Jenga Town

Let me start off by saying that I think my son is brilliant.



I mean, not many kids would build an entire town out of Jenga blocks.

I tried to explain to him how the game was really played. We had the tower built and everything. We started taking turns pulling out the pieces.

But then...

"Mommy. I don't like this game. Can we build a town?" Tommy asked hopefully.

His attention span is basically non-existant. It's why I don't play a lot of games with Tommy. Because it'll start off fun and then ten minutes later Tommy is off making his own rules. When we attempted to play Monopoly junior he was suddenly driving off down the stairs with his car piece.

"This game is more fun!" he shouted at me as he made "vroom vroom" noises.

When he grew bored with Jenga I wasn't surprised.

I told him he could build his town and was it okay if I finished up the laundry then?

But Tommy was already at work taking apart the tower and putting together little buildings.

By the time I was finished with the laundry he called me back in.

"Shut your eyes!" he instructed me, pulling on my arm.

I obeyed and hoped he wouldn't lead me into the wall as he did the last time he had me close my eyes.

("That was an accident!" Tommy said as my face smashed into the wall.)

When he told me to open my eyes I was met with Jenga Town.

Very cool.

Now, even though I think he's incredibly smart, there are times when my jaw drops open at the things he says.

For instance, he walked into the laundry room the other day and announced with a wrinkle of his nose:

"It smells like asshole in here."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, in his defense, it didn't smell that great.

We also keep the catbox in there. And it was Tom's day to change it.

We alternate the disgusting job. Because the last time we had a cat, I was stuck doing the catbox and when we decided to get Max, I explained to Tom that we would take turns changing the catbox.

I still have to remind him to do it. And when I do he'll sometimes huff and puff about it.

I sometimes wonder if he's losing the ability to smell. Because sometimes it reeks up to high heaven in there and I'm wondering how he doesn't smell it? I know he walks in there to walk out to the garage. Does he hold his breath?

Or seriously, is he losing his ability to smell?

I doubt it.

Because the second Natalie craps in her diaper, he's all, "The baby pooped!"

Because he doesn't "do" poop diapers.

"I'll gag," he explains to me.

"Tom," I'll say. "You'll go out and risk your life for your country. But you're afraid of a little poop?"

Tom will nod sharply. "Yes. I'll GAG," he'll repeat dramatically and then pull his shirt collar up over his nose until I change Natalie's diaper.

Anyhow, I had to admonish Tommy on using the word asshole. Honestly, where does he come up with these things?

As I was pondering this, I heard Tom's voice from the living room. He was playing MarioParty and he claims that the computer players totally cheat.

"You ASSHOLE!" Tom bellowed.

Oh.

Right.

Remind me to have a talk with him.

On Losing Five Pounds

I’ve decided that I’m going to lose five pounds.

Or try to, at least.

The thing is I love food. And I’m sort of allergic to working out. I always intend to go to the gym. I even bought a pink gym bag (for 75% off at Target!). I went to the gym with my new gym bag slung over my shoulder a few weeks ago. I walked in and pretended I knew exactly what I was doing. Never mind that I somehow walked right past the Ellipticals and found myself in the weight room which was filled with grunting and sweaty men.

Ew!

I quickly turned on my heel and tried to make it look like I had meant to do that all along. Of course I did. See, when I work out I have to, erm, stare at some eye candy. Not that I saw any eye candy in the weight room. I just saw a dark haired guy who looked as though he were constipated or something as he lifted the barbell. His face was bright red and he was making the same noises that I made when I gave birth to my children. (Only he didn’t accompany his groans with curse words.)

Anyhow, I did work out on the Elliptical that day. I found a free one in the back and climbed on—and then realized my bag was still draped over my shoulder.

Oops.

So I had to get back down, drop my bag and then get back up.

But then I realized I forgot my water.

It was obvious that I had no idea what I was doing.

After my water was placed in the holder I stared at the array of buttons on the Elliptical. Did I want a quick start? Did I want a hill workout? HILLS? Hills meant more work, right? Of course I didn’t want a HILL workout.

There was also a button labeled cardio and another that said something about fat burn. Didn’t I burn fat with cardio? Or was fat burn really intense?

“I’m confused!” I said out loud. I think I startled the woman beside me. She sort of flicked her eyes over at me and wrinkled her forehead. “Sorry,” I mouthed and then tried to focus on figuring out the buttons.

But it wasn’t easy.

Because there was another area on the machine that said HRZ.

HRZ?

What was that?

Human Response Zoo?

That doesn’t make sense.

Humorous Running Zap?

“You okay?” the woman beside me asked. I guess she was finished with her workout because she was off her Elliptical. She didn’t even look winded. She just calmly took a sip of her water as though she did this every day. Maybe she did. I should probably work out everyday. But life is too short to spend it sweating.

“What is HRZ?” I wondered, pointing to the area.

The woman glanced over to where I was gesturing. “Oh. Heart rate zone. The machine follows your heart rate. If it gets too high it’ll warn you. So you don’t die or something.” She gave a laugh as though she could never fathom something like that happening.

But she doesn’t know me.

She doesn’t know how much my body hates exercise. And who knows, my heart could be bitchy one day and be all, “That’s it. I don’t feel like working out. So I’m going to stop pumping. Kthxbai!”

I ended up just going with the Cardio setting. For twenty minutes. I mean, eventually I should work up to a half hour. Or maybe even an hour. But I knew I had to start off small.

And it’s a good thing I did because I felt like I was dying four minutes in. My legs were burning, my breath was coming out in long gasps and sweat was beginning to drip down my forehead. Gross.

I always wonder how women can look so composed when they work out. Do they take some sort of No Sweat medicine that I’m not aware of? And why aren’t their faces as red as a cherry?

There was a woman on an Elliptical who was diagonal from me and she had an iPod Touch. I want an iPod Touch. She was apparently watching a program on it. I figured out it was Lost when I saw Jack strutting around in his Dharma Initiative uniform.

Jack! Lost! I love that show.

So I started to focus on that and I was able to block out the burning sensations.

Sort of.

I still felt them of course. But it helped when I was distracted.

I had even seen the episode before but I didn’t care.

But then the woman turned it off because she was finished with her workout.

What?

I nearly went, “HEY!”

But I swallowed it back just in time.

I’m gonna die....I’m gonna die.... I kept chanting to myself. I almost willed my heart to start going at an unhealthy rate so I had an excuse to get off.

“Oh. Yes. I had to stop early because of my poor heart,” I’d explain to Tom.

But my heart was fine.

When I had two minutes left I swore that the Time Gods were totally out to get me. Surely they had to be slowing time down?

I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!

But then....the machine beeped, telling me I was done.

My legs felt like jelly so I nearly fell to the ground. I didn’t see any other women struggle to get off. They just easily did it and then strolled out of the gym.

Me? I sort of wobbled out of the gym. I dragged my pink bag behind me. When I got home I shuffled inside and collapsed on the couch.

“Gym....evil...” I managed to spit out.

Because it is.

I’m also trying to watch what I eat. See, I’m sort of addicted to Little Debbie snacks. The Swiss Rolls are my favorites. But they aren’t healthy. So instead of buying a new box like I usually do whenever I’m at the grocery store, I got some apples.

I sort of went through Swiss Roll withdrawals. Tom, who also loves Swiss Rolls, actually went out and bought another box.

“You forgot to pick up more of these,” he said, shaking the box in my direction.

Swiss Rolls! I’ve missed you!

Before I knew what was happening I was ripping the box open.

But then I remembered that I was trying to lose weight. So back in the box they went and I pulled out an apple.

I figured I could pretend that the apple was as good as the Swiss Roll. But my imagination isn’t that powerful.

And then Tom went and ate a Swiss Roll in front of me.

“You ass!” I screeched at him. I was tempted to hurl the apple at his thick head.

I’m at the point where if I have to look at one more flipping apple that I may scream.

When we ordered pizza the other day I got it with the wheat crust because I know it’s better than the regular one.

But it tasted like cardboard with tomato sauce.

Even Tommy went, “What’s wrong with this pizza? Why is it brown looking?”

I just want regular food!

I want my Swiss Rolls!

I want cheesecake!

I was at Wal-Mart and I was practically salivating at a box of Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake. My fingers reached out to grab it but then Tom said,

“Aren’t you trying to lose weight?”

“No. I’m not! I’m done with that! To hell with losing weight!” I shrieked and went to get the box.

Mmmmm, Sara Lee cheesecake. I actually had the box in my hands. I stared at the beautiful picture on the front and imagined myself eating it….

But then I pictured myself in a swimsuit. And I pictured people pointing and laughing. So I put it back. Reluctantly.

This is hard. I wish Jillian Michaels from The Biggest Loser could come and help me out.

She’d probably faint over the stuff in my cupboards.

“What are these?” she’d yell, waving a box of Little Debbie brownies around. “And these?” she’d continue, holding up some Oatmeal Cream Pies.

“Hey!” I’d retort. “It’s oatmeal. So that makes it healthy.”

Then she’d make me drop and give her twenty and remind me that she won’t tolerate any bullshit.

She’d end up scaring me and making me cry.

So never mind on the Jillian thing.

Natalie! She's Just Like Us!

So how do you like my new blog look?

It got a much needed makeover.

Seriously, before it was green and...well...green.

I admit it, I'm HTML stupid. I mean, it took me about twenty minutes to figure out how to get the Feedburner thing to work. I think I even cried about it.

I always knew I wanted a pretty blog. I'd stop by other blogs and give a sigh and long to have a blog that wasn't so danged green. Not that there is anything wrong with the color green. I mean, the color green saves you from being pinched on St. Patrick's Day for goodness sakes!

But I just wanted more.

