And a Most Exciting Kwanzaa to You!

Well.  It has been a hot minute since I have been up in your grill with my nonsense.

I hope I can remedy that today.

The last month has consisted of much gift preparation.  Leaving no time for writing. 

And zero outlet for my bitchy side, Francis.  Francis has been under wraps and she is raging.

Michael has been loving it.  (Written in sarcastic font.)

I was feeling a little puffy.  So full of pent up snark.

And then Friday happened.

And then I didn't know what to feel. 

Except scared.  Hopeless.  Devastated.  Confused.  Sad.

Just so sad.

I lost all snark.  The bitchiness was gone.  I didn't even want to punch anybody in the face.

And then all the gun debates started and I quickly regained my urge to punch people in the face.

So don't worry.  Francis lives on.

In the spirit of trying to find some light in these dark days, I thought I'd make a list.

I don't know what to call it because there really is no theme...?

Things that Don't Suck/Things I am Thankful For/Funny Things/Things that are Better than the End of the World.

1.  Upon threat of death, Michael finally stopped wiping tooth paste on the hand towel in the bathroom.  Yay!  I'm pretty sure he feels severely oppressed, but I told him that towel was purely decorational and did not serve any actual purpose.  Except to dry the hands of the guests we never have.

2.  Giant seasonal tins of popcorn.  I hate carmel corn and Michael hates chedder corn.  I am only luke warm about the butter flavor.  It results in all dividers of popcorn being eaten at the same rate.  Very pleasing to my OCD side. 

3.  Pinterest taught me to wrap the stem of my bananas in plastic wrap.  It kept our bananas longer.  Thanks Pinterest.

4.  Pinterest also taught me how to clean the wax out of old candles.  Which did sort of suck.  And now I have many glass jars that I have nothing to do with.  But because of Pinterest I refuse to throw them away. 

Horrible Catch 22.

5.  If the world does end, there will be no more Ke$ha.

'Bout damn time.

6.  Last night I looked over to find Michael drinking a cup of cocoa and eating a hard boiled egg.

I married a retiree.

(Excuse the crack in the lens.  That happened in the 4 hour span in which my phone was with out a protective cover.  True story.)

7.  Incidentally, I also found out that he thinks the lyrics to Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree are:

Rockin' around the Christmas tree

At the Christmas party house.

Mistletoe hung where you can see

Ev'ry couple tries to stop

Christmas Party House? 

I said, it's Hop.  The Christmas Party HOP.

He disagreed, and it's pretty much the only debate of this kind I have ever won in our entire marriage. 

Merry Christmas to me!

8.  The fact that I have never won any of these small debates doesn't bother me.  All I have to do is look at our children.  It's like my genes kicked his in the shins and said,

"Sit yo ass down."

So maybe I won the most important battle of all. 

9.  Michael made the soft almond sugar cookies from Pinterest, upon my request.

They were spectacular.  I highly recommend!

10.  Doing some blog clean-up, I noticed a crazy amount of views on one of my old, old, old posts.  (The ones I can't read because they are full of long, un-funny paragraphs with run-on sentences and a thousand commas.  Although, I do still love commas. A lot.)

This is highly unusual because really only about 8 people visit this blog a day.  And I bet I could tell you who they are.  And they're probably just killing time on the toilet. 

We've all done it.

The winner is:  Undie Sundae

After looking it up, I've found that 9,266 people have read this post since I wrote it.

It gives me great joy (an unreasonable amount actually) to know that I have, unbeknownst to me, been helping to heal, to coin a phrase of one of my co-workers, Miss. Kittys, since 2010. 

(See that sentence right there, that was a nod to my love of commas.  I don't even care if I use them right.  I just throw them around willy-nilly.)

I can really ring in the new year with hope now;

I feel like a vaginal guardian angel of sorts.

11.  Commas.

12.  This face:

I mean. I die.

13.

 

14.   Our refrigerator.

It's not stainless steel, it's not sleek and pretty.  The door ice maker doesn't work.

It is chaotic and messy, but it is full of reminders that a family lives here. 

And we have a lot of love.

And that is a whole lot of light on dark days.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Kwanzaa!

(I actually had to google, "How do you wish someone a Happy Kwanzaa?  I wasn't sure if it was Happy Kwanzaa, Merry Kwanzaa, Exciting Kwanzza??  Turns out I was right with Happy Kwanzaa.  Joyous and Jubilant Kwanzaa is also acceptable.)

P.S.  I also learned another Kwanzaa greeting in Swahili is 'Harambee!,' which means, "Let's all pull together."

Google, as ever, you are so wise and timely.

Harambee!



Wine Night

You know what is pretty scary?

Women.

Women can be very scary.

A whole room full of women can be very, very scary.

Even if these women are your friends.  There is still a small chance that they could turn on you.

Probably the only beast God created that can judge you before it rips out your throat.

Michael, typically, did not understand what I was SO stressed out about on Tuesday night, as I prepared for ten women to come over to my house for book club.

TEN women.

That is more people than have ever been in my house.

By like...ten.

In the past my idea of entertaining has been setting out a bag of Tostitos and a jar of queso.

And quite honestly, most of the time it's the Walmart brand of corn chips that are really cheap.  So I technically don't even serve people whole chips.  I serve them chip pieces.

What's that?  Jarred queso is supposed to be warmed before serving. 

Well.  Just chalk that up to something I'll know for next time.

And no, the chips aren't even in a cute basket.

So, understandably, I was at DEFCON 5 at 6 pm on Tuesday night.  Simultaneously on the phone with my mother, delegating to Michael, who was trying to explain to me what an egg white was, and googling 'italian bread crumbs'.  I had regular bread crumbs.  Possibly if I just threw in some parmesan they would be 'italian bread crumbs'?

I'm told no.

In my opinion, if you put parmesan on something it's a least a little bit Italian. 

Especially if you pronounce it like Giada does.   Parmigiano reggiano...

Then it's at least 75% Italian. (This is true.  Just trust me)

Me:  WE NEED MORE WINE!

Michael:  You have FIVE bottles of wine.  On what planet is that not enough?

Me:  On my planet.

Michael:  Everything is going to be okay.  There will be plenty.  Plus, people have to drive home, they can't drink that much.

