Do Over

If I were to do it over, I’d major in English.

I’d work my way through college by being a stripper.

My stripper name would be Polly Sillybic.

Action Heros

E! recently announced the 25 Awesome Action Heroes.

All hail Ripley.


E!, I have to disagree with you naming her #2. She's a bigger, better bad-ass than John McClane. She wiped out ALIENS for Christ's sake. Honestly.

I mean, McClane's good--I give him credit for walking over glass with bare feet. But ALIENS, you guys. Come on!

Book Club

The group of mom's I hang out with started a Book Club. We just finished "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood.

Second time I've read the book--thought it was brilliant.

One of the women in Book Club told me at a previous gathering that she was trying to potty train her 3-year-old daughter. She wasn't having much success. She was making the daughter wear her wet pull-ups on her head as punishment for not going potty in the toilet. I'm not kidding. I can't make this up.

This same woman said she didn't like Handmaid because it didn't have a final conclusion and that when she got to the Historical Notes at the end, she didn't get it.

Happy Birthday, Baby Kaos!

Baby Kaos turned one on Monday.

We celebrated by trying halibut, which he didn’t care for. But, it could’ve been because I splashed it with some lime juice, and added a bit of salt and pepper and then threw it on the grill. Since he made quite the face, and refused to eat any more halibut, he had black beans and avocado, with a side of Cheerios.

As Lee would say, he’s circumnavigated the sun one time.

New Trick

Baby Kaos has a new trick.

He tried mac and cheese today for the first time. No, I didn't use the boxed kind.

I used small shell pasta, and a little butter, and a smidge of 1% milk, and some Kraft American cheese slices...melted it all together...mmm, tasty!

So, Baby Kaos' new trick:

Suck the cheese sauce off the pasta and spit the pasta out!

He's quite the talented one. It's most impressive!

Just Call Her "Bill"

100-year-old celebrates her birthday by smoking 170,000th cigarette
"Despite the numerous health warnings, Mrs Langley insists she's never suffered because of the habit as she "has never inhaled"."

New Project

We’re currently working really hard on a new project. Actually, we figure it’s an on-going project, and that it’ll take a while.

Zel and I are working really hard to not curse.

For those of you who know us, you know this is a major fucking challenge. We have mouths like a sailor and a trucker.

The reason we don’t want to curse any more is because of Baby Kaos. We’d really hate for him to be chatting with one of his Grandmothers on the phone and say, “Goddamnit, Grandma!” or “This toy is a piece of shit!” or “My room is a fucking disaster!”

One idea to help us not curse involves money. Usually, when Zel has to pay for something, he sits up and pays attention (no pun intended, but it’s funny all the same). The idea is that for each time we curse, we have to put a quarter in a jar and then whenever we have enough quarters, we’ll put the money into college saving account for Baby Kaos. We’ll probably have a decent amount of money in a couple of days. Honestly.

We tried to substitute other words for curse words. Like, fart or frick = fuck; shoot = shit; darn = damn. But that’s not working because it’s not us. We’re cursers.

Of course, we’re trying to approach the entire project with humor. There are some substitution words that are a bit funny that we’ve started using:

Malarkey. That’s a good word. As in, “That’s a bunch of malarkey, Grandma!”

Baloney. That’s an ok word. “This toy is a piece of baloney!”

But, Pimento Loaf is better, but only because pimento loaf is a nasty nasty thing. “My room is a pimento loafing disaster!”

So far, so good.

But, I think we’re going to go with “smurf”. I’m not smurfing kidding here.

Wish us luck, because we need all the smurfing luck we can get our hands on with this project.

Disposable Thermometers?

We grew up with mercury thermometers, and we're fine, just fine.

The latest and greatest invention is the digital thermometer. We have four; yes, F-O-U-R digital thermometers.

We have two that can go into a person's ear, which we received for baby shower gifts. We have two that you can use in the mouth, under the arm, or up the A. I purchased these: one for home and one for the diaper bag.

The trouble started Thursday night, when Baby Kaos felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. I grabbed the non-ear thermometer...dead battery. I found non-ear thermometer #2 in the diaper bag...dead battery.

WTF??? I've had these non-ear thermometers less than a year. My son has been sick a total of TWICE in his 11 months of life.

My Mommy-OCD kicked in, and I kept pushing the “On” button on one of the non-ear thermometers. FINALLY, it decided to give me one attempt. I stuck the thermometer under his arm: 103.something. Sweet Jesus. His entire body was hot to the touch, and it was a bit scary.

Although Baby Kaos has never been too fond of the ear thermometer I tried and got a similar reading. And I had to wrastle him down to get it. And, I'm never sure about this thermometer...did I stick it in far enough...did I stick it in too far...I hope I don't hurt him....

We were up for about 2 hours in the middle of the night. Went to the doc's the next day. Ear infection. No wonder he hollered when the ear thermometer went in. Sorry, Baby Kaos.

