A boob in hand is better than two in the bush

I am not entirely sure what this title means, but just typing it made me laugh. Joy -- there is joy in that there title.

When I had my C-section, I made some lame joke about giving me a tummy tuck while they had me sliced open. They didn't even humor me with a polite chuckle, which would have been the least they could have done after 14 hours of labor and an unsuccessful epidural, but I digress.


It turns out that such a procedure does in fact exist! I was researching the C-tuck procedure out of curiosity when I came across this freaky little logo for Bermant Plastic Surgery (whose website name is also odd, www.plasticsurgery4u.com/).



While I appreciate artistic license, it has no place in plastic surgery. And what is that weird little point on the right side? Is that a beak?

This is not what I want to see when they remove my bandages:

We once chose an artsy body shop to fix our car after a fender bender. I won't make the same mistake when it comes to going under the knife.

Hillary Explained

Hillary is now finding herself the subject of a media brouhaha. Apparently Hillary recounted her terrifying trip to Tuzla Bosnia at which time her life was threatened by sniper fire.

The media has interpreted footage of this trip and made an uninformed determination that Hillary was exaggerating her claims that her life was in danger when she stated:

"There was no greeting ceremony and we basically were told to run to our cars"

If you think Hillary was overstating the perilous conditions of her Bosnian visit, then you clearly were not there. She was not greeted by school children, but by a member of the Compact Bosnian Terrorists Organization (CBTO).

This photo chills me to my very core.

It is apparent that the same misogynistic media, which does not believe that a woman can be president, also does not believe that a woman (albeit a tiny woman) could be a sniper.

Chauvinist pigs.

You can see more details regarding Hillary’s harrowing tale here.

Disastrous cropping

This has to be one of the best photos I have ever taken of Max. Admittedly, the quality is poor, but it makes me laugh every damn time I see it.

He was only about three months old at the time, but was still able to clearly communicate his displeasure with his parents despite being plugged with his pacifier.

I loved this picture so much that I decided that I needed to have it reproduced in mug form. I eagerly looked forward to sipping a warm beverage as our sweet son gives me the finger.

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I was bitterly disappointed when my mug arrived:

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They cropped his first obscene gesture right out of the photo!!! Now we just have a mug with a poor quality photo. What's worse is the fact that I am undoubtedly too lazy to bother to re-order.

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So, I have moved on. I am contemplating redesigning the mast on Max's blog. This way he can flip off friends and family en mass.

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Max says, "Nuts to you, hippies!"

Clock Watching

I have so much stuff I need to be doing this morning. I am having difficulty concentrating, though (not the first time I have struggled with this topic).

Today is MATCH DAY !!!!

At noon today we will learn with which residency program Matt has matched.

Will we remain in this Midwest Land O' Corn? Will we be returning to our beloved Mountain West?!

THE SUSPENSE IS MADDENING!

So, we know we will be moving, we just don't know where . . . until NOON, that is.

Last night was Christmas Eve for our family. This morning we are sleepy, we are giddy, we want to know where to start shopping for a our very first house!

I really just don't think I can get anything done today.

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- - - - - - - - - - - UPDATE - - - - - - - - - -

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YAY! Matt matched with his first choice! We are headed back to the mountains, BABY!

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Max can learn to ski, and we will have use, once again, of our climbing shoes!!!!

The Changling

It seemed like years ago I placed my order for Girl Scout Cookies. When I learned they had at long last arrived I began daydreaming about that first glorious moment in which I would tear open my box of Samoas . . .




Ahh . . . the texture, the aroma, the crunch . . . the happiness!


But my Samoas never arrived.

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Instead, I had unwittingly purchased a box of Carmel deLites. Since the packaging looked identical, I presumed that the Girl Scouts just changed the product name.

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Sadly, I could not have been more wrong.

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The Carmel deLite (shown above) is, at best, a sad and miserable excuse for a Samoa.

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This goes far beyond a mere name change, this is not the same cookie but an unholy abomination before God and my own taste buds.

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I have done a little digging and it seems that there is a slow and evil encroachment of the Carmel deLite into Samoa territory. Carmel deLites are the carp of the Samoa pond -- an insidious fish of a cookie that is pushing out the more tasty indigenous species.

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This affects all of us, people. Sure, you may be able to purchase the Somoa in your neighborhood today, but next year you may not be so fortunate. Then, instead of a delicious Samoa, you will find a Carmel deLite staring back at you with it's soulless eye.

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First they came for the Thin Mints, and I did not speak out—because I was only lukewarm about the Thin Mints;

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Then they came for the Tagalongs, and I did not speak out—because I think the Tagalongs are kinda gross;

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Then they came for the Do-Si-Dos, and I did not speak out—because, to be frank, I don't know what the hell a Do-Si-Do is anyway;

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Then they came for the Trefoils, and I did not speak out—because, honestly, who orders Trefoils? Really?

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Then they came for the SAMOAS . . .

Suprise filling

I love the Cadbury Mini Eggs. I really do. It's just that I wish they didn't look quite so authentic.