Me:  Listen.  A large majority of these women are mothers.  They are good for at least a bottle a piece.  A few of them are attorneys and mothers.  So basically when they go to work they get to mediate more toddler arguments...but with adults.  I'm going to safely say they can probably put it away.  Except the pregnant one.  We'll have to watch her.  And one is responsible for keeping people asleep while their insides are being sliced open.  Sliced open.  I can't even imagine the day she's had?   Now that I stop and think about it, how are these women my friends?  They are all very professional and impassioned about things.  I PICK MY FEET AND EAT QUESO!  And our carpet is really dirty!  Why didn't we recarpet when we moved in!? 

Michael:  You are getting a little hysterical.

And then, like Henry at the fair, my head exploded.

Two appetizers were served.  That I had never made before.

When my mom heard that.  Her head exploded. 

My mom:  (on the phone at 6:30, guests to arrive at 7 pm) You've never made any of this before!?

Me:  Holy shit. I can't handle this. It's like you don't even know me!.

My mom:  It's going to be fine.  Don't worry.  If the food is bad, you'll have plenty.  If it's good, and you run out, it's still fine.  It's not an all-you-can-eat buffet.  And if all else fails, there's wine.  I love you.

Thank God for moms.

And husbands.  Who make your egg wash and season your bread crumbs, while you hyperventilate. 

It actually went well...I think...

There was a point where conversation was centered around the nominees for District Court Judge and all I could think was:

What are they saying?  I don't understand any of these words.

I hope no one looks at me.  The most significant thought I've had today is realizing that my feet are really ugly and I need to do something about that. 

I hate winter feet!  You forget about them because they are socked.  And then one day you look down and scream.

Like I said, I have no idea how I fell in with this group of people.  It was probably an accident.

Actually, I think it was my husband.  People assume because he acts professional and normal...

That his wife must be too.

Mmmm.  Notsomuch.

I would like to thank all the lovely ladies that attended.  I think we all had fun.  Or at least you pretended well, which I appreciate. 

No one even batted an eyelash when I got into a rant about dying infants.

I'm not sure how it happened.  I think I had four glasses of wine in me at that point. (I blame the stress.)

But let's all just agree to not talk about my job at book club. 

That'll kill your buzz.

I'll be your goat.

I believe J. Biebs said it perfectly:

As long as you love me
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke
As long as you love me
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gold.
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)

Except when I was listening to this song yesterday, he kind of fades out when he sings the word gold.

"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gooo....."

To the average person it probably would have been obvious that this word was gold, but for some reason it never occurred to me.

So as I was jogging on the treadmill yesterday I was probably the only person at the Y singing;

"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat."

(To my credit, I knew this was probably the wrong word, but could not for the life of me figure out what he was trying to say.  And it kind of sounded like goat.  So I went with it.)

And then it occurred to me, this song was quite appropriate, as today is our anniversary.

So instead of writing (what I've come to fear) is a version of the same thing in your anniversary card every year.

I thought I'd let The Biebs preach it for me...

As long as you love me
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke
As long as you love me
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat.

'Goat' is actually a much more appropriate word than 'gold' in this song (for my purposes).  Because only you (Michael) understand how truly uncool I am, and that the word 'goat' is actually kind of perfect.  More perfect than any cool word would be. Because well...I'm not cool.   And you know that.  And you still love me.  And that's why we are perfect for each other. 

Google tells me:

Goats are good for milk. 

(I have been known to be good for milk in past.  But I think we both realize that time has come and quickly gone.)

It is for this reason that I am not good for cheese. 

(Although I doubt we ever would have made cheese out of my milk.  But if the world ends in December, as I have come to fear it will, I will hold no hard feelings if you are the littlest bit regretful that you didn't trade me in for a slightly upgraded model, that is at the very least, capable of supplying you with cheese during the Apocalypse.)

Goats are good for meat.

(I try and keep a nice layer of meat on myself.  Just for you.  All those bowls of cookie dough ice cream, just remember.  It's all for you.)

Goats keep the brush down.

(I'm not sure that I keep the brush down, but I am a grazer.  Once again.  It's all for you.)

Lastly,  (It's amazing what you can find out when you google, 'what are goats good for?')

Goats make good pets, but can also be extremely annoying to care for. 

I think this one speaks for itself.

I love you babe.  I'll always be your goat.

Good to have around, but extremely annoying to care for.



"Date Night"

Michael and I have this inside joke (half joke/half serious, if I'm being honest) that I need to text message or email him about conversations that I plan to initiate in the future... 

So I can inform him of what the proper response should be.

I have conversations in my head all the time, and when the real conversation doesn't go like the version in my head, I get a little perturbed.

When I come downstairs in a new outfit that includes either:

1. Boots

or

2.  Any manner of superfluous belt (a belt added merely for style purposes.)

I warn him in advance.  It's kind of like I Cc: him on the conversation in my brain.

Text Message to Michael:  From Your Loving Wife:

"I will be coming downstairs in five minutes and the proper response is:  Wow you look ravishing.  Those boots make your calves look so slender and shapely.  And that completely unneccesary belt looks amazing.  It's like you walked off the pages of a magazine."

This makes for a very harmonious marriage. 

It is in this very harmonious state that I sometimes forget that he can't read my mind.

Which can, on occasion, lead me to behave in ways that are...unflattering.

Me: "Hey babe, I have to work next Wednesday night."

(Secret test.  Will he realize this is our anniversary?)

Michael:  [cocked eyebrow] "I know, I guess we'll have to celebrate our anniversary a different night."

(The look on his face says, "Ha, crazy bitch be tryin' to test me.")

Me:  (In my brain) "Ahh, very good, Grasshoppa."

Me: (out loud) "We don't have to do anything.  It'll really just be too expensive."

Me: (In my brain)  "We could get a babysitter and go out to a nice dinner and exchange nice, thoughtful gifts."

Michael:  "We could just do cards if you want.  You don't have to get me anything. Or we can make each other something!"

Me: (In my brain) "Son of a bee-sting, Abort mission! Abort mission!  Nope. I want a real present.  From a real store.  With a real receipt.  And dinner that I didn't cook.  Where no one poops their pants at the table."

Me: (Out loud) "Yeah, cards are good.  We don't need to do presents."

Me: (In my brain)  "Oh my God.  It's only been three years.  And we're already stopping presents.  We might as well just start separating our DVDs."