On Friday afternoon, I went on a mission to find a new battery for the non-ear thermometer. I start calling around. I call the pharmacies: no battery. I call Radio Shack: Special order for $4.99 + Shipping (Huh? I may as well get a new goddamned thermometer!). I call the jewelers: $14.02 with tax, lifetime warranty. If, at any point in my life, the battery dies, they'll replace it for free. That's nice.

Hang on just a second: On the thermometer instructions that I kept, it says, “Battery Life: more than 300 measurements or approximately 2 years if used every other day.” My Mommy-OCD isn't that bad, I don't take Baby Kaos' temp every other day. The company is getting a phone call on Monday.

But, since I can't track down a reasonably priced thermometer battery in my community, are thermometers now disposable?

Comment of the Day, August 7, 2007

So, I'm calling around to local stores, trying to find a specific baby-proofing lock. I'm looking for a Safety 1st, Lazy Susan Cabinet Lock.

Yes, I used the Inter-Web and tried to find one. And find one I did...for $2.97. And a mere $10.00 s/h. No, I'm not making this up. TEN DOLLARS to ship and handle a piece of plastic that cost $0.50 to make. Dry eff in the A, no reach-around.

I've looked at the Empire, but they don't have the specific lock I'm looking for. So, I call around.

Store 1
A major corporation; not the best customer service when you're in the store generally means not the best customer service when you're on the phone. I tell the guy at the Special Order Service Desk that I'm looking for a specific childproofing lock, I know they carry the brand, but they don't carry the lock. He asks me what kind of lock; I tell him it's a Safety 1st, Lazy Susan Cabinet Lock, and ask if they would be willing to order it for me. I didn't tell him that I want to see if they can special order it for me and not charge me $13.00 for it.

“And what's this for again?” he asks.

“Childproofing,” I say. I'm patient. He's a bit on the slow side...probably not getting enough fresh air.

He tells me that he's looking in the computer for Safety 1st, but that it's not coming up. Nothing called Safety 1st is coming up. He tells me that he's never heard of Safety 1st, but that he's also not surprised he's never heard of it because they "carry a lot of different stuff here at The Major Corporation."

He tells me that he needs to do a bit more searching and he's going to set the phone down. He set the phone down. He did not put me on hold. He SET THE PHONE DOWN ON THE COUNTER. I hung up; I don't have time for this shit.

Store 2
I call the mom-and-pop store, which is sometimes referred to as “Store, Our Store” because one or both of The Girls claimed she saw Huey Lewis and his dad there.

I tell the gal on the phone at the mom-and-pop that I'm looking for a specific childproofing item: the Safety 1st, Lazy Susan Cabinet Lock and ask her if they carry such a thing.

“Jus a sec,” she says. (yes, she said, “Jus” not “Just”; God bless 'er!)

She continues, but not quite in my ear, “Hey, Craig! Do we carry baby proofin' stuff?”

In my head: “Oh, Sweet Jesus.”

Craig: “Uh, yeah! On aisle 10, on the left.”

She comes back to me, “It's on aisle 10, on the left.”

"Mkay."

Out loud, I said, “Ok, so you carry it then?”

“Well,” she said, “the childproofing stuff is on aisle 10, on the left. So you'd need to take a left at aisle 10.”

No, I didn't go ask her to check. Instead, I said, “Thank you very much. I appreciate your time.”

“You're welcome,” she said.

Wow. What the goddamn do you say to something like that? Because it was kinda funny; kinda not.

At least I know exactly where to go in the Store, Our Store: aisle ten, on the left.

Daily Special

Yesterday at my favorite coffee shop, the daily special was a Daisy Chain.

I can’t make this up.

I did my civic duty, and told the owner that she may want to change the name of the daily special.

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, I’m concerned that your baristas may be projecting the wrong image with the name Daisy Chain,” I said.

“Well, what’s a Daisy Chain?” she asked.

“It’s not a hazelnut and vanilla latte. Nor is it a chain of daisies,” I said.

She was very concerned. It’s not that she’s young and naïve; she has four grown kids, one of which plays professional women’s basketball. But she truly had no idea.

So, I explained that it’s a little like this:

Although the baristas are hot, I did not offer to demonstrate a daisy chain.

She was a bit surprised at the definition of Daisy Chain. She said that when the baristas came up with the name for the daily special, they had no idea that it meant that.

I said, “As far as you know, they don’t know, but they’re savvy college girls, and they may know.” I did not say, “They may have even participated in one.”

A Little Bit of Heaven

We just did a slight remodel on our kitchen. For the past 5 years we've not had an automatic dishwasher. The man who owned our home before we bought it also built the house, sans dishwasher.

When we walked through the house for the first time, we asked him about not having a dishwasher and in a raised voice, he said something along the lines of:

“I'm a retired submarine sailor and you only need one fork, one knife, one spoon, one dish, and one glass and you'll be fine! You have two good hands so you wash the dishes with your hands! Dishwashers are for lazy people!”