And so I stumbled across the Ruby and Roja design blog and I instantly fell in love with their work. I quickly signed up to get a blog makeover and a few weeks later a lovely woman named Sarah e-mailed me.

She's the one did my blog. And she's so incredibly patient! I admit, I would say things like, "Hrm. Not sure about the dots, can you show me other backgrounds?"

And she would do it without telling me to go suck on an egg, that the dot background is what I'm going to get and I'd better like it.

So I highly recommend Ruby and Roja! Their link is here. If you ever want your blog to look pretty, go to them! You won't be sorry.

Nothing much is going on so I think I'll do a Natalie! She's Just Like Us! entry.

It basically makes fun of how the magazine US Weekly will show celebrities doing things like picking up their laundry or *gasp* eating hamburgers. And then a caption will read: "John Mayer! He's just like Us! He picks up his laundry!"

Are we supposed to be impressed that Jennifer Aniston is eating a popcicle? (Jennifer Aniston! She's just like Us! She eats popcicles!")

Or that Brad Pitt is sipping on some Coke? (Brad Pitt! He's Just Like Us! He drinks Coke!)

So here is Natalie's version:



Natalie! She's just like Us! She enjoys playing a rousing game of peek-a-boo.



Natalie! She's just like Us! She loves driving around in pretty pink cars. (While not holding onto the steering wheel! Natalie, we don't text while driving.)



Natalie! She's just like Us! She bounces on a trampoline and goes "Weeeeee!" (And "AHHHHH!" when she's too close to the edge.)



Natalie! She's just like Us! She puts Sesame Street stickers on herself. (And the furniture!)



Natalie! She's just like Us! She loves to throw rocks. (She'd make a horrible celebrity. If the Paparazzi got too close she'd hurl a few stones at them. The Paparazzi would dub her "The Stone Thrower.")



Natalie! She's just like Us! She eats off plates with creepy characters on them. (And sticks her tongue out at the camera.)



Natalie! She's just like Us! She carries around a creepy green toy. (Hey, I DO end up carrying one around when I'm hiding it after all. I'll tell her that Brobee had to go to BrobeeLand for a few days. Sometimes I need a break from the singing.)

The Computer Chair

I was thrilled.

The other day I found this at Wal-Mart. Marked down from sixty-something to thirty.



We need a new computer chair. We have a cat named Max who seems to think that our current one is his own personal scratching post.

So when I came upon the chair I clapped my hands and scooped up the box.

Of course I nearly fell over because the box was heavier than I thought it would be. I toppled to the right. Then to the left. And then I nearly careened straight into the display of chairs before finally regaining my balance.

Natalie was amused. She clapped her hands and squealed, "AGAIN!"

Apparently she was confused. She thought I was teetering back and forth for her amusement.

Then I had to figure out how to get the box to stay in the cart. It was too big to go inside. It wouldn't fit underneath. So I sort of had to balance it on top and when I moved, I had to place one hand on the box to make sure it didn't clatter to the ground.

This meant that I had to move slowly. I sort of creeped along the store.

I tried to look on the bright side. At least I was getting some exercise. The added weight made the cart tougher to push so I was getting an arm workout.

I was so busy being thrilled with the thought that my arm would be all defined like Demi Moore's that I didn't catch that this lady in one of those motorized carts was headed straight for my cart. We were about five feet away from one another and it was obvious that this lady wasn't planning on moving.

"You know," I wanted to point out. "To move, all you have to do is shift the handle bar to the RIGHT."

I mean, honestly. She didn't even look like she belonged in one of those motorized carts.

Then I noticed that the lady was STARING ME DOWN. As though she were just daring me to run her over.

I ended up moving out of the way just in time. The air from the lady in the cart whooshed past me as she buzzed by.

Wal-Mart shoppers scare me. I suppose I could have held my ground and refused to move but I didn't want to be sued. That lady looked like the type who would sue. In fact, I'm wondering if she was the one who sued McDonalds when she discovered that the coffee she bought was *gasp* hot. Maybe she's the reason why coffee cups now have WARNING:HOT stamped on the top.

When I got home I lugged the box inside and I admit, I was excited on putting the chair together.

Okay, so the truth is, I'm awful at building things. I usually end up either A) curled up in a ball crying or B) throwing things across the room in frustration or C) all of the above.

I really want to be able to build things on my own. I hate having to rely on Tom all the time. So this time I was determined to set the chair up on my own and have it waiting and built by the time Tom came home from work. Then I could be all,

"Oh this old thing? I just put it together. Myself. It was nothing," with a casual wave of my arm.

After I put Natalie down for her nap I got to work. I marched over to the box and went to rip it open.

And nothing happened.

I tugged and I pulled and the box would NOT come apart.

It was like the entire thing had been slathered with super glue or something.

So I did what any other adult in my situation would do:



I stuck a knife in the box.

That helped.

Of course, the box looked like a bear had attacked it when I was through with it. It was basically ripped to shreads.

Then I dumped all the pieces out.

I felt so proud. I was all, "Lalala, look at me. BUILDING something." I cleared my throat in what sounded like an important manner and picked up the instructions.



I admit, I was a little worried that there were so many pieces. In my mind the chair was basically put together. I assumed all I'd have to do was snap on the wheels. One piece resembled a telescope and I briefly considered picking it up and looking through it and shouting, "Ahoy!"

But then I was like, "Amber. You're a Serious Builder now. Builders don't do things like that."



The instructions explained that I'd put the wheels in first.

Easy enough.

Right?

But no. The wheels weren't going in. I'd push and push and nothing happened.

I got two of them in and the others weren't budging.



So I used the telescope piece and started banging the wheels in.



Then I was told to stick the bottom of the chair in this pole-like object and it wouldn't work.

I tried! I really did. But it WOULDN'T WORK.

So I sort of slammed the pieces together and that got it to stay up.



I thought I had the bottom of the chair put together. But it wasn't sturdy at all. I went to take a seat and the entire thing fell apart. I crumpled to the floor with chair pieces all around me.

"WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?" I shrieked. I scooped up the insructions and jabbed a finger at the words. "I FOLLOWED YOU! I DID WHAT YOU ASKED. WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?"

I took the telescope piece and brought it to my eye.

"Ahoy," I croacked.

I was hoping this would cheer me up.

It didn't.

I was still frustrated by the fact that I couldn't put together a STUPID chair.

That I MAY have dubbed Bertha the Bitch.

In my defense, the chair was certainly acting like one.



I'd like to say that I put it together.

But I did not.

After attempting to put it together one more time, the chair only fell apart in my hands.

So I ended up throwing the telescope piece across the room and dramatically shoving all the pieces in the corner.

When Tom came home from work he gestured to all the parts.

"What's that?" he wondered.

"Bertha the Bitch," I fumed.

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

So I spilled out the story on how I bought a chair and how I wanted to put it together myself because I didn't always want to be the damsel in distress.

"But the instructions basically lied to me and nothing was making sense and the chair kept falling apart!" I wailed. I even used wild arm movements for effect.

Tom just nodded his head. He's used to this.

He just calmly took the instructions and got to work.

He had the chair put together in ten minutes.

"But you did a good job," Tom lied.

I mean, I DID help him screw in the arm rests. While he held them up I did the screwing. Haha. Screwing.

And then I ended up putting the telescope piece in.

Tom went, "Just put it in the hole," and I laughed and went, "That's what SHE said."

He gave me a Look.

What?

It's more enjoyable when you at least try and make putting together furniture FUN.

I Won! and Checkup Fun!

First off, look what I won!



Jiggity Jigg was hosting a giveaway and I, of course, entered.

The giveaway was for a beautiful necklace from Kristen's Custom Creations. Kristen makes beautiful stuff and I was so hoping that I'd win.

I tried not to get my hopes up too much because I rarely ever win. I mean, I enter giveaways that magazines do all the time and I've never won a single thing.

But then Jiggity Jigg contacted me and told me that I was the winner!

I went, "WOOHOO!" and my husband was all, "What in the WORLD?" because he was all engrosed in some boring old World War 2 program where the narrator talks. like. this. and I probably startled him because I was actually speaking in normal tones.



But anyhow, isn't the necklace beautiful? I love that it says Lucky because it is so true. I was lucky to win the necklace. And I'm lucky to have a husband who puts up with my weirdness and two kids who accept that fact that I will never be one of those crafty moms who can make leaves turn into paper dolls.

So thank you again to Kristen's Custom Creations and to Jiggity Jigg!

And believe me, it's a good thing that I cropped my face out in the picture. I was having a bad face day. People can have bad hair days and bad face days, you see.

And yes, those are The Beatles on my shirt. Because The Beatles rock.

Anyhow, Natalie and Tommy had their checkups yesterday.

At 7:30 in the morning.

When I called to make the appointment I asked if I could possibly combine them. Then the lady on the other end of the phone went, "Sure. That's 7:30 and 8:10 then," and I thought she was giving me an option of which time to show up.

"Oh gosh. 8:10, definately," I said quickly.

I mean 7:30!

I usually wake up at 7. And at the base clinic they like you there fifteen minutes prior. So that would mean I'd have to wake up at 6:30 so I wasn't running around like a crazed lunatic.

Waking up at 7 is hard enough for me. When the alarm goes off I'm always half tempted to throw it against the wall. I have never been a morning person. Well, I guess I was when I was little. But I was a kid and didn't comprehend the beauty of Sleeping In.

But then the lady on the other end of the phone chuckled and went, "No, I've set you up with two appointments. The first one starts at 7:30."

GUH!

And with the base clinic you don't argue. Because getting an appointment at the base clinic is like getting Nadya Suleman to stop having babies.

So I accepted the horrible 7:30 appointment.