Michael: [genuinely happy]  "It'll be great!"

Me: "Yeah, Wooo Hooo.  Great!"

Now, I have two choices:

1.  I can be a nice person and be grateful.  Grateful that I have a wonderful husband that I get to celebrate any anniversary with. 

or

2.  I can go crazy. 

But not obviously crazy. 

That would be too easy for Michael to decipher. 

I must go secretly crazy and reveal my frustrations through snarky comments about strangers on Facebook. 

I enjoy really making him dig to find the root of the crazy.

I really should not be allowed to go on Facebook when I'm not in a good mood; the mere existence of other people in the world, doing fun things, instantly pisses me off.

"Oh, look at you stranger, on your date night.  Please tell me, what is this date night that you speak of?"

"Oh you have free babysitting!  Tell me about how great that is.  And then kill yourself."

"I sure hope you don't choke on that chicken parm at your 'nice dinner out with friends'!"

"A long weekend away with your husband.  Please do enjoy!  It would be terrible if your plane crashed."

Me: "Oh look babe, look at these people on a date night, isn't that adorable!"

"When was the last time we had a date night?  Oh I remember!  After I had Adeline and they wheeled me down to the tiny, "mole-people" post-partum room we ordered Jimmy Johns and had it delivered!  That thirty minutes she was in the nursery was really wonderful.  Just the two of us.  Does that count?  I suppose for fifteen minutes of it you had to help me to the bathroom.  It was so chivalrous of you to stand there while I changed my peri-pad so that if I fainted from blood loss I wouldn't fall off the toilet.  So romantic, wasn't it?!"

Michael:  "I get it. We'll do presents."

Me: "Okay, only if you really want to..."

Happy Anniversary to the most patient, wonderful man in the whole world.

The Seed of ADHD

As we were sitting down at the dinner table last night:

Michael:  So, I looked it up online and it turns out there are quite a few people vehemently opposed to toddler backpack leashes.

Me:  Yes, it is hard to believe that leading your child around like the family pet would be such a polarizing issue.

Michael:  We're still getting one...

I imagine every parent (let me rephrase that, 'new parent') looks forward to the day that they see their child gaining more independence. 

I prayed day and night to see Henry walk.

And God listened.  And Henry walked.

Now I pray night and day that Henry will just sit in his stroller.

Let me set the stage for you:

Last weekend at the Dixie Classic Fair.  (You already know this is bound to get good.)

We had two strollers.

Man-on-man defense.

Adeline slept in her stroller and just enjoyed the general splendor.

Henry, on the other hand;

Lost. His. Damn. Mind.

To his credit, I imagine the whole thing was very overwhelming.

(You know how science teachers put a camera on a little bean sprout and record it growing and then you watch it grow in fast forward.  When you take a two year old to the fair you can look in their eyes and watch the seed of ADHD sprout and quickly take over their brain.)

Two words: crazy eyes.

Alas, the county fair is not exactly the time and place you want your child to exercise their growing love of independence. 

i.e.  refusing to sit in the stroller.

I am all for Henry walking by himself.  BUT.  He looks at his feet when he walks.  He walks into walls. He walks head-long into groups of people.  (Further evidence that 99% of his genes came from me.)

He is easily distracted:

"Oh a stuffed banana, Is that something shiny?  Oh a rock, I'm going to pick it up and put in my pants, OH MY GOD a basketball!, Is that an inflatable Dora!?, I see a man with pizza, I want pizza, Oh, there's another rock, I'll put this one in my pants too. Is that a slide. That woman has blue pants, I'm going to touch the blue pants. Stuffed monkey, stuffed giraffe, stuffed pencil, STUFFED PICKLE.  Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.)

And then we saw fluid start to leak out of his ears.

We said, "You have to hold our hand, Henry."

We said, "You have to hold on to the stroller, Henry."

Henry heard, "Run like Hell."

It was a good thing the midway was so loud, because Henry's screams as we tried to force him back into the stroller might have really gotten on people's nerves.

Picture a giant squid with rigor mortis.

Nearly impossible to jam in a stroller with out some faintly disturbing cracks and pops.

Don't worry.  Only slight bruising was sustained by the handlers.

We left feeling defeated. 

Saying to ourselves, "Well, this will be fun...in five years."

No, we don't want to leash Henry.  But what is one to do?

I hear that "leashing parents" are bad parents.  We don't try hard enough. We don't teach our kids the correct way to behave. 

We don't "reason" with them.

Doy, Why didn't I think of that?

Reasoning with a two year old is highly effective.

I figure leash opponents are either,

A:  Not Parents.

or

B:  Much better parents than me.

So, please.  Sing me the song of your people.  I'm listening.

In the meantime, please ignore that little boy at the fair who wants to feel your pants, steal your pizza, beat you about the head with an inflatable whale and show you a rock he just extracted from his diaper. 

My sincerest apologies.



Mean Eyebrow Children

I came to the realization this morning that I may be a slightly mean person.

I don't mean to be mean.

I just think mean thoughts.  In my head.

This past Spring, when I was big and pregnant, I would drop Henry off at preschool and I would see this other big and pregnant lady.  It was obvious that we both had toddlers.  It was obvious we were both big and pregnant, seemingly due about the same time.

But the bitch wouldn't ever talk to me.

Um. wtf?

I talk to everyone.  I think my husband considers it a sickness or bizarre condition, but I find it to be one of the traits I like most about myself.  I will talk to anyone who makes eye contact for more than 2 seconds, which I think is a standard conversation invitation.

And if I don't have anyone to talk to I'll start a blog and pretend like I'm talking to people.

The act of simultaneously raising toddlers would have been enough of a conversation starter, let alone the fact that we were both smuggling fetuses (feti?).

But no.

Nary a word was passed between us.  We could have been best friends. 

But apparently I wasn't good enough for her.

Sure, she swept in with her linen pants and monogrammed backpack.

And I drop Henry off looking like a gremlin in my stained sweatpants.

But still.

This continual lack of acknowledgement festered in my brain until there was no other choice than for her to be my arch-enemy.

Linen pants bitch.

(I don't even know her name and I couldn't tell you anything about her other than the fact that we've never spoken, but I don't like her.  I can tell ya that much.)

Michael tried to tell me, "Maybe she just never saw you,"  "Maybe she's a shy person,"  "Maybe she has social boundaries like regular people."