Specifically, the white speckled ones that look remarkably like sparrow eggs.

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Years ago when my dad gently placed in my hand a white egg with chocolate colored speckles, I should have thought, "what a lovely little sparrow egg, I wonder where this came from?" What I actually thought was "Yum, a mini egg! I love these things."

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I will never forget that terrible crunch and the nauseous moment of realization that Cadbury Mini Eggs do not have runny, slimy cream filling.

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That was about ten years ago; I still gag a little every time I think about it.

Perhaps not age appropriate

There are so many incredible toys I would love to buy Max. Somehow I have managed to use some parental discretion on the following items:

and my favorites, in traditional University of Wyoming school colors . . .

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For now I am determined not to impose my own weirdness on our kid. When he is old enough, he can decide for himself if weirdness is right for him.

No one likes optimists anyway

Five words:

I . . MUST . . HAVE . . THIS . . MUG

This fantastic product is available at Despair, Inc. :-(.

Enjoy your Friday, people, if you can. Try not to dwell on the fact that Monday is looming just three days away.

Bum Fodder

Around our house we have frequent disputes regarding toilet paper.

I like to buy toilet paper that is soft and gentle; Matt likes to buy toilet paper that says that it is soft and gentle.

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There are two universal truths when it comes to bathroom tissue. First, buying toilet paper is no time to be budget conscious. Second, the more a toilet paper brand claims to be soft, the more freakishly abrasive it is.

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A toilet paper which sells for 97¢ and is called something like "Fluffy Soft & Dainty" is probably made out of leftover copies of the Weekly World News mixed in with glass shards.

The ONLY toilet paper I want near my tookus is Charmin Bathroom Tissue Plus Lotion with Aloe.

You will note the absence of a single adjectives. Adjectives are to be avoided as if your tender little pucker depends upon it -- because it does.

My point in a nutshell:

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(I tried so hard to make my little roll of TP look evil and menacing, despite my best efforts he ended up looking inexplicably cute-ish)

Obama explained

There has been a bit of a media stir after this photo of Barack Obama was produced to the Drudge Report by the Clinton Campaign.

Any speculation that this photo is evidence that Obama is some sort of terrorist is just ridiculous.

This photo obviously shows him enjoying the popular bridal shower game Toilet Paper Bride.

What fun!

Picky eater

I was starving, I didn't have time leave the office to grab lunch. My Doritos got caught in the vending machine and repeated kicking and punching would not dislodge my would-be-high-sodium-lunch. That left me with the snack of last resort: carrot cake.

Why do bakers find it fit to put vegetables inside of a desert? Carrot cake makes about as much sense as mixing broccoli into chocolate cupcakes. I am also not a fan of the raisin, which I regard as the chewy ruiner of otherwise yummy oatmeal cookies.

By the time I navigated the carrot and raisin landmines, and ate the morsels of iffy cake in-between, this was the the carnage left behind:

I am beginning to understand why people don't take me in public to eat anymore. You should see what I do to a supreme pizza.

So . . . very . . . tired

We are a sleepy bunch in our household. I keep reassuring myself that sometime between now and Max's high school graduation (Class of 2025!!), he will sleep through the night.

When Max started teething, he got up so often at night, that we said "good parenting be damned" and moved him right into bed with us. At present his crib is serving as a laundry folding station. Now Matt and I are trying to figure the best way to get Max back out of our bed. Our prolonged sleeplessness has resulted in virtual zombification.

Not only are we painfully aware of every sneeze, gurgle, and kick, Max wakes up in the middle of the night and early morning and delights in messing with us. He has awakened Matt more than once with the old slap and chuckle, which is consistently comprised of the following three elements:

1. A single SMACK! square on the face
2. Parental response,"What the . . . ???"
3. Giggling

As for me, I am still dealing with the trauma of awakening to find my nose being probed and explored by tiny-nostril-diameter-fingers. Most recently I woke up at 5:30 a.m. when Max was trying to cram his pacifier into my mouth.

My point is we need to figure out a better method, because every creature in this house is pooped.

Even Mae can no longer deal the prospect of facing another early morning without her hefty dose of caffeine.

(That's a grande, double shot, bassetchino)

Feeling mighty catty today

Have you had a chance to see the much-ballyhooed photos of the nekked Lindsay Lohan?

Here she is posing as a be-speckled Marylin Monroe atop tousled linens.

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Here's my problem with the photo -- the placement of the bedsheets. Perhaps they were arranged in such a manner to preserve Ms. Lohan's modesty (demurely concealing the rumored firecrotch). But after seeing this picture, my mind immediately set to work filling in the missing information obscured by the sheets.

The result is unflattering, to say the least.

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It is apparent that I have not mastered the manly skill of undressing attractive women with my eyes.

Sorry about all the hearts lately

You will never guess what Max said for the first time this morning!!!

That's right. He said "MAMA."

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So it went down like this:

Me: Good morning Littleman!

Max: Mama.

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BOOYA!

I . . . Am . . . Mama.