When my alarm went off at 6:30 yesterday I was in the middle of a fantastic dream where I had won the lottery. For some reason I purchased a pile of candy and was jumping into it, flinging pieces in the air and shouting, "I'm Queen of the CANDY!"

I really have bizarre dreams sometimes.

But then the shrill ringing of my alarm clock interrupted that and I angrily cracked open one eye and uttered a naughty word.

Well, a string of naughty words, really.

I forced myself out of bed and trudged into Tommy's room. I always wake him up by rubbing his back so I started to do that and then my eyes started to close.

"Mommy?" Tommy's voice cut through my blissful sleep. "MOMMY!"

My eyes popped open in surprise. Huh? What? CANDY?

Oh.

Then I realized where I was.

"It's time to wake up. Please get dressed," I muttered and headed for Natalie's room.

Natalie, well, she doesn't like being disturbed when she's sleeping. Which is ironic because she doesn't have any qualms in disturbing me when I'M trying to sleep.

She whined at me and tried to kick my face.

"That's not nice," I told her firmly and scooped her up. She immediately went limp and I don't have much strength first thing in the morning so it was a little awkward carrying her down the stairs.

"Natalie. Please stand up," I said in my best Mom voice. Which didn't sound very stern because I was still half asleep.

Which is probably why Natalie didn't take me seriously and continued to behave like a wet noodle. I tried to set her on the ground and she crumpled to the floor, balled herself up and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

I managed to get breakfast for Tommy and asked Natalie if she wanted to eat.

"NOT UH!" she screamed at me from her ball-form.

I was shocked that we actually made it out the door on time.

When we got to the base clinic I was given some paperwork to fill out. I was trying to do that and prevent Natalie from leaving the waiting room area. At one point she went, "Bye" and started walking off.

It's no wonder that I had only answered three questions by the time we were called back.

Tommy was weighed and measured first.

He is now 44 lbs. And he's 47 and a half inches.

Then they gave him an eye exam down the hall. I could hear him shouting what he saw. I guess they did the picture exam because I could hear Tommy going,

"That's a star! A tree. A cup! Hey, do you want a cup of tea? Tea is good!"

Man my kid is loud. His voice seriously echoed down the hall.

Then I could hear the nurse go, "You don't need to elaborate on the pictures. Just call it a cup and that's fine."

"But tea is good!" Tommy explained. "A cup of tea!"

Having a kid with ADHD is always an exciting adventure.

Then I could hear him go, "A dog. That's a circle. A square. A cat! Do you know I have a cat named Max?!"

The eye exam probably took longer than usual since my kid had to ramble about some of the objects.

But his vision is perfect. Tommy didn't seem thrilled though. He sort of stomped back in the room and said, "This means I don't get glasses!"

He's been wanting glasses since a friend of his wears them now.

After Tommy was finished being looked over then it was Natalie's turn. I had to get her naked to be weighed and she always looks startled that I'm removing her clothes in front of a perfect stranger. I always half expect her to shield her crotch or something.

It turns out that she's 32.5 inches long. And she only weighs 20.2 pounds. Which is in the ZERO percentile.

Oh well.

At least her clothes last longer, you know. People are always all, "Why bother buying new clothes when the kid is going to outgrow them in a week!"

Um. Not MY kids. My kids can wear clothes for a few years before they finally outgrow them.

Natalie actually didn't scream or try to bite the doctor this time.

The bottom line is that both kids are healthy albeit on the skinny side.

I was given a piece of paper that listed a few facts about the two-year-old before I left.



Some of them made me giggle.

I decided to write some responses to some of the statements.


PAPER SAYS: Use picture books to enrich your child's vocabulary. Reading books to your child will help with language development.

MY RESPONSE: So, er, does reading catalogues outloud to the kid count? Because I'll sometimes flip through a clothing magazine and read the description to Natalie.

"Natalie! Listen to this. Beautiful red and white striped dress with buttons accenting the front and OH! OH! look at this darling denim skirt with an adjustable waist!"

I even branch out to the food magazines that constantly stuff my mailbox. I think companies have caught wind that I like to eat.

I recently got a magazine from The Popcorn Factory and I read the following outloud to Natalie:

"This elegant basket is exceptionally impressing with its commanding presence and superior snacks: Easter jellybeans, foil-wrapped chocolate eggs, tortilla chips and salsa, honey roast peanuts, chocolate chips cookies...."

I mean, now she gets excited when I mention the word jellybeans. So I'd say that catalogues count.

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PAPER SAYS: Limit television viewing. Do not use the TV as a babysitter or as a substitute for interaction with your child.

MY RESPONSE: Erm. I'm currently writing this and Natalie is watching Yo Gabba Gabba. Is that bad? In my defense, the characters are teaching Natalie that's it's not okay to bite her friends.

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PAPER SAYS: Do not worry if your child becomes curious about body parts. This is normal at this age. It is best to use the correct terms for genitals.

MY RESPONSE: So calling a vagina a cahootie and a penis a peen is probably a no-no?

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PAPER SAYS: Discipline should be firm and consistent, but loving and understanding. Praise your child for his or her good behavior and accomplishments.

MY RESPONSE: "Good job, Natalie! Thank you so much for not ripping my hair out of its roots when you insisted on brushing it."

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PAPER SAYS: Use the two I's of discipline (ignore and isolate) rather than the two S's (shouting and spanking.) When disciplining, try to make a verbal separation between the child and their behavior. ("I love you but I do not like it when you touch the VCR.")

MY RESPONSE: First of all, who has a VCR anymore? Second of all, oops, I may have shouted when Natalie pushed a button on the remote and caused my DVRed Grey's Anatomy to become erased. Was that wrong? Should I have said, "I love you but I do not like that I now don't know how that guy whose face was half gone fared.")

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PAPER SAYS: Provide alternatives. "No, you cannot play with the telephone, but you can play with these blocks."

MY RESPONSE: "No, you cannot play with my makeup but you may pretend that my tampons are rockets."

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PAPER SAYS: Avoid power struggles. No one wins!

MY RESPONSE: Everyone wins when chocolate is involved. "Want some chocolate? Then please get down from the entertainment center."

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PAPER SAYS: The 2-year-old may adopt a security object that he or she keeps with him or her most of the time. This is normal and the youngster will give it up when he or she is ready.

MY RESPONSE: I hope so. Because if Natalie heads off to middle school gripping her creepy Brobee doll then there could be some problems.

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PAPER SAYS: Parents should continue to take some time to themselves. Show affection in the family.

MY RESPONSE: But whenever I try to kiss my husband Natalie becomes insanely jealous and throws a tantrum. I feel sorry for her future boyfriend. I can see him talking to another girl and Natalie going off and throwing her Brobee at him.

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PAPER SAYS: The 2-year-old will eat barely enough to keep a bird alive. Appetite is finicky and will vary from meal to meal and day to day.

MY RESPONSE: Natalie has always eaten like a bird. It's why she's only twenty pounds.

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PAPER SAYS: The child can name foods and tell parents his or her likes and dislikes.

MY RESPONSE: Natalie has been doing this from a young age. She once threw her peas at my head and nearly went into convulsions when I tried to get her to eat some green beans.


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Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing this whole parenting thing all wrong. Hrm.

Not Popcorn Chicken

So we went to Fort Collins over the weekend.

Fort Collins has Toys R Us and an assortment of restaurants that poor old Cheyenne does have.

Oh, and they have Auntie Anne’s pretzels in their mall. And I’m sorry, but Auntie Anne’s cinnamon sugar pretzels are the best things in the world. Our mall just has a Pretzelmaker and their cinnamon sugar pretzels don’t taste the same. I’ll sometimes buy one to try and sate off the Auntie Anne craving but it doesn’t work. I always wish that Pretzelmaker will shut down and be replaced by Auntie Anne’s. I sometimes stare wistfully at the Pretzelmaker store and be all, “Go away. Be replaced with Auntie Anne’s.” And plus, the people working at Pretzelmakers aren’t that bright. They had printed signs all over the store that said: “Smile. Your on camera!” Um, that would be y-o-u APOSTROPHE r-e. I always want to say something when I go in there but then I’m worried they’ll spit on my pretzel.

Anyhow, we stopped off at Toys R Us. I’m nearly as excited as the kids to go there. It means I get to push an assortment of buttons even though it embarrasses Tom. He always asks me if I have to touch everything and I’ll say, “Of course,” before pushing another toy. It’s just they didn’t have toys like that when I was growing up.

Natalie spotted a creepy Yo Gabba Gabba plate right away. She nearly leaped out of her cart to get to the thing. I handed it to her and she hugged it to her chest and sighed out, “Brobee!” Brobee, in case you didn’t know is the creepy green character in the show that likes to have parties in his tummy. I’m not joking.

After Toys R Us we went to the mall and of course I got my Auntie Anne’s cinnamon sugar pretzel. I even had a coupon for a buy one get one free pretzel so that excited me even more. It meant I didn’t have to share with the kids.

I split the pretzel with Tom and he wolfed his down in less than thirty seconds it seemed. Then he stared at me and said, “Are you done?” Which drives me insane because I clearly am NOT done. Sometimes I think he’s going blind. Because I’ll have a huge chunk of food in front of me and he’ll always ask if I’m done and I want to shout, “Fool! Do you not SEE the food in front of me?” But I don’t. I just calmly say, “Nope,” and take a bite and pretend I don’t see Tom sighing impatiently.

Well, sorry Tom. I wasn’t trained to gobble my food down. In basic training Tom says that they’d sometimes have five minutes to eat so everyone learned to inhale their meals.

When we finished eating we walked around the mall. I stopped into Gymboree and I’m proud to say that I didn’t buy a thing. Then we got some caramel and chocolate apples from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. I love those things. I pretend that they’re still healthy since they’re apples. The apples cancel out the caramel and chocolate in my mind.