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Well guess what happened today?

I was dropping the kids off at the childcare room at the Y, when guess who strolls in...

None other than.  Linen pants bitch.

We stood this close.  Our arm hairs touched.

She picked her toddler up and her baby. 

I dropped off my toddler and baby.

The car seats bumped. 

Nothing.

Not even a "How do ya do,"  "Nice baby stranger,"  "I see you shit out that baby, good work."

She's Satan.

But I was skinnier than her...

I felt good for a nanosecond. 

Until I realized that is just the thought that a mean person would think.

A mean thought.



I don't want to be a mean person.  And I don't want my kids to be mean people.  When they aren't toddlers anymore and aren't supposed to be mean, that is.

It hasn't even been two days since the bizarre "Children as Eyebrows" conversation with Michael:

(Oh don't worry. I'll give you a brief recap.)

As I was getting ready to go to the Dixie Classic Fair with Michael and the kids, I was plucking my eyebrows and putting on make-up. 

FYI:  Both of these things would have been unnecessary to attend the DCF.

When a horrible thought struck me.  And I immediately ran downstairs;

Me: (Panicked shriek)  "What if the kids grow up like my eyebrows!?" 

Michael: "What, excuse me.  What now."

Me:  "I try my hardest to train them, I groom them, I buy them special products.  I say nice things to them, but yet they are still unruly and I can't trust them."

Michael:  "The kids?"

Me: "No.  My eyebrows."

Michael:

Me:  "At the end of the day they're just mean and do their own thing."

Michael:  "The kids?"

Me:  "NO, my eyebrows."

Michael:  "You think the kids are going to be mean and do their own thing?"

Me:  "What if despite our best efforts...they are and they do?"

Michael:  "I guess we'll just have to get rid of them."

Me:  "The kids?"

Michael:  "No.  Your eyebrows."

Me:  "You are completely underestimating the severity of this absurd, made-up scenario and all of its implications."

Michael: "Indeed."

Now it is obvious that I am unbalanced,

but I have good intentions...

(Like many of you, I assume.)

So I'm going to try and be a nicer person.  And think nice thoughts.  And be a good example.

Hopefully this will prevent my children from descending into madness and rebellion. 

Like my eyebrows.

If they do, I guess we'll just get rid of them.



The Best Laid Plans

Damn you Babycenter.com, damn you to Hell.

There are a few things in this world that I wish I never found out about:

1.  Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips.

I don't know how many layers of tongue I have lost to those irresistible bastards.  Too many to count.

2.  Rainbow Chip Frosting. 

I don't know how many pounds of fat I owe to this devil in a can.  Too many to count.

3.  Babycenter.com

I don't know how many hours of sleep I've lost and hissy fits I've thrown at the hands of Babycenter.com.  Too many to count.

It all sounds so well and good:

Subscribe to website; get useful information and updates on your pregnancy, baby, toddler...

During my pregnancy this was a Planners Nirvana.  My ultimate destination for all things baby.

For a person with a moderate to sometimes severe anxiety issue these updates are only useful if everything is going as planned. 

But things don't go as planned.

Parenthood 101:

Make a Plan B.  Plan C.  And Plan D. 

Because Plan A ain't never gonna happen.

It wasn't my plan that Henry would decide he didn't want to walk until he was 19 months old... 

But I'll be damned if I didn't get that update email every month:

"Your Baby at 15 Months"

"Your Baby at 16 Months"

"Your Baby at 17 Months"

Please enlighten me Babycenter.com! 

What is my XYZ Month old supposed to be capable of this month?

Walking, you say!?

50 words, you say!?

Sentences, you say!?

Algebra, some light calculus!?

Well, I have something to say to you Babycenter.com:

Fuck you.

(Cut to me, slamming the computer into the wall.)

Kids don't all develop at the same rate.

Every child does not walk, talk, run, jump or fart at the same time.

So I'd like to thank you for the monthly anxiety attack I have come to expect from you. 

You never fail me.

What's that?

Just don't read the emails....

Well, then I wouldn't be a good mom, now would I?

So as we speak I am in the midst of a Babycenter-induced-panic-attack. 

They tell me that we should be establishing good sleep habits for Adeline. 

They are warning me that bad sleep habits can get out of hand quickly.

Currently she loves to sleep in her crib at night, but refuses to nap in it during the day. 

She likes to nap in her swing.  No motion.

Just sitting in her swing. 

Happy as a clam.

But, that's not a good sleep habit!!

She should be napping in her crib...

This is getting out of hand!



AHH.

How are we going to explain to her college roommate that she needs to sleep in a custom made basket?

She's going to be that weird girl on the 5th floor who sleeps in a basket.

Thanks for the update Babycenter.com.

Tiny Schizophrenics

I'm going to say something that may shock you.

You may think I'm a terrible person. 

But I've managed to do a little unofficial investigation on the subject.  (By unofficial investigation, I mean listening to a lot of moms bitch about the same thing.)

So, I'm quite confident that instead of throwing shoes at my face and shunning me, you will most likely agree wholeheartedly.

Toddlers are mean.

Toddlers are selfish.

Toddlers can be assholes.

I mean assholes in the best sense of the word.

Actually, no I don't.  I mean assholes in the terriblepersonItryandavoid, sense of the word.

I am writing this so that new moms do not feel as if they are doing something wrong when their child turns into a demon at approximately 18 months of age.  

Give or take 2 days.

Facebook would have you believe that toddlers are wonderful, smiley, clean, cute, nice people.

That's true, for about 20% of the day.  

Give or take 20% (In my experience it's always, always take.)

I admit, I'm a repeat offender.  I love to post pictures of Henry and Adeline doing cute things and acting like they don't want to shank each other behind my back.

It warms my heart.

I know it warms my mom's heart when I text her pictures like that.  And then she responds,

"Ohh, look, Henry is such a great big brother!  That's adorable!"  

Ten minutes after this photo he drop-kicked her in the head.

I'm sure other parents can corroborate this story:  

In the 15 minute window before or after every adorable photo, the "so cute" toddler/s had an ear-splitting, jaw-dropping, pants-peeing, vodka-bottle-opening:

Tantrum.

That made you question every choice you've ever made in your life.

**I'm sure that you never imagined yourself coming home from a trip to the pediatrician saying to yourself,

"Shit, there's nothing wrong with my kid."