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He's been saying "Dad" for months. You wouldn't believe the sense of validation I have now that he has personally addressed me as well.

Question regarding responsible parenting: Is it too soon to get this tattooed on my kid?

Meatloaf has a valid argument

It's tricky coming up with masculine Valentine's day gift ideas. One year I just bought Matt a pair of shoes that he liked, stuffed them full of flowers and called them sporty vases.

This year I thought I was on to something clever, a cookie bouquet! True, it is mushie like a bouquet of posies, but that mushiness is tempered by its high caloric snackiness. This is perfection. What could possibly stop me from making this purchase?!

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The answer to that question is a price tag of $73.98!

What the hell? We're only talking nine cookies here sister! NINE!

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In quoting the great Meatloaf, as I am often wont to do, I would do anything for love . . . but I won't do that.

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(Or suck toes, I won't do that either).

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HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! May your homemade cookies be tasty and affordable.

Seems wrong to put a foot in there . . .

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I wasn't aware that

Georgia O’ Keefe

designed footwear . . .

What a girl wants to hear

Ah . . . it's February again. Time to start making plans for Valentines Day.

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Here's a nifty gift idea: custom candy hearts. How cool would it be to receive these little candies printed with a personal messages just for you?!

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Below I have provided a list of suggested sweet sentiments that my husband might consider having printed on candy hearts for me this year (hint, hint):

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And the message I most want to see on a candy heart . . .

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Behold, the power of the brow

So my sister bought me an eyebrow pencil, which has been useful to me since I have pale hair and my eyebrows tend to wash away into my pale skin (oh, to be Peter Gallagher with his ridiculously discernable eyebrows).

Anyhoo . . . I have amused and delighted myself playing with my new found cosmetic toy! Changing the shape of your brows can completely alter the look of your face. For example, yesterday I drew in some magnificent-high-archers and spent my entire Sunday with my face in a constant state of delightful SURPRISE!!!!

My point is that we tend to take our eyebrows for granted, and underestimate their tremendous power. Just look at what a slight change in brow contour does for the Muppets cast:

Quite a menacing crew, aren't they?

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It looks like they are about to perform the . . .

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. . . most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational, KILLING RITUAL!

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An Open Letter To Shoes.Com

Dear Shoes. Com,

You keep sending me emails indicating that you have taken the liberty of making New Year's resolutions on my behalf.




How can I say this nicely? Back the hell off, Shoes.Com. I can make my own New Year's resolutions, thank you very much.

I won't deny the nobility of your proposed resolutions: love the Earth, stay in style, "in with the New ... Shoe!" As a new parent, however, my priorities have shifted. I have more pressing and more serious matters in my life in need of resolution than your proposed shoe-centric aspirations.

Here's just a sampling the stuff I need to get worked out in my personal life. For 2008, I resolve:

• Not to get pissed on. 2007 was a year fraught with urinary hazards, but I swear on all that is good and beautiful in this world -- I will no longer be a victim of changing-table-pissery, not this year!
• Learn to let go. The mourning period has passed. I can no longer stand wistfully before my closet full of beautiful, tiny clothes and long for what I once had -- clothes that fit. This year I will let go of my skinny jeans and tailored suits. I will learn to embrace the elegant simplicity of the Muumuu.
• Get 8 hours of sleep at night. I am a realist. I know I can't get a full eight hours every night this year. I am aiming at one. O - N- E night of unbroken rests.
• Tone my core. I am not after a six pack this year, but if I could get my navel back to a vaguely-circular shape, I would be satisfied. By the end of 2008, there will be no frowny-face belly button!!!
• Wean or Develop Ninja reflexes. As those sharp little teeth come in, this nursing mother needs to be on top of her game to avoid any more painful encounters with brand new incisors.
• Bathe. For the love of God, BATH! There's nothing clever to be said here. I have to stop sacrificing shower time for sleep. It's getting dangerous. And icky.

What is my point, Shoes.Com? Buying environmentally friendly or stylish shoes are matters I can't begin to tackle for at least the next 18 years or so.

I think what I am getting at here is that I wish to be removed from your mailing list.

Yours resolvedly,

Kerry

How to Raise a Douchebag

I truly did contemplate using a less disparaging title for this post.

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Really.

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However, currently exhausted after sleepless nights with a teething baby, I am grumpy and feeling judgemental. So there you have it.

Seriously though, if you are interested in raising your sweet baby as a full-fledged douchebag, here is my recommended text list for your child's fist year -- these are infant friendly boardbooks, no less.

for your aspiring Ali G

if your baby has moved past his 15 minutes of teething

Gucci Gucci Goo!

a graceful transition from strained winter squash to raw fish

This book didn't seem to fit the douchebag criteria, at first, and then I flipped it over . . .

Your little darling deserves the very best, so feed them more than caviar from that silver spoon. Nurture them with ART! It's never too early to be a Petit Connoisseur.


(Nor is it ever too earlyto cultivate a Petit Douchebag, apparently)

Oh, and let us not forget about this fantastic little nugget . . .