After the mall we went to Golden Corral. Which is this all you can eat buffet that is awesome. They have rolls with honey butter and you can have as many as you want. The waiter must think we’re total pigs because we usually ask for three baskets.

I load my plate with food and Tom will always say, “Uh, you do know you can go back for seconds. You don’t have to put everything on one plate.”

True but…sometimes I can’t decide if I want to start off with the pot roast, the fried chicken or the spaghetti. So I get all three.

I still go back for seconds.

When I went back the second time on that day I decided to pick up these little fried ball things. I assumed it was popcorn chicken. Usually everything is labeled but I guess the workers didn’t get to it yet. Maybe because they were too busy texting. I saw a few messing around with their phones at the drink center. They tried to be secretive about it but it’s sort of hard to hide a finger flying around on a phone.

So I came back with what I thought was popcorn chicken and took my seat. I took a sip of sweet tea and then I took a bite of the popcorn chicken.

But see, it wasn’t popcorn chicken.

It turned out to be SHRIMP.

And I hate shrimp.

I didn’t want to be rude and spit it out in my napkin. I’m always paranoid that a security camera will catch me doing something like that and I’ll end up on YouTube or something. Then my video will be called, “Gross woman spits out food!” and it’ll show me yakking in my napkin.

Then when I’m out in public people will be all, “You’re the woman who spit out her food! Ew!”

And Martha Stewart will have me on her show and berate me for doing such a thing and I’ll a hang my head and be all, “I’m sorry, Martha.”

So I sat there chewing and trying not to vomit from the oceany taste that was filling my mouth.

Tom noticed my expression and asked what was wrong.

“I accidentally ate shrimp,” I muttered out. I had tucked the shrimp in the corner of my mouth so that I could speak. I probably looked like a broken chipmunk.

“Spit it out!” Tom said.

Of course he’d say something like that. The man scratches his balls and emits loud burps and then tries to convince me that I should LIKE his burps. “Because the louder I burp the more it means that I enjoyed what you cooked!” For the record, he burps the loudest when I make lasagna.

“I can’t,” I replied. “What if….someone sees?” My eyes darted around the room as though I expected to see someone with their cell phone lifted up in my direction, prepared to tape me the second I spit my shrimp in the napkin.

“Just spit it out!” Tom practically shouted and finished eating his roll. “Are you almost done?”

I ignored him and excused myself to the bathroom.

And that’s where I spit out the shrimp. In a stall, in a wad of toilet paper.

I imagine Martha Stewart would praise me for doing the right thing.

Then I came back to the table and gulped down the rest of my tea to get rid of the shrimp taste in my mouth.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

I went back for dessert next. I sample each cake or pie that’s out. Sometimes an elderly person will sidle up beside me and gasp out, “Is that all for you, dear?” while gaping at my plate.

“Yup,” I’ll say proudly.

“Goodness! Bless your heart!” one old lady told me and pressed a palm to her heart.

What? I’m going to get my money’s worth.

Tom always shakes his head at me when I sit down with all my treasures.

“You think you have enough there?” he usually always ask.

“No. I’m going back to get some ice cream,” I’ll respond.

I just eat the frosting part of the carrot cake.

“That’s disgusting,” Tom always says.

”No it’s not. It’s the best part,” I’ll answer. Mmm, cream cheese frosting.

Then I’ll take a few bites of the chocolate cake, a few bites of the berry pie and a few bites of the strawberry cake.

Yum.

Then it’s off to get some ice cream. With sprinkles of course.

At this point Tom is impatient. Because he’d have been done eating for at least fifteen minutes by then. So he’ll lean back in his chair and give a few sighs here and there and I’ll totally zone him out.

I don’t allow anyone to ruin Dessert Time.

When I finish my ice cream I’ll proclaim that I’m done and Tom will sometimes say in a sarcastic tone, “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”

Actually, sometimes I do but I don’t want to come across as a TOTAL pig.

We drove home after that. When we passed the border to Wyoming I noticed there was a sign for Trail Rides.

“Tom!” I exclaimed. “Trail rides!” I gestured to the sign and Tom quickly glanced over.

“No thanks,” he said.

Sometimes Tom is so boring.

“Oh come on!” I begged. “It would be so much fun. We could pretend that we’re on an episode of Little House on the Prairie. I’d be Ma, you could be Pa, Natalie could be Laura and Tommy...well, I guess he’d have to be Albert, the little boy they adopted. Poor Pa really wanted a boy and Ma so wanted to give him one but she never did. Actually, Pa reminds me a little of Henry the Eighth because he desperately wanted a son just like Henry the Eighth. Only Pa didn’t behead Ma when she didn’t give him one.”

“Are you talking to me?” Tom spoke up.

“YES!” I shrieked. “Who did you think I was talking to?”

I mean honestly. Sometimes I wonder why I bother speaking to Tom at all.

It can definitely be a drag when you’re married to a man with no imagination.

The Adventure at Chili's

It started off innocently enough.

We had decided to eat at Chili’s. I was thrilled because it meant that I didn’t have to cook. Everyone else was thrilled because it meant that they didn’t have to eat what I cooked. So really, a win-win situation.

We were led to a booth and given the menus.

“Should I have the jalapeño bacon burger or the sirloin steak?” I said out loud. I took an air bite and imagined myself eating each dish and tried to figure out which one excited my stomach more.

“Stop doing that,” Tom hissed at me from across the table. He was watching me from over his menu.

“I have to figure out what I want,” I explained.

The waitress came over and asked what we wanted to drink.

I wanted strawberry lemonade. But I really am trying to watch my calories. You know, since bathing suit weather is approaching. During the cold months I can stuff my face and hide the excess fat with oversized shirts and pants that are a few sizes too big. But when it gets warm and the fabric of clothing becomes minimal, well, you really can’t hide the flubber so well.

So I ordered a diet coke. I probably should have ordered water. I could have saved two bucks on the drink and money is something else that I need to be saving.

Because shopping season is approaching. Actually, to be honest, shopping season is probably every few days for me. But next month I’ll be going to the Mall of America and I need the extra dough.

The waitress went to retrieve our drinks and I was still contemplating on what I wanted to get.

Tom calmly shut his menu and rested his hands on top of it. He always knows what he wants after only glancing at the menu for a few seconds. I wish I were able to do that. I usually look at various dishes and it’s like, “Mmmm, that looks good.” Then I move onto another dish and then I’m all, “Oooo but it’s chicken with corn on the COB slathered with mouthwatering seasoning!"

I was so busy determining what I wanted that I barely heard Tommy say,

“I have a question.”

I assumed the question was going to be a simple one. Like, sometimes he’ll ask if he can go to the moon and I'll explain that he has to be an astronaut to do something like that. Or become insanely rich. I imagine if you handed over a wad of cash to the astronauts that they’d bring you to the moon.

Maybe he’d ask why his Daddy leaves his dirty socks all over the house. I wonder the same thing. My response would have been, “Actually, son, this baffles me too. Your father knows where the laundry room is. He knows where the laundry baskets are. Yet he to continues to toss his socks on the floor.”

But no. Tommy didn't ask a simple question this time.

What he asked was:

“Where is Max’s penis?”

Max, by the way, is our cat.

And he said this right when the waitress brought our drinks over. Her eyes got all big after Tommy asked the question and I could see a smile beginning to form on her lips. Actually, she has more willpower than I do. I probably would have burst out laughing and then covered it up with a fake cough or something.

But because it was MY kid that said such a thing, I was immediately embarrassed. I felt my face grow warm and I muttered thank you to the stunned waitress who appeared to not know what to do next. She pulled out her notebook and filled the shocked silence by asking if we knew what we wanted.

Tom, he was a little appalled. It looked as though he had been slapped or something. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. The waitress stood there awkwardly and I HAD to break the mortified silence so I said that I’d have the sirloin steak.

“How would you like that cooked?” the waitress asked in a wobbly voice. She definitely was trying hard not to laugh. I could just tell from her expression.

“Medium,” I sort of croaked out.

I picked my two sides to accompany the steak and then explained that Natalie would have the grilled cheese (though I wonder why I even bother getting her something as she just plays with most of the food) and then I found myself saying,

“And the penis will have a hamburger.”

The waitress emitted a funny noise then and I realized what I had done.

I had been so stunned over Tommy’s casual use of the p-word that I had called him one. When I get flustered I’ll say the strangest things.

“I mean!” I quickly corrected. “I mean, TOMMY will have a hamburger. No cheese. Plain.”

At that point I just wanted to slide down under the table.

Tom was still gaping at me with a mixture of horror and amusement. He quickly gave his order and the waitress scurried away. I saw her hunched over with her notebook pressed in front of her mouth. I imagine she burst into laughter as soon as she got back into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe some of the things you say sometimes,” Tom said, shaking his head. And then he looked over at Tommy and reminded him that talking about male genitialia wasn’t appropriate the dinner table.

“But we’re at a booth,” Tommy responded knowingly. “I just want to know how Max goes pee.”

So I sort of started mumbling about how Max’s penis is tucked in and sort of comes out when he uses the bathroom and Tom was shooting horrifying looks at me and gesturing for me to stop talking about such things.

But really, Tommy was just curious.

And what sort of mother would I be if I didn’t explain how Max urinates?

When our food was brought out I noticed the waitress didn’t want to look us in the eye. She sort of plopped our food down and asked the floor if we needed anything else.

“We’re good. Thank you,” I said and forced a smile as though nothing amiss had occurred. What? What do you mean that my son asked how his cat peed? I think you’ve mistaken us for another booth.

My sirloin steak was delicious by the way. I took a bite as I cut up Natalie’s sandwich.

“All done,” Natalie said and tried to escape.