Because your child was acting so incredibly heinous.  So inexplicably horrible, that your only possible explanation was that there must be some severe physical ailment in progress.

There has to be some form of bodily illness or injury to blame for this behavior.

Nope.  They are fine. 

Healthy as a horse.

That's just their winning personality... 

F-Bomb...Dropped.

**I'm sure you never imagined these words coming out of your mouth:

"I mean, I love my kids, but I just don't like them."

(An admission from a girl sitting next to me in computer training class.  After we had known each other 20 minutes.)

**I'm sure you never imagined yourself googling, "Toddler Multiple Personality Disorder or Pediatric Schizophrenia."

(As did one of the wonderful girls I work with.)

Because you think to yourself,

"My child has a psychiatric disorder.  They must.  That is the only explanation...I gave birth to a tiny schizophrenic."

Our sweetest, most adorable, cuddly parenting fantasies do not include any of the above.

I'm quite positive my parenting fantasies didn't include having flashes in my head of throwing myself off a building screaming, "IT'S ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN," 

as Henry hurls himself across the room in an ear splitting, meltdown.

Because I wouldn't give him a Kraft Single.

But we think that somehow admitting that our child is an asshole too (if only temporarily), reflects poorly on our parenting.

But sometimes it doesn't matter how you parent. 

It doesn't matter if you are Dr. Sears-Weissbluth-Murkoff-Poppins.  

It doesn't matter if you anticipate every hunger pang.  Every sleepy moment.  Every irrational toddler fear.

Sometimes they will just flip the fuck out.

But I promise there is a silver lining.

Like every relationship you had in college;

Sometimes the people that love you the very most, treat you the very worst. 

Because they know you will never leave them.

I imagine parenting is a little like self-mutilation.

It's horrible and messy and dysfunctional.  

But somehow it just feels really good.

Paging Christian Grey, MD

At first I thought, "Hmm...maybe I shouldn't write about this, maybe it's just too embarrassing."

Then, I thought.  Well, what the Hell is this thing for anyway.

So here you go.

This past week has been SO thrilling, I can't even begin to tell you!

18 HOURS of computer training for work.  It's called Epic. And let me tell you the name does not disappoint.

18 HOURS of sitting.

(Which at first, I was actually kind of excited about.  I don't get to sit down that much.)

Let me tell you.  It was thrilling.

So thrilling, in fact, that the veins popped out of my butt.

Seriously.

Hemorrhoids y'all.

See at first, when I thought this was too embarrassing to write about, I did what any smart medical professional with 500 text books in their house does. 

I googled it.

According to Web MD, 50% of the population suffers from hemorrhoids at least once before the age of fifty. 

So I did the math, carried the one, and figured that some of you probably know what I'm talking about here.

Especially since so many of you have pooped babies as well;

Which, as luck would have it, makes us even more susceptible to the 'Big H.'

I figured, we should not have to suffer this indignity in silence...alone.

So I thought I'd tell a bunch of strangers, so we could all laugh about it together.

:)

I thought, there must be a quick fix for this.  What is happening?  I'm only 29.  This is not nice.  This is not fair.

My dad has 'Hs.'  I am not supposed to have 'Hs'.

That's what I'm calling it from now on.  Hs.  If I keep typing the word I feel like the hemorrhoids have won. 

Oh Web MD, how many times I have turned to you;

The year I was convinced I had Lupus.

The other year I was convinced I had bone cancer. (Neither of which are funny, I assure you.)

("Nursing is the perfect profession for me!  Said no hypochondriac ever.")

Every time you have comforted and assured me, Web MD. 

This time, however, you told me to stick my finger up my ass.

Not funny. Web MD.  Not funny.

Now, I have had my finger up a few butts in my day.  More than I'd like to remember actually. 

Strictly business, you guys.

(And, as an aside, when you give an adult a rectal suppository, you're technically supposed to hold it up there a few minutes so it doesn't just come slidin' right back out.  Tell me those aren't the most awkward 120 seconds of your life.)

(As another aside, the first rectal suppository I inserted was for a ninety year old man that looked like Santa Clause and sang me a Bluegrass tune while I had my finger up his ass.  Once I also helped an old lady put her vagina back in.  Different story.)

Nursing.  So many stories.  So little time.

Back to me.

Um.  I'm not sticking my finger up my butt Web MD.

And I'm looking around and I don't see Christian Grey anywhere.  So I think I'm going to have to find a Plan B.

Thanks for trying though.

So now what?

So now, I'm squatting over the air conditioner vent in our bathroom with no pants on. 

Just like that time I expelled a human and got vagina hives. 

Ahh.  Good memories.

I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Michael, when he walked in on this scene approximately 3 months ago.

"I can't help it, the cold air just feels good..."

Lay off a bitch.

I tell you, child bearing is just the gift that keeps on giving.

Annoyed Much?

So, unsurprisingly enough, I've been kind of annoyed by a few things lately.

I tried telling Michael about it, but he didn't see how any of it was annoying.

Which annoyed me even more.

(Sometimes when I try and share things like this with him he just looks at me like I'm a crazy stranger.  The person you are afraid to make eye contact with on the street.  It's kind of a look of disbelief with a little regret mixed in.  It sort of confirms my suspicions that when he proposed to me three and a half years ago it was really just a psychotic episode on the top of Pilot Mountain, brought on by exertion and dehydration.  But then he didn't know how to take it back.  So here we are...)

Anywho, I needed someone to validate my constant state of annoyance as of late.

So I, lovingly, turn to you.

1.  The Direct TV commercial.

This lady is sitting on a stool with music playing. 

Telling me about how,

 "See we get a lot of tornadoes 'round here."

She sucks me in with her warm old-ladyness, and I'm prepared to be touched and inspired. 

Moved by the Direct TV commercial.

She tells me about how her best friend lost everything.

I'm feeling so bad at this point.  I'm really sorry lady; I didn't want that to happen to your friend!

But then I see it turning around.

"When it came time to rebuild..."

(At this point I think she's going to say something about how she helped her friend dig the foundation of her new house.  Or plant a commemorative bush.  Or dig through the rubble to find her old photo albums.)

But no.

"When it came time to rebuild, I told her about Direct TV."

"And now I save ten dollars on my bill every month."

Huh?

