nice frothy, simple milkshake from McDonald's.
I wanted that sweet, cold, sinful beverage to carry me through the remainder of the night as I catered to the every whim and demand of my increasingly violent 11 month old. (He totally gave Daddy a fatlip yesterday. Awwwwwesome!).
But when the man/woman/Overly-made-up worker handed me a plastic cup - I was a little taken back.
And then I spied it.
A cherry.
On my vanilla milkshake.
Infiltrating it.
Oozing into it.
So I steered with one hand, pulled over into a space and flicked the offensive and intrusive semi-fruit into the parking lot.
I was not pleased and was tempted to go back and ask them for another, minus the fruufruu.
Instead I took a massive gulp, closed my eyes - and gagged. The shake tasted like it was made with refrozen ice cream and vomit.
Yay.
So I flipped the rest of the "treat" out the window.
Nah. Not really.
But I shoulda!!!!

Behind Door #1

Tonight I pushed open my car door, felt it resist, cursed at it for being "broken," and shoved it as hard as I could.
"AAAAAGH!" I heard someone yell and saw my Husband flying across the driveway.
"Oh! I thought you were getting in the back!" I said.
"No," he said, rubbing his stomach where the car door had slammed into him, " I was coming to help you!"
"Oh. And I - I - HIT YOU WITH THE DOOR!" I screamed with laughter as he took the child from me, shook his head and walked away.
"I HIT YOU WITH THE DOOOOOOOR!" I laughed even harder. "THE DOOR!" ;)

Princess and the Pee

Before I had a child, I was completely self-obsessed. And really happy about it.

I slept when I want.

I ate when I want.

I went to the bathroom when I so pleased.

And I was content.

Then I had a baby.

And here was this little screaming monster/angel (depending upon his mood) who needed me to make sure he could eat when he wanted, poop when he wanted and sleep when he wanted.

And I oblige.

But tonight I was hoping for a miracle. I was praying for an easy bottle/cuddle/bed and off he would go into Dreamland. So, to say I was not paying attention when I was changing his diaper would be a gross understatement. Anyone who has ever faced the infant penis knows this - approach with caution - it's loaded. But I, in my stupor and lack of sleep, forgot.

So I lowered the diaper and - was super soaked.

He grabbed the new diaper from me and started giggling hysterical while twisting like a curly fry on an Arby's platter - and just as warm and greasy as one too!

And that, my dear friends, is how this Princess met her Pee.

Look for the next installment in this series: Whiney the Pooh, out soon!

No Pain, No Gain, No Sleep

Baby Harry is nine months old and, until recently, was doing a spot-on job of sleeping through the night. Then he got sick. Like "hey I could probably fry an egg on you if I wanna!" sick.
It was the worst two weeks of my life.
So, obviously, I met his every whim and need on command. If he was hungry even after eating his large lunch, I fed him. If he didn't want to sleep until midnight and could only find comfort by lying on his back, arched over my shoulder like a mink stole, I accomodated. If he felt like climbing my shirt front, ripping off whatever breast-like mass that happened to be in his way, and leaving a goo of baby nose slime in his wake - he did it.
And I showered more.
When he let me.
So now that he's pink and perky and back to a less fiery temperature - I seem to have nurtured the sickness - and the brattiness- out of him.
He sobs if I remove a found toy from his hands - no matter that his new "toy" is usually something that could choke/scar/maim him. He now imitates a banshee on crack if I so much as venture more than 12" from his person - making "quiet time" for momma a near impossibility. And, finally, he refuses to sleep alone.
His Pottery Barn crib with colorful sheets and bumpers?
A torture chamber.
The Twilght Turtle projecting the night sky upon the ceiling?
His jailer.
And me?
I am his Pardoner.
Only I can save him from his cruel cold prison. And so he howls, he shrieks, he yells, he shakes, he grunts, he coughs, he sputters and he pleads: "MOMMOMMAMMMOMMAAAMOMMAMMMOOOMMMA!"
And what do I do?
I escape. I hide. I cry. I --- blog.

Giving Up

As the year 2011 approaches I realize that my life has been less about what I wanted and more about what others have wanted from me.

I am a born people-pleaser.

I may be able to craft a story, type quite a few words a minute (not well, but still!) and I can make the best of most any situation - but I've often felt I was one of those people born to make others shine that much more brightly.

My sister was the brain (even though her grades didn't show it) and she was the beauty (her trophies did show that) and I was - the other one. I often referred to myself as the Danny DeVito of "Twins" - that my sis sucked up the gene pool so that only the leftover crap and sludge caught in the filter was what constructed my DNA.

I lacklusterly finished college with a BA in Criminal Justice - a degree so useless that it is often mentioned first in 2am infomercials to the weak-willed and weaker-minded. Fresh out of college I reached far in my pursuit of Career Advancement - and started work as a Receptionist. At a second-rate law firm. A place that was lovingly nicknamed "Hell" whilst I sat in the lobby and let my brain rot on Harry Potter fan fiction and my butt expand on the consumption of poorly placed Hershey's miniatures.

But things have changed.

And although I am still a people pleaser - I find that my ability to please only one, tiny, demanding person, at a time is --- enjoyable.

So although I may not be a world famous authoress as I once intended - I'm happy now to just be Baby Harry's mom - a fact that should embarrass my semi-feminist bod to the core - but I find it's actually soothing.

I'm not giving up my life for him - I'm just --- giving.

Then again, I could wake up tomorrow in a blind panic and find myself in two years' time, at 3 am on one of those infomercials saying "I'm a Phoenix!"

Merry Christmas Cyberland!