All done? She hadn’t even had a bite yet.

I always try to get her excited about food. I’ll start to talk in this scary high pitched voice and say things like, “Wow! Your food looks YUMMY. How about we have a BITE?”

Of course Natalie looks at me as though I’ve completely lost it. But sometimes I can get her to take a bite.

In the middle of eating and trying to get Natalie to eat, I felt Tom’s foot press against mine. My heart leapt with joy.

He was playing footsie with me!

Footsie!

We hadn’t played footsie in....crap, I couldn’t even remember. Probably when we were dating.

So I gave Tom a wide smile and reached out and caressed his hand lovingly.

Tom gave me a bewildered look as he chewed his mini buffalo burger and I nudged his foot back with my own.

I felt his foot on mine again and this time it felt more forceful. Silly Tom, sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength. But still, he was being so romantic playing footsie with me after all.

“It’s so sweet of you to play footsie with me,” I told Tom in a seductive voice. I even batted my eyelashes at him.

Tom still looked confused. “I wasn’t playing footsie with you,” he said bluntly. “I was trying to get your feet out of my area.”

Wait.

What?

You mean...he was PUSHING my feet away? He WASN’T playing footsie with me?

I puffed my lower lip out. “I thought you were playing footsie,” I explained.

Tom made a face. “Why would I do that?”

I don’t know. To be ROMANTIC?

“To be romantic,” I blurted and then pushed around some meat on my plate.

“That sort of thing is done when people are dating,” Tom said.

I shook my head. “It could be done when you’re married,” I replied in a sad tone.

Then a few minutes later I felt Tom's foot against mine.

"Tom, my feet are on MY SIDE," I snapped, not even bothering to look up.

Tom's sneaker tapped mine.

"TOM!" I shrieked. "If I move my feet anymore I'll be under the booth!"

I mean honestly. He can't have ALL the space. I get that I'm only 5'3 and he's six feet and that he probably needs extra room. But I can only give so much! Just because I'm small doesn't mean that I'm not entitled to proper foot space.

"No," Tom said in an irritated tone. "I'm playing footsie with you."

I looked up and frowned. "So I'm getting pity footsie now?" I asked dryly. "No thanks." Then I gave his foot a forceful kick of my own. He could take his footsie and SHOVE it.

"Oh. Stop it. You know I love you," Tom said and wiggled his eyebrows up and down. Then he flared his nostrils at me which isn't fair, because he knows that it makes me laugh.

He did make it up to me though.

He took me out to get some ice cream.

And really, ice cream makes everything better.

The Yellow Tutu

First off, yes, my MySpace was hacked. People have been getting weird e-mails from me. I did not send them. I think they are about a weight loss trial. Come on. You all know I like to eat. I wouldn't participate in any weight loss trial. I'm already abused enough by my WiiFit.

Anyhow, so yesterday was Natalie's birthday.

To celebrate, I took her to one of my favorite stores, Gymboree.

Just to look, I promise!

Plus, okay, they were having a sale. I got word that a bunch of older lines were going to be $9.99 and under. And I figured it wouldn't hurt to glance at what was on sale.

So Natalie and I headed to the mall. Whenever I go to the mall I get a sweet tea from Chick-fil-a. They have amazing sweet tea. I could drink their sweet tea all day. I could even compose a song about sweet tea. It would go something like this:

Chick-fil-a sweet tea!
How I love thee!
You make me squeal with glee!
Oh, I just love the tea!

Yeah, so okay.

Obviously writing songs is not my forte. I get it.

The bottom line is that I love the tea.

I walked past Gymboree in order to get to Chick-fil-a and I craned my neck to see what was going on inside.

And fine, to make sure other customers weren't going through the sale rack and taking my items.

I did see a customer flipping through a rack and she even took an adorable shirt off and examined it closer. My heart started to race.

Hey! That's MY shirt! I found myself thinking.

Then my Voice of Reason popped up and I HATE my Voice of Reason. It was all, "Amber. You have enough. Who cares if that lady buys the shirt?"

Yes but. It's pink. With stripes. And there's a bon bon on the front.

"Amber. Who cares? You have enough!" my Voice of Reason argued with me.

I was so busy staring indignantly at the customer that I collided right into a sign advertising pretzels at Pretzelmaker.

KATHUD!

That's the sound it made when the stroller smashed into it.

Poor Natalie, she had covered her face and braced for impact. Then she turned around and started telling me off in her own language. It sounded something like this:

"Bwa mama be me ow na ma!"

Translated I think she said: "Buy me that pink striped shirt with the bon bon on front."

Okay, fine.

She was probably telling me to watch where I was going because she didn't want to have a scar. Then when her future boyfriends would ask where she got the scar she'd be all, "Oh. Mom was staring into Gymboree and collided with a pretzel sign."

I promised Natalie that I'd pay more attention and tried to pretend that I never ran into a sign at all. Even though a guy sitting at one of the nearby tables was chuckling into his fist. I saw him pull out his cell phone and his fingers started moving quickly over it. He probably texted a friend:

GRL RAN INTO PRTZL SIGN! LOL!

Luckily there wasn't a line at Chick-fil-a. Because I had to get back to Gymboree before the lady BOUGHT MY BON BON SHIRT!

Well, Natalie's bon bon shirt.

I've never fully understood why children's clothing are more exciting to me than adult clothing.

Maybe because they're so tiny.

The young male Chick-fil-a worker took my order and looked surprised that all I wanted was a sweet tea.

"You don't want a sandwich with that?" he inquired.

I shook my head rapidly. "No. Just the sweet tea," I said in a rushed tone.

BON BON SHIRT. BONBONSHIRT!

"Are you sure--" he began again.

"Just the sweet tea please!" I cut him off.

He looked stunned. But then he turned on his heel and marched off towards the tea.

I did watch to make sure he didn't spit into it.

And really, I wasn't trying to be rude but it's all, suppose I was trying to watch my weight?

And here he is trying to tempt me with a chicken sandwich!

Then I'd have been all, "Stop being a food pusher, cashier," and that would have insulted him even more.

He handed me the sweet tea and I pressed two dollar bills into his palm.

Then I started to hurry off.

BONBONSHIRT! BONBONSHIRT!

"Ma'am! Your change!" the cashier shouted at my retreating back.

"Keep it for a job well done!" I shouted.

"GEE THANKS. A whole quarter!" was his sarcastic reply.

But whatever. I had to get back to Gymboree.

So I walked at top speed back to the store and by the time I got there I was out of breath and panting.

The Gymboree worker looked up from her spot behind the cash register and raised an eyebrow as I walked past her breathing sharply.

"Good morning!" she finally said. "We haven't seen you in awhile."

Now, she's not my favorite Gymboree worker but she's nice enough.

"I...heard.....sale..." I gasped out.

"On that rack back there. We don't have a lot left though," the Gymboree worker explained.

She gestured to a tiny rack where that customer had been looking at the bon bon shirt.

That customer wasn't there anymore.

Did she buy the bon bon shirt?

I hurried over to the rack and went through the clothes.

No bon bon shirt.

But then...

There it was, at the very end. She had put it with the size 5 stuff even though it was a size 18-24. Could she not read the signs? Or maybe she was trying to HIDE it so no one else would buy it.

But who really cared? I had the shirt!

My heart leapt with joy.

I took it from the rack and showed Natalie.

"Look! And it's in your size!" I told her.

But Natalie wasn't there. No. She had climbed out of the stroller and was sitting under another rack of clothes.

"Petty," she told me seriously, holding onto a yellow tutu.

Which, oh my gosh, it WAS pretty. And it WAS on sale but not the $9.99 sale.

"We're not getting the tutu today," I explained to Natalie.

My fingers reached out to touch it.

Ooo beautiful tutu. How I wish I could buy thee. But I mustn't.

And then I started to think.

You have a 20% off coupon. That would make the tutu sixteen dollars.

But then the Voice of Reason returned.

"Natalie has enough tutus. She doesn't need another one."

But it's YELLOW! And Natalie LOVES it!

My Voice of Reason wouldn't relent. "Natalie loves anything that's puffy."

Which IS true.

But still.

A girl can never have enough tutus, right? I mean, Sarah Jessica Parker wore one on Sex and the City for goodness sakes!

"The tutu goes perfectly with that shirt," the Gymboree worker spoke up, gesturing to an adorable top that read: 'Cute as a bug.'

ACK!

Natalie IS cute as a bug. Really, she is.

The outfit would be PERFECT for her. It would--

"Amber," my Voice of Reason cut in. "She doesn't NEED it. She has plenty of shirts with the word 'cute' on it."

But it's cute as a BUG!

"SHE DOESN'T NEED THE *%%#&@&* outfit!!!"

Woah. My Voice of Reason was pissed.

So I had to pass on the outfit. Believe me, it wasn't easy.

I just ended up with the bon bon shirt and a few shirts that I found for Tommy for $3.99.

Goodbye, yellow tutu.

I have some pictures of Natalie opening some of her presents:



When she woke first woke up we opened a few presents. Here she was checking out her new Princess doll.



Tommy got impatient on how slowly Natalie opened her presents. So he started opening them for her.



Natalie got a creepy Plex toy.



Look at Tommy's expression when the Plex toy started to sing. That's basically my expression throughout the entire Yo Gabba Gabba program.



I started to take all the toys from the packages. Those plastic ties are evil.



Natalie tried on her DJ Lance hat and glasses. On the show The Soup it says that DJ Lance looks like a Russian Steve Urkel. That's so true.



After bathtime Natalie got a few more presents. Tommy was explaining to Natalie that she was no longer a baby and that's why she didn't get any baby toys. Natalie is all "Yeah yeah, whatevs."