You're not her friend.  You're a selfish hose beast.

Remind me never to call that lady when I'm sick and need a friend. 

She'll harvest my organs and sell them on the black market.

Direct TV Fail.

2.  Jessica Simpson.

Why does she have to be the new Weight Watchers Spokesperson?

I like her better post-baby fat.

I think everyone likes her better chunky.  Especially pregnant women.

Pregnant women everywhere could look at a picture of pregnant Jessica Simpson and think to themselves,

"Well, at least I didn't get that big."

She is relatable this way.  I appreciate her double chins.

Now they are going to tan and tone her until we can no longer relate with the fact that she just had a baby and looks like a real woman. 

That annoys me.

And God help me, if Adele turns out to the be the next spokesperson for NutriSystem or Jenny Craig I'm going to put a gun in my mouth.

3.  Preschool "Volunteer Lists."

Henry goes to preschool twice a week from 9-noon.  He LOVES it.

I LOVE it.

This is time I have to clean the house and run errands that don't really work with him in tow.

I can browse.

There is no browsing with Henry. 

The scene is Preschool Open House, last week:

Teacher:  "Here's our Parent Volunteer List."  (thrusts list in my face.) " I know I always want to be involved in my child's classroom."  (Narrows eyes at me). 

Shit.

We are now locked in an epic battle of Good Mom Chicken.

And I lose.

So I sign up for "Play Dough Sculpture Day" and "Prep-Parent."

(I don't even know what a 'Prep Parent' is, but apparently I am one now.)

I'm sorry, I love Henry more than life itself, but I'm paying you to put that Early Childhood Education degree to good use and stimulate his two-year old brain for 6 hours each week.

I'm responsible for the other 162.

Can a mom just not have a fucking break once in a while?

I mean, damn.

(And yes I really did do the math.)

Anyhow, I will be present for Play Dough Sculpture Day.

And, make no mistake, I will probably bronze that play dough "sculpture."

But it doesn't mean that I wouldn't have rather had three hours alone in Target.

(And by alone, I mean with a 12 week old infant that has to be fed every two hours, precisely, or her head spins around.)

3.  My neighbor.

Fall is approaching.

My very favorite time of year.

Instead of being excited, I am dreading my damned neighbor and his damned leaf blower.

He blows leaves until there are no more leaves in a 50 mile radius.

Four hour leaf blowing marathons.

So instead of planning my cute fall boot wardrobe, my time is once again occupied by plotting his tragic, untimely and not-at-all-suspicious death.

4.  People that do anything outside between the hours of 1:00 pm and 3:30 pm.

See #3.

Anyone that does anything within earshot of my house that has the remote possibility of waking up my children from a nap, is immediately my nemesis.

I don't care if you are giving CPR to a quadriplegic veterinarian fireman in my driveway.

If you wake up Henry, I'll kill you.

5.  No-Nap Days.

In the words of my good friend;

"If they don't sleep, I can't do this."

Amen.

The Harbor of Retirement

Lately, I have been getting a lot of the same question:

"So, when are you going to have another baby!?"

Um...lest we forget folks.  That just happened.

Let's just put it this way;

My maternity clothes have been stowed in a box under our bed with a steel padlock and a warning sign duct taped to the top:

"Should you need anything in this box, a catastrophic failure has occurred; someone owes you a refund."

I also had Henry swallow the key, and there is no way I'm fishing around in his diaper to get it back.

That ship has sailed.

By 'that ship' I mean my uterus.  It has sailed into the Harbor of Retirement.

It is sipping a cocktail and loving life.

God has blessed Michael and I with two healthy beauties and there is nothing in the world for which I am more thankful.

Getting knocked up again would only be for selfish reasons:

1.  I love attention.  Pregos get lots and lots of attention.  Especially when you get really huge and disfigured. 

(Me...love attention.  I know you're shocked.)

2.  I will never again be able to refer to myself as a "Sacred Vessel."

As in:

Me:   "Michael, will you go upstairs and get me the box of Cheese Its, pleeeeeeeeeease."
Michael:  "You have legs, why can't you get it?"
Me:  "Can't you see.  I am a Sacred Vessel.  I need to rest."

3.  You get to wear stretchy pants every damn day.

There is no way to feel fat in maternity jeans.  They are a gift from God, and probably the only reason women get pregnant in the first place.

Don't be fooled; it's not for the baby at the end. 

It's nine months of stretchy pants.

For real.

4.  You get tons of gifts.

So, I know they aren't technically for me, but that's not the point.

Opening presents is awesome. 

Even someone else's presents.

5.  People dote on you. 

"Oh let me get that for you."
"Don't bend down and pick that up!"
"Sit, let me stand."
"Don't push that radiant warmer, let me get it."

Now, you have to put up a token amount of resistance, just so you don't look like an asshole, but it is awesome to have people want to help you all the time.

You feel super special.

Like Kate Middleton.

You get to feel like a fat faced, ugly version of Kate Middleton.

Which is still awesome.

6.  You get to blame your fat on someone else.

All you have to say is, "Geez.  The baby is hungry today!!!"

"I can't believe the baby wants four cupcakes and an entire bag of Hot Buffalo Wing Pretzel Pieces!"

"Aww. Must be a growth spurt.  How cute."

The only thing having a growth spurt is your ass, but through clever mental trickery you can ignore that fact entirely. 

For 10 whole months. 

7.   If you're not in the mood to have sex you always have a great excuse.

"I think if we do it tonight you might kill the baby."

End of story.

8.  Being in labor is awesome.

See reasons #1 and #5.

**Addendum to #8:

 Labor is awesome until it's not awesome anymore. 

And then it's really not awesome.

9.  And then a baby pops out. 

And it's awesome again.

Surprise.

10.  You get to feel a baby grow inside of you for 10 months.

A real person.

And then you get to meet that person and watch them grow.

You get to see their personality emerge.

And they are the greatest person you have ever met.


Well... shit. 

I really don't want to dig through Henry's diaper.

Fat Albert

Usually I only get on the scale on "skinny mornings."

Mornings when I wake up and feel like just maybe the number that pops up won't make me want to jump out a window.

Possibly the result of trying to 'cut back' the previous night, and only eat 2,500 calories after 7:00 pm.

This morning was not one of those mornings.

This morning I felt like Fat Albert.  A bloated version of Fat Albert.

And what did I do, you ask?

Well, I decided I would show that scale.

Bitch.

I got on that thing like I owned the world...and then I fainted.

Not really, but I did get a little woozy.

With Henry and Adeline cheering me on, I decided that catastrophic blow was not enough.

I would forge ahead and recklessly try on all my "real pants."

It is a sad and frightening day when you admit to yourself that maternity pants are for...pregnant people.

:(

My brain realized this was a terrible idea.  It really did.  Every brain cell in my skull was screaming:

"STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP."

"Why are you doing this; nothing good can come of this."

"This will plunge you into a hole of self-loathing so deep, you will need to be rescued like Baby Jessica."

And then my brain gave up;

"Fine, crazy bitch.  You asked for it."

And boy did I ask for it.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who has done this?

There is not a snowball's chance in Hell those clothes were going to fit.  But a small part of me hoped.

Somehow. 

Someway. 

A miracle had occurred.

This person fell out of my butt ten weeks ago;

I believe in miracles.

And then a miracle happened. 

Henry chose this morning to talk.

"Hi Fatty, Hi Fatty, Hi Fatty. Hi FATTY!"

On this particular morning, I really wish we would have named our cat something else.

Cheap Labor

Kids are expensive.

Really expensive.

For most of us, these are frugal times we're living in.  So you have to make do with what you've got.  If these are not frugal times for you, then go away.

We're not friends.

I've compiled a little list of ways we save money around heres.  So maybe you can make some of these ideas work for you. 

Here goes nothin'.

1.  Henry loves dirt.

Parks are full of free dirt.

A word of caution:  Choose your park wisely.

If you pick the wrong park you could end up dodging used needles and Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. 

OR

500 SAHMs who all seem to miraculously know each other, and have matching Kate Spade diaper bags. 

For this mom, who 97 percent of the time wears what Michael calls my "Lesbian shorts" and Old Navy flip-flops, the latter situation tends to be kind of awkward. 

Between a rock and hard place, I'd pick the used needles any day. 

2.  Instead of spending good money on play equipment that may just be a passing phase, try being creative.

Henry loves the sandbox...

At home we have the "Mulch Box."

I realize it looks suspiciously like landscaping. 

What's your point?

3.  Start a garden.

And then have your child attempt to sell the produce to your neighbors.

There he goes, I told him not to take less than $3.00 for that green pepper.



It's organic.

**This is actually not representative of our garden at all. 

It was really just 500 zucchinis.

4.  Take your child to the Children's Museum.

$7.00 admission may seem a little steep, but I believe the future job training is priceless.

A career in the food service industry isn't my ultimate dream for Henry, but at this point at least he'll have something to fall back on.

5.  Reuse baby clothes.

If you are going to leave the house with Baby Girl in a hand-me-down ensemble, be sure to employ the extra large bedazzled head flower. 

It eliminates any awkward exchanges with grocery store checkers/store clerks/gas station attendants.

She's a girl.  See the flower.

P.S.  I never know if I should correct someone in that situation or just let it go to avoid the weirdness.  I usually just let it go, but I'm starting to worry that Addie may be getting confused. 

Oh well, maybe she'll play in the WNBA.  

And I can give her my shorts. 

6.  Don't buy anything nice.

That is a great way to save money.

I guarantee it will get broken, stained, spit up, vomited, peed or colored on.

Just like the only piece of furniture in our entire house that isn't a used hand me down.

The ONLY one we actually picked out.  And spent money on.

Enter Henry's first bout with the stomach flu. 

7.   Don't hire someone to clean your house. 

Make your children do it.

At two, Henry is great at following simple directions:

"Pick up your trucks."

"Bring me a diaper."

"Rub mommy's back."

Before you start reciting child labor laws, I'll have you know it's a learning game.

Me:  "Henry, what color is the broom?"

Henry: "BLUE!"

Me:  "Close, but not quite Love Bug, that's yellow."

Me:  "Henry, what color are the wipes?"

Henry:  "BLUE!"

Me:  "Sweet Pea, that's orange, but good try."

Me:  "Henry, what color is in the potty?"

Henry:  "GREEN!"

Seriously.

I thought he had that one in the bag.

P.P.S.  I don't know what the lighting did, but my toilet isn't that gross in real life.  I promise.

Henry cleans it twice a day.

Chill Pill

I hate stories that start with my friend's friend's brother's girlfriend said...

So for the purposes of this next little diddy, I'm just going to refer to "my friend," who in actuality isn't my friend.  It's my friend's friend's...see there we go again.

"My friend" went to her obstetrician for one of her regular prenatal checkups, you know:  blood pressure, pee check, reassure nurse you haven't taken up elephant riding or case races in your spare time, quick gaze up the baby shoot. 

And you're outta there.

Easy peasy.

"My friend" suffers from anxiety, like myself, and wanted to talk to her doctor about medication options.

Pros and cons.  Yada Yada.

Her obstetrician told her to:

"Punch a pillow and get more exercise."

I can't even begin to address everything that is wrong with that statement.

If by "punch a pillow," she means, "punch me in the face" I might understand where that would be helpful.

I don't know about you, but as a pregnant person I always loved being told that I need to get more exercise...

Hey, there's someone that wants to meet you. 

My middle finger. 

Oh look.  My foot wants to introduce itself too. 

To your neck.

I'm sure once "my friend" stuffs herself into her yoga pants that fit - 25 pounds ago - and realizes she can't do child's pose like all the other skinny bitches because she has a human, covered only by a thin veil of stretch marks, hanging off her trunk, she will feel so much better.

Completely revitalized.

And not the least bit suicidal.

I understand the ideal situation is to have a completely pure pregnancy, just your prenatal vitamins and the occasional bottle of vodka to get you through the day.

Joke.

You could probably get away with two bottles of vodka... as long as it's just every once in a while.

I took my regular low dose of anxiety medication when I was pregnant with Henry, and he is fine. 

Completely fine.

*So he thinks everything is blue and kind of veers to the left when he walks, but he's fine.

:)

Early on in my stint with Adeline I realized that between my regular anxiety issues and the pregnancy hormones, I was turning a particularly unflattering shade of crazy. 

I took my trusty prescription, grateful that I would finally get some relief from the crippling anxiety spiral that I had been sucked into, and I was promptly shamed out of picking it up by two Walgreen's Pharmacists.