Natalie did not blow out her own candles. She tried to put them out with her palm. I went, "Oh my GOD!" because I'm overly dramatic like that and Tom went, "Thanks for screeching in my ear. Now they're ringing."



Natalie ate all of two pieces of cake before saying, "All done!"

She's just always going to be skinny I suppose. I was all, "But Natalie, all that frosting.." and she gave me a stern look and repeated, "All DONE!" in a firm voice.

Okay, then.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Natalie

Dear Natalie,

I can hardly believe that you’re two.

It seems like only yesterday when I was pushing you out and snapping at your father that he’d better savor you, because there would be no more babies coming from my uterus.

I’d like to say that you’ll skip the Terrible Twos. But darling, that fit you threw this morning would prove that statement to be false. Remember, we don’t throw our shoes across the room. It could hurt someone. And Natalie, you may think that your hat would look fantastic on the cat but unfortunately the cat does not agree.

I’ve learned a lot of things about you in your short two years.

For instance, when you were first born you did not appreciate hats:



I'm a little confused at this honey, because the hat was adorable.



I tried to pair the hat with clothes but you weren't keen on that either.

While we're at it, you also didn't seem to enjoy the following:



Headbands.



Your carseat. Even though I tried to make it more enjoyable by adding nifty toys. (You didn't care.)



Photoshoots with a white fuzzy background.



Mommy.



People not holding you correctly.



Pink hats.



And shirts that said "Tax Deduction."

But sweetheart, I did discover that there were things that you loved:



Daddy.



Daddy.



Oh and...Daddy. Darling, please remember who birthed you.



Your brother.



A creepy character named Brobee.



The beach. And seagulls.



And human beings dressed up as Disney characters.

Natalie, I can't wait to learn more about you. You make me laugh on a daily basis. You also like to pierce my eardrums with your screeching. Remember your Indoor Voice, sweetheart.

I love you so much and I am so lucky to be your mother.

Thank you for letting me dress you up like this:



Without any sort of complaint.

I hope you have a wonderful birthday, my darling.

I will always love you.

Love,
Your Mommy.

-----------------

I also made a video in honor of Natalie's birthday.

Please note that I do understand that it's not a good thing to be a Material Girl. (Or IS it...) (Kidding. I promise.)

It's just for fun.

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The Yearly Exam

I had my yearly checkup the other day.

I hate those things.

Tom was all, "I was wondering why you shaved!"

Well yeah. I couldn't have the doctor thinking I was some sort of yeti, could I?

"But yet, you're fine with being all hairy for me?" Tom pouted.

Sure.

I mean, maybe when you stop scratching your balls in my presence I'll be more keen to keep myself clean shaven.

The hospital had mailed me some paperwork to fill out so it would be all ready when I checked in. I thought this was pretty nifty. See, usually I go to the military base clinic for checkups. But if I have a choice, I opt for the real hospital. Not that the base clinic isn't real but...

Okay, see, when we were stationed in England I HAD to go to the base clinic for my yearly PAPs. And the doctor, he couldn't seem to get a proper amount of...cells? So then I'd get a phone call saying, "Sorry, we didn't get enough of a sample. You'll have to come back."

Seriously?

I don't think the clinic comprehended that women do NOT enjoy these appointments. In fact, the nurse on the other end seemed startled when I went,

"Are you KIDDING me?"

So I had to go back and get prodded all over again.

Then guess what?

I got the SAME phone call.

"You'll have to come back."

I was not amused.

So yes, this is why I opt to go to a real hospital. I'm sorry, but if I want to get poked with a cold object I'll just turn to my husband, thanks.

I'm kidding.

Anyhow, the paperwork came in the mail and I got to work filling it out.

I flipped one paper over and saw a section that the nurse fills out and got a chuckle over this:



General appearance, huh?

I picture the nurse taking a look at me and scribbling, "Messy hair." Because my hair never wants to cooperate. The nurse might continue with, "And what is up with that purse? And the shoes? Patient has large zit on chin."

I'm always a little surprised on some of the questions they ask you. For instance, here were a few:



I mean, thank goodness Tom is the only man I've ever slept with.

Suppose I had been with over five men though. Would I have gotten a lecture from the doctor?

I picture the doctor stroking his chin while glancing at my paperwork and going, "You know, even though Samantha off Sex and the City makes sleeping around look like fun, it really can be quite dangerous."

Anyhow, Tom watched the kids while I went to my appointment. I wasn't about to bring them with me. I can picture Natalie staring at the doctor intently while he did his...erm..exam and saying something like, "DUCK! Quack!" when he pulled out the speculum. And I'm sorry, that could totally warp a child's view on ducks, you know? I will not do that to my daughter.

I checked in with the front desk and had to wait all of five minutes before they called me back. Neat.

The nurse weighed me first and when the numbers flashed on the screen my mouth fell open.

"Is this accurate?" I asked. Actually, I meant to just THINK that but the words tumbled out before I had chance to stop them.

The nurse looked amused and didn't even bother looking up from my paperwork. She just calmly scribbled the number down and went, "It's normal for your height. You're fine."

She wrote a few more things and I leaned over to see if she was marking the General Appearance section.

Hey, I had even added a little hair spray to keep my hair in check. That way she couldn't write, "Patient has hair like Russell Brand."

I couldn't quite see the chart and if I had leaned over anymore, I'd have landed flat on my face. And then they'd probably think I was suffering from vertigo or something and I'd be all, "No, actually I was just trying to read my chart."

The nurse pulled out the lovely paper top and drape for me to use.

"Just undress and the drape goes across your lap," she said before leaving.

No kidding? I thought it was a cape.

I started taking off my clothes at lightening speed. I have this fear that the doctor will walk in when I'm bending over. I'd never be able to live it down.

So it was like someone had pushed a fast forward button because I was moving at light speed. I made sure to hide my underwear and bra too. I always do that. I suppose I'm worried that the doctors may gather and gossip about undergarments.

"My patient had these horrid gray underpants. It's a wonder she even GOT pregnant with those things!" I picture a doctor saying.

Look, I watch a lot of those medical dramas and I know doctors talk.

I was sitting on the exam table twiddling my thumbs when the doctor knocked and walked in.

That's another thing: every doctor I've had have only knocked once and then walked right in. Suppose I was in the middle of undressing? He could still walk in and catch me in the buff.

Not that it matters, I guess. Because he's going to be seeing me naked anyhow.

But it's different to be naked on an exam table then being naked while standing in the middle of the room with a deer in the headlights look.

Trust me on this one.

The doctor glanced through my chart while the nurse shuffled back in. Because my doctor was male, she had to be in there. She sort of looked bored as she took a seat across the room. She started pulling out the supplies the doctor would need and I tried not to look.

EW, THAT LOOKS LIKE A GIANT Q-TIP!

Amber. Focus. Focus.

EW, WHAT'S THAT??

I was so busy trying not to panic that I didn't even realize the doctor had asked me a question. He was staring at me, waiting with his pen poised over some paper.

"I'm sorry, excuse me?" I asked sweetly. I tried not to look at the giant Q-tip.

"I was asking how the Micronor was going for you," the doctor repeated nicely.

I nodded. "Oh great. Fantastic. Wonderful." Then I felt like an idiot. I mean, wonderful? Fantastic? Could I not have left it at "oh great?"

"How are you periods?" he continued.

Periods!

Whaaa?

I felt my face grow warm. I mean, I know these sort of questions are asked but it never gets easier hearing them when the person is sitting less than two feet away from you.

"Disgusting," I blurted.

Which IS true.

But the doctor chuckled and went, "I imagine, but you aren't in any pain are you?"

Well, doing the dishes and laundry is painful. But I don't think that's what he meant.

So I just shook my head.

Then he started the exam. I always want to jokingly say, "Maybe you should buy me a drink first," when they start poking around at my breasts.

But I'm always worried that I'll get a doctor with no sense of humor.

Then it came to the gross part where feet go in stirrups and all that fun stuff.

Lalala.

I tried to focus on the ceiling.

But then the doctor decided to narrate whatever he was doing. Which was NICE but..

I really didn't need to know that he has to swipe the giant Q-tip five times.

"Because that's what the medical professionals are told," he told me knowingly.

Um, okay.

"So if you wanted to do it four times then that would be frowned upon?" I found myself asking.

GUH!

I really wish I could shut myself up sometimes.

Because the doctor sort of raised an eyebrow and then smiled politely and looked at me as though I were a halfwit before saying, "Five is what we do."

Right.

Then it was all over.

Phew.

The doctor scribbled out the prescription for birth control and looked me right in the eye as he handed it over and said,

"You're very healthy. The folds of your vagina look great."

He said this as calmly as if he were telling me that it was a lovely day outside.

I immediately felt my face warm and I couldn't look him in the eye. I concentrated on the floor and stuffed the prescription in my purse.

"Thank you," I muttered. I didn't know what else to say. I mean, no one had ever told me that the folds of my vagina looked great before. I didn't know how to react. I figured giving the doctor a thumbs up sign and going, "Fantastic!" would be frowned upon.

"Your cervix looks great, too," the doctor continued. "So if you wanted more kids..."

I looked up with a start. "No babies," I said quickly.

He looked a little stunned.

"It's just," I felt I needed to explain. "Natalie is finally sleeping through the night and I like my sleep."

He nodded but still looked a little baffled.

Sorry, but not every patient who comes in here wants to be the next Michelle Duggar, Doctor.

We said goodbye after that and I came home and Tom asked how it went.

"The folds of my vagina look great, apparently," I explained as I put my purse on the counter.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Huh?"

I shrugged. "That's what the doctor told me."

Tom just stood there quietly and finally admitted that he had no idea what to say to that.

"Me either. I just said thank you," I said.

Because really, there was nothing else TO say.