It all happened so fast. 

I gave them my prescription, and the really old mean one said, "Who gave this to you?"

Looking back, probably not the best moment for sarcasm, but I replied, "I bought it off a 14 year old in the parking lot."

Then, I realized she was serious.

Whooops.

"My obstetrician gave it to me."

Pharmadevil:  "Do they know you are currently pregnant?"

Me: "Ummm...yes.  Somewhere between the transvaginal ultrasound and the blood tests, I think we covered that."

Pharmadevil:  "I'm going to need you to sit over there," (sternly points to the two waiting area chairs, that no one ever sits in because they're covered in Ebola, snot, and the urine of elderly people) " And read this.  I'm going to need your signature."

At which point she hands me a print out from somewhere on the Internet detailing why it is dangerous for me to take this medication while pregnant...

At this point I'm so confused.

(I'm sure, to you, this seems like the permanent state of my life.  It pretty much is.) 

I feel like I'm back in Kindergarten and Mrs. Jesperson is about to spank me for peeing my pants again. 

So I sit.  And I pretend to read.

It is scientifically proven that one out of every 4 million babies will be born crying if I take this medication.

At that point I realize that in order for me to get my hands on those pills I'm going to have to face those two really mean looking women and, to them, basically admit that I'm a selfish beast who doesn't care if her unborn child has an extra arm and a penis dangling off her elbow.

I couldn't do it. 

The nurse in me knew that it was completely fine to take this medication.  The friend in me had reassured countless other friends that it was completely fine for them to be on medication during their pregnancies.  I took this medication during my last pregnancy...

But I couldn't do it.

I slank/slunk (?) back up to the counter and mumbled something about managing my anxiety with meditation...

(WTF?)

And I turned to go.

As I was running away from the pharma-wenches I hear a small little voice, the little mouse of a pharmacy technician; kneeling on the floor, restocking Preparation H. 

The angel:  she says,"I was on three different antidepressants when I was pregnant. You know if you need it, don't be afraid to get it."

What a doll.

Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, I don't pretend to know what I'm talking about.  This is solely my opinion.  Which, is widely agreed to be unworthy of the pixels it takes up on the computer screen, so take it or leave it.

(As an aside, I work with sick babies everyday.  I do not take their health or risks to their health, lightly.)

I know several people that are pregnant right now.  Some with their first baby, some with their third or fourth.

I don't want any one of those people to feel ashamed of taking care of themselves. Ever.

I tell the mothers of my 'work babies' every day:

You can't take care of them, if you don't take care of you first. 

It is easy to sacrifice everything for your children.  You do it with out thinking. 

Do not be afraid to get what you need to be your best self.

If that is 10 mg of Celexa, so be it.

If that is one hour alone at Target, so be it.

Don't lose yourself.

Apologies for the serious turn of this post.  Even I didn't see that coming.

I know it's hard for you to believe I could ever really act that crazy...

hahaha

But as I was going through this particularly difficult time, I had a brief phone conversation with a friend of mine who was about to take care of our cats when we went out of town.

When your cat sitter leaves you stress relief aromatherapy oil on your kitchen counter, it means one thing:

Get a fucking grip.

F-Bomb Mom gets a Haircut

I went to get my hair cut yesterday.

The first time in 9 months. 

I could see my feet.  I didn't have a toddler using my body as a slide.  I had on a clean shirt.  I didn't even have any diapers in my purse. 

I was feeling good.

I sank back in the chair in front of a lady I have come to trust. 

I brought along my trusty picture.  One I'm sure this lady has seen 1000 times in the past two weeks alone:

Every other damn person puts it on Pinterest.

This was a no fail situation.  Basically a trim with a little tweaking to make it interesting.

I'm confident a beauty school flunky could have knocked this one out of the park. 

I'm confident I could have taken Henry's sissors to my head and done a fairly decent job.

(This coming from a person who wore puffy headbands until 8th grade because she lacked the skill to pull her hair into a pony tail, is saying something.)

Maybe it was my fault, maybe I just missed all the signs:

Stylist:  "Gee, you're my last appointment.  I'm so glad I can finally relax.  I've been slammed all day long."

Well, Mrs. Hair Lady I'm glad you can relax too. 

I'm all for relaxation, however:

I didn't want you to FUCKING FALL ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL.

**I know I'm kind of an F-Bomb mom.  I know this offends some of you. 

I promise I don't do it in front of my children.

I know swearing is just the tool of a lazy mind, blah, blah, blah.

My mind is very lazy; so I will continue to use it to convey the depth of the situation.

(I promise I try to substitute "freaking," "fudging," "darn."  If it works, I do it.  It didn't work this time...)

I know all of you have been in this place at one time or another: 

You look up in the mirror from your issue of Vogue and think to yourself,

"Ohhh, Hmmm....this is not where I saw this going at alllllll."

If you have known your stylist for some time, you can also see the thoughts rolling around in her head:

"Welp, guess I really took a wrong turn on this one, ohh well, can't win em all..."

Now, what happens?

I politely inquire,

(I promise in my most non-confrontational voice; I actually am a nice person in real life.)

"Does this look like it's...laying right...to you?"

(The politest way possible to say, "What in the Hell are you doing to my head?")

Stylist:  "Well, as I suspected, it's not going to hit your shoulders quite right. The angle of the blightly, bleuigh, layers, angled, gligity...shears....angle of the moon, gravitational pull....

We're just going to have to take off a few more inches to make it lay right."

Me:  Whhhaaaaaaaa, waaait, huh, what happened.  Did I fall asleep?  What's happening here? Who are you?  Do you have a license? Can't we just glue some back on?

Bitch, I just grew my hair out for the past 9 months to get it out of the awkward length you just cut it back into.

She totally missed the gravity of the situation unfolding in my head.

Which probably to the average person, wouldn't have been a situation.

To me, the newly menstrual, frighteningly hormonal, mother of two children under two: 

It's a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

(Sorry, "fudging" didn't work that time either...)

So there lies another two inches of my hair on the floor, and I'm left thinking,

"What just happened here? I know I'm confused a lot, but seriously...what just happened here?"

Stylist:  "Well you know it works on Gwyneth Paltrow because she has that long giraffe neck."

Me:  "I didn't show you a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow."

Stylist: [Blank stare.]

Am I high?