The Green Smiley Face

Wow, I nearly sent my son to school without any green on.

Tommy had ten minutes before he had to walk to the bus stop and I was wondering why in the world Meredith Viera and Al Roker were attempting to speak Gaelic on the television. Was it for fun? Was it to sound cool to their peers?

And then I realized that it was St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m not the brightest bulb in the bunch first thing in the morning. I mean, duh, they were in Ireland for goodness sakes! I just assumed they were craving Guinness or something.

Anyhow, I suddenly yelped, “Tommy! You’re not wearing green! You NEED some green!”

I suddenly pictured a bunch of evil children surrounding him with their fingers out, poised in a pinch position. Of course teachers wouldn’t allow pinching at school but I know children can be evil twats and would find some way to SNEAK the pinching in when an adult wasn’t looking.

And my poor little boy, he’s inherited my ability to bruise easy.

So I rushed upstairs to Tommy’s room and started frantically going through his closet for a green shirt.

Green, green, green. He HAS to have a green shirt.

Then I found one and pulled it from the hangar and held it over my head like a trophy.

I HAVE FOUND THEE, GREEN SHIRT!

Then I realized, oops, time was running out and Tommy had to get to the bus stop so I hurried back downstairs and tossed the shirt in Tommy’s direction.

“Change into this,” I instructed.

I thought Tommy would reach out and catch it. Maybe he’d even say THANK YOU for saving me from the pinching. But instead he let the shirt flutter to the ground by his feet.

“Mommy, did the Leprechauns come to our house?” Tommy asked hopefully.

Oh. Right. Leprechauns were apart of this whole St. Patrick’s thing. Which made me think of Lucky Charms and that made me wish that we had some. Mmmm, marshmallows. Then I got the jingle in my head (“Frosted lucky charms, marshmallowy delicious!”) and briefly lost my focus.

“Mommy!” Tommy’s voice rang out, breaking me from my thoughts. “Did Leprechauns come to our house?” he repeated in an exasperated voice.

“Yes,” I lied, wishing I had done something to SHOW that they had been here. On the forum that I write at people had said that they were tipping furniture over and leaving chocolates and then telling the children that the leprechauns had done it. Why oh why hadn’t I done something like that?

But then I had an idea.

“Tommy! Look! Look what those messy Leprechaun’s did!” I suddenly said and then gestured to the counter which was piled with mail and…well…pens…and…really, just a lot of junk. I call it my Counter of Junk. It’s usually only clean when we have company. I really try to be organized but it’s just not in the cards for me.

Tommy furrowed his brow as he came over beside me. “Mommy, that was messy before. That’s ALWAYS been messy.” He gave me a knowing look as though he comprehended that I was totally bullshitting him.

But I tried to pull my acting skills out and I went, “No, I think you’re mistaken. I cleaned last night and….and the Leprechauns came and messed it up again.” I threw my hands up in the air. “Those DARN Leprechauns!”

Tommy still didn’t look convinced. “I think you’re lying,” he told me simply and walked off.

What? What?

I miss the days where he’d believe whatever I told him. Such as, if you don’t eat your carrots then the Carrot Monster is going to come and bite your feet at night. Or, if you scream at Mommy then you’ll never get a Happy Meal from McDonalds again because the McDonalds workers know not to pass out Happy Meals to kids who shout at their parents.

Tommy finally did switch into his green shirt.

“Did you pack something green into my lunch?” Tommy wondered before he left.

Erm.

I thought for a few seconds. I had packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a string cheese, an apple and a mini back of those Goldfish snacks.

Nothing green.

But then I remembered that we had green apples too! I had packed Tommy a red one. So I hurried to the fridge and pulled out a green apple.

“Here you go! Green!” I said cheerfully and dug out his lunchbox and switched the apples.

“Some Mommy’s are making kids ALL green lunches,” Tommy fumed.

Huh?

“Well, those are known as Creative Mommy’s. Sorry kid, you didn’t get one of those,” I explained. I swear, I TRY to be crafty. I really do. But it turns out that I hate gluing things.

Tom just gave a sigh and walked out the door.

“Love you! Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! Hopefully those darn Leprechauns don’t come back and mess up the kitchen again!” I shouted.

“That was YOU!” Tommy shouted back without even bothering to turn around.

Right.

About an hour later I had to go grocery shopping. See, I wasn’t wearing any green and I didn’t think adults would mind.

But suppose you have one of those Irish types who take the holiday seriously? I’m not kidding when I say that I bruise easily. So what I did was find a green marker and draw a smiley face on my palm. That way if anyone questioned why I didn’t have green on I could flash my hand and be all, “I do! Look! A green smiley face!”

No one mentioned that I wasn’t wearing green until I went to checkout.

Of course I had a cashier who wagged a finger at me and said in a singsong voice: “SOMEONE isn’t wearing green!”

I looked up with a start. I had been busy unloading my groceries and hadn’t realized she was talking about me at first. Then I saw her wide eyes staring at me.

“Oh,” I laughed. “Actually I---”

“Should I pinch you?” she continued. She tapped her chin as though contemplating this. I honestly thought she was going to walk around her till and walk over and do it. I debated taking the frozen chicken and protecting myself with it.

“Lady, come close to me and I’ll conk you with this meat,” I imagined myself saying. I also pictured myself swinging the chicken around my head like it was a lasso or something.

I honestly have the strangest thoughts sometimes.

“I have green on!” I said in a rushed tone. I waved my palm in her direction so that she could see the green smiley face.

Which was mostly smudged from gripping onto the cart handle so all that remained was an eye and a nose. But still. It was something, right?

“That doesn’t really count but I’ll let it slide,” the cashier said and wagged her finger at me again.

Gee. Thanks. I really don’t think she could have pinched me anyhow. After all, I’m the customer and I’m always right. And, plus, I think her contract stated that she wasn’t allowed to injure customers either.

One would hope, at least.

I’m not making anything special for St. Patrick’s Day. I suppose I could make corned beef or something but I’m not a huge fan of that. Plus, I wouldn’t even know how to cook something it.

So I’m making Sloppy Joes.

I guess I could dye the meat green but it would freak my husband out. He’d insist that something was wrong with the meat and that he couldn’t be expected to eat it and blah blah blah.

So it’ll just be boring old Sloppy Joes tonight.

I may tip over a few chairs so when Tommy gets home from school I could say that the Leprechauns did that.

He probably won’t believe it but I could try at least.

There Went Our Broom

Oops.

Tommy was playing with his Nerf gun over the weekend and the rocket part that blasts off of it got stuck on the roof. I heard him wailing and moaning about it just as I sat down to enjoy an episode of The Real Housewives of New York.

Hey, I didn’t say it was anything particularity stimulating.

I usually end up jealous when I watch that show though. It’s like, hey, I want to vacation at St. Barts! Hey, I want to walk into a store and be able to drop three grand on clothes. Wait a minute, I want to eat at that restaurant and be served little puff cakes!

But anyhow, before I could get into the show—dear gracious, one of the husband’s on there wears Speedos to a beach!—I heard Tommy’s complaining and had to put it on pause.

I rushed outside and he was standing in front of the house next door. Thankfully no one lives there. Tommy was gesturing to the roof and muttering something about a rocket, a rocket, A ROCKET!

Then I realized that his foam toy was sitting on the roof.

Dang.

We don’t have a tall ladder so that was out of the question. So I decided that I’d take the handle of our broom and knock it down.

It really sounded like a good idea at the time. I grabbed the broom, stood on the ultra tiny ladder that we do have and tried to push the toy off the roof.

Um. What happened was that I somehow let go off the broom and it....got stuck...I MAY have grown annoyed and just thrown it up there hoping it would somehow knock the toy to the ground. I mean, my upper arm strength is basically non-existent so after a few tries of swinging and attempting to hit the toy, I was spent.



When Tom came home from work he went, “Why is our broom on top of the house next door?”

I gave him a sheepish grin. “I got so annoyed with housework that I decided to throw the broom on the roof,” I fibbed.

Tom looked like he believed me and was about to launch into a lecture on why we don’t throw our cleaning products on the roof so I quickly added, “I’m joking.”

Though really, sometimes I do long to throw the laundry out the front door. And maybe one day I WILL throw the dish sponge out the window. Dishes just seem to multiply in this house.

The good news is that the wind blew the foam rocket down. At least the Wyoming winds are good for something.

Sadly, our broom is still up on the roof.

So we had to go to the store and buy a new one. Tom took it upon himself to inform the checkout lady that we were buying a new broom, “Because my wife threw ours on the roof.”

The look the checkout lady gave me was priceless. And then she sort of took a step back as though she thought I was insane or something. Maybe she thought that if she made a mistake that I’d reach over and throw HER on the roof.

But anyhow, other than that, nothing really happened over the weekend. On Sunday I went to Target, which is one of my favorite stores ever and the woman across the street waved and said something like,

“Mutter mutter Jesus?”

I wasn’t quite sure what she said. I just heard the word Jesus. I’m assuming she was asking me if I was going to listen to the word of Jesus or something like that. She probably thought I was on my way to church.

See, she has tried to get me to join some of her religious groups and I’ve politely declined. I do believe in God, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve just never felt comfortable in a church. Maybe one day.

We do teach the kids about God. Though I think Tommy was a little confused because for awhile he thought that we went to Venus when we died.

So I explained the concept of Heaven and Hell and he seemed to comprehend. Maybe a little too well.

Because a few weeks ago I heard him outside getting upset with a friend who kept squirting him with a water gun. I ran out to put a stop to it and arrived just in time to hear Tommy shout, “You’re being naughty, Blake! You’re going to go to Hell now!”

Um. Eeps.

Blake’s mouth dropped open and he went, “I’m telling. You said a bad word. I’m TELLING!” And then he spotted me and waved his hand dramatically in Tommy’s direction. “He said the H-word at me. He said it and he needs to be punished.”

I did pull Tommy inside and explain that we don’t say things like that.

“But why?” asked a confused Tommy. “It’s true. Bad people go to Hell. You TOLD me so.”

I swallowed and wished that I could be laying out in a beach in Hawaii. Oh gosh, I need a vacation. Big time. “You’re right, Tommy, I did say that,” I began. “But it’s just not nice to say.”

“But what if—” Tommy started.

“It’s just not nice to say,” I repeated sternly.

Tommy seemed to get the point after that. My stern face can be scary. I sort of pierce my lips and try to furrow my brows and will my eyes to get all stony and hard. I bet that sort of look would be frightening to a child.

Or to anyone, really.

Anyhow, what I told that lady who asked me if I was going to listen to the word of Jesus was, “Yes!” accompanied by an enthusiastic nod.

I have no idea why I said yes. Sometimes I just agree to things to keep people happy. I hate disappointing people.

But, to be honest, sometimes I feel like I’ve heard the word of Jesus when I’ve found a fabulous deal at Target. Once I found this adorable purse for 75% off and I swear I heard a gospel singing in the background. (They were all, “Hallelujah!”) And once when I found this cute navy pea coat in the 75% off rack I thought I heard someone say, “Well done.” It COULD have been Jesus.

Of course I think Jesus has better things to do than watch me shop.

I mean, seriously.

Sixteenth Century Fun

So I decided that I wanted to spice up my marriage.

I always hear that dressing up is a big hit for men. So I greeted Tom when he got home from work in this:



Complete with a curtsy. Which, okay, I'm sort of glad that curtsies aren't really done anymore. Because I gave an awkward curtsy. I nearly lost my balance and landed flat on my face. Then my skirt would have flopped up and I'd have exposed my chemise.

I'm joking. I did not have a chemise on.

But anyhow, yes, that would be my Anne Boleyn costume. I guess it doesn't HAVE to be an Anne Boleyn costume but that's just what it was called over at BuyCostumes.com.

It's no secret that I've always been facinated with the Tudor-era. You know, Henry the Eighth? The guy who had all those wives?

I decided to buy the costume as a surprise.

And a surprise it was for Tom. When he walked through the door and saw me go down into a curtsy his first words were, "What's going on in here?"

As though I were having some costume party or something. I mean, I guess I could understand why he'd think that. It's not everyday that a woman approaches you in sixteenth century garb. Unless you're at a Renaissance Fair or something. Or, you know, Medieval Times.

I got up from my curtsy and smoothed out my dress.

"Do you like it?" I asked and fluttered my eyelashes at him like I was a fair maiden.

Tom eyed me up and down as though he were at a loss for words. Maybe he was.

So I went down into another curtsy and said in what I hoped was a sultry tone, "How was work today, Sire?"

Tom wrinkled his nose. "Amber. I've got to say, I've had a long day and I'm confused. Oh, and please don't call me Sire."

You know, I bet there are thousands of men out there who wouldn't mind being called Sire for a day. I was about to point this out but then Tom said,

"Just an FYI, men like their wives to dress up in things like tiny nurse costumes. Or a school girl costume. Not..." Tom gestured wildly in my direction. "...this."

Well, excuse me!

Maybe I was going for originality. Don't I get points for that?

I just curtsied again. Because what I wanted to say was, "You're being a total asshole who smells like feet." Because his feet DO stink when he comes home from work since they've been in boots all day. But I bit my tongue. Because I was trying to play the part of a demure woman.

You know, it really would have sucked to be a woman back in Henry VIII's time. Because they really weren't meant to speak. Basically, a man wanted a woman to be arm candy. Oh, and to pop out a bunch of sons.

Also, and this really sucks, a woman was rarely allowed to pick her own husband. Her family usually did it for her. So the woman would just pray that she wasn't married off to the old fogey who lived across the Moor.

"Please stop doing that!" Tom's voice cut through my thoughts.

I peeked up from my cursty. "Stop what?" I wondered in what I hoped was a sweet voice.

I wonder what my dowry would have been? Maybe a lot of money, perhaps? In reality, it probably would have been cows. And maybe some sheep sprinkled in for fun. Maybe even a chicken because eggs rock.

"Curtsying! Stop Curtsying!" Tom said and then plopped down on the couch.

I walked over and settled down on his lap. I'm not sure if this was what women would do back then. It probably was frowned upon. But oh well.

"Isn't my dress pretty though?" I asked. "Surely it could be as nice as a nurse costume?"

Tom made a face. "Not really. There's like...yards and yards of fabric. There's like two feet of it hiding your boobs. And..I'd feel like I were playing Where's Waldo to get to your--"

I jumped off then. "You stop right there. That's not proper speak towards a lady!" I even wagged my finger at him.

Tom sighed. He was probably wishing for a normal wife. One who would put on a school girl uniform and do some dance where hips are swayed wildly or something. But I'm sorry, I can't move like that. I could try but let's be honest, when I dance it looks as though I'm trying hard to get an ice cube that has fallen down my back out.

"You do look pretty," Tom spoke up. He was probably worried that he had hurt my feelings. "It's just...it's different."

I took a seat beside him on the couch. "Maybe you could get a Henry the Eighth costume!" I said brightly.

I had already worked out the scenerio in my head. We could have Henry the Eighth days and Tom would be all, "Give me sons!" and I'd be all, "I gave you one!" and Tom would be all, "Bring the ale!" and I'd be all, "Yes, Sire!"

It could be so much fun!

But Tom, boring old Tom, rudely went, "No way."

!!!!!!

"What about for Halloween?" I begged, clasping my hands together.

Tom shook his head firmly. "No. Way."

"When we renew our vows then?" I pressed.

Tom looked flabbergasted. Then he exploded with, "NO! I will not ever wear a Henry the Eighth costume! Never!"

NEVER?

Well, this stinks.

I had already had a wedding ceremony in my mind, too. Tom would be dressed in a royal blue ensemble and okay, he'd probably be upset over the codpiece which basically held in a man's...well..package..but then he would brighten up when he'd realize that he got to carry a sword.

What man wouldn't want to carry around a sword?

He might fuss and whine about the tights but really, he has nice legs and I'd promise him that it would be okay.

Then all our guests would be in sixteenth century clothing and we'd lift up our ale cups and shout, "Huzzah!" and there would be jousting.

JOUSTING!

When has anyone seen jousting at a wedding?

Never, I bet.

Our wedding would be fantastic.

But no. Tom had to go and crush my dreams.

He probably just wants to have a traditional wedding. Well, technically a renewal of our vows. We've been married for seven years and would like to renew our vows at our ten year mark.

Tom probably just wants some boring old church wedding where I'd be in a long white gown even though it's obvious that I'm not pure anymore. And Tom would be in his Air Force uniform and we'd repeat what the Priest told us to say and I'd be thinking, "Lalala this would have been SO much fun had there been jousting."

Oh well.

"You're no fun," I told Tom and then flounced off. And nearly tripped on my dress that really needs to be hemmed. But I pretended that I meant to stumble and then marched upstairs.

Then I realized I had to use the bathroom and I realized, crap, how am I meant to use the bathroom with all this fabric around me?

I suppose I could have taken it off but I never seem to form logical thoughts when I'm annoyed. And annoyed I was. I mean, Tom wasn't even giving the Henry the Eighth costume a chance!

So I wandered over to the toilet and sort of lifted the dress around me. And then, before I went, I wondered how I was meant to, erm, wipe if I was holding up my gown.

"TOM!" I shrieked. "TOM!"

How on Earth do people getting married use the bathroom when they have poofy dresses? Do they just not drink during the reception? I wouldn't know. Tom and I got married in a courthouse and I was seven months pregnant and wearing an ugly (black) pregnancy outfit.

Tom appeared a few minutes later. He gave me a bemused look when he saw me hunched over the toilet with my dress poofed around me.

"I need to pee," I explained sheepishly.

"Take off the dress," Tom replied knowingly and turned to leave.

"TOM!" I yelped. "I can't now. Since I'm hunched over the toilet my body is all set to...go.."

It was true. My bladder was starting to feel really uncomfortable and I did not want to mess up my new dress.

Tom gave another one of his famous sighs and even rolled his eyes up to the Heavens. He was probably silently asking the Big Guy why he had been saddled with such a crazy wife. Then he walked over and took a hold of the material and...kept looking at me.

"Um," I said. "Please turn away. I can't...you know..when you're looking at me."

"Are you kidding me? You ask me for help and now you're dictating where I can and cannot look? Are you KIDDING--" Tom began to rant.

"TOM PLEASE!"

Tom ended up looking away but he was muttering under his breath. I caught the word "insane" and I did not appreciate it.

Then when I was finished Tom went to head back downstairs but I asked if he could please take some pictures of me.

"I guess," he grumbled.

Tom, I love him, but he takes the most unflattering pictures. He always takes pictures when he's sitting down which makes it looks as though I have more than one chin. And I feel like I have to pull his teeth to get him to take more than one photo. He snaps one picture and is all, "I'm done!" But he doesn't comprehend that I'm not Heidi Klum and that it takes a couple of shots to get a good one.

So he took this:



And then the dress came with a hood which I tried to get on. It was not working for me though.



The dress is not figure flattering. That's a size small but it still ran huge. It looked like I had Matt Roloff stuffed up my dress or something.

But I still like it.

I wish one of the costume designers from the show The Tudors would loan me a dress. I wonder if I should write them a letter and ask? But then, I think all the actresses who wear the dresses are like a size 0 or something. Which, I can't assure you, I am not.

Oh well.