Mkay, then.

Zel and I think Chuck planned on living out his days in this house, and wasn't too concerned about resale.

Since having Baby Kaos, we've begun to hate, and I do mean H-A-T-E doing dishes by hand. This is the 21 st Century, for Christ's sake. I want to spend time with my family, not doing dishes.

So, we talked to our neighbor, who Chuck hired to build our kitchen, about installing a dishwasher. He knows what can be moved easily and what can't. Based upon his advice, and knowing that anything can be done if you're willing to pay for it and that we were investing in the value of our home, we decided to go for it.

Here's what the kitchen looked like before:

We had to run electricity and plumbing to the site:


And, here is our brand-spanking-new automatic dishwasher:


We now get to spend more quality time with Baby Kaos and with each other. We're saving our hands; we're using less water; we're saving the earth (sorry, by default, living in Flagstaff and then the Pacific Northwest makes you a granola!).

It's a little bit of heaven.

Talking on the Telephone to Jesus

Church May Erect Cross-Shaped Cell Phone Tower.

I have so much to say about this that I can't say any of it.

Last Week

My last day was this past Friday, July 6. I worked the four days of the week, taking full advantage of being a government employee and getting paid for the Fourth of July.

They threw me a great party on Tuesday, July 3. Zel and I even got our very own 7-pound chocolate cake from Costco. (If you get the chance, I highly recommend picking one up—but make sure you have lots and lots of room in your tummy!) They gave me two lovely parting gifts—a gift certificate to a fancy restaurant and a denim shirt that has a small hand painted bunch of flowers on the front left side.

On Friday morning, I spent 2.5 hours with my arch-nemesis. Two and one-half hours. That's 150 minutes. That's a long effing time. It's about 2.5 hours too long. I ran the meeting, and took minutes (go ahead, call me a Rock Star). She knitted. The good news: we both still have our eyeballs.

Finally, 2.5 hours into the bullshit, I said, “Well, since were done and today is my last day, I intend to type up these minutes and I also have a lot of other things to do, so I'll see you all at a later date.” And I was off. But, I came out on top, because I knew it was the last time I had to deal with the bullshit.

Then I left my meeting and went down to the basement (don't get me started on the fact that the HEALTH DEPARTMENT is in the BASEMENT). I typed up the minutes and emailed them out to the people at the meeting, just like a good little solider.

When I was finished with that bullshit from the bullshit meeting, I packed and cleaned and filed and dusted. When it was all said and done, my office looked less like a tornado went through and more like an office. I impressed myself. My boss even made a comment about the cleanliness.

I only cried a couple of times: once when I took my boxes out to my truck, but only a little bit. And a second time when my boss gave me a big hug and said she is confident that I'm going to be a great Early Childhood Development Specialist.

Rock-Star Job

The Tobacco Prevention Queen gig is kinda like being a rock star: It's very high-profile and you get paid to travel.

I've gotten paid a lot of money to fly across the country to visit my good friend Melanie; twice. We went to great restaurants; I ate West African food for the first time. Melanie spoke French to the waiter. She said that she wasn't completely sure what she told the dude, because her French was a bit rusty—it had been a while since she was in Benin. She said that she either told the waiter that we were sisters or that we were lesbians. Either way, I'm ok with that.

Mel and I also went to several of the Smithsonian museums, including the Museum of Natural History to see the Hope Diamond. I told Mel that we should try and steal it because it would bring out her eyes. But we decided against it because we didn't want to be cursed. We also went to the Air & Space Museum, but Mel said that space stuff was dumb. I recall trying to figure out how to get Zel in an airplane to DC so he could check out the exhibits, sans Mel.

And, I went to this national conference while I was there; twice. But the conference wasn't nearly as exciting as Mel and I sitting on a fancy hotel bed, eating pizza and watching pairs ice skating during the Winter Olympics and yelling “Launch the Bitch!”

I've also gotten paid a lot of money to fly to Chicago—the city I've wanted to visit since the Bears won the Super Bowl in 1985. I was young and influential and they became my team—even in the 90's when they sucked. A good friend of mine and I were traveling to a national conference and we each had to present about the rock star work we'd done in our communities. We decided to ditch the conference one day and we went to the Art Institute. I saw the painting by Seurat that was in Ferris Bueller's Day Off--A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, which was painted in 1884. I bought myself a mug with the painting on it. The thing that I really remember about the painting is that it is massive—it's over 6 feet tall and over 10 feet wide. And, Seurat did everything in what would become pointillism style—lots and lots and lots of little dots. Enough to make your head spin. And, my friend took my picture taken in front of Soilder Field. It was great. And we ate this fabulous dinner at Vermilion. Our goal was to come in under the day's allowance for per diem for that one meal; and we did, but just barely. And we went shopping on Michigan Avenue, which sounds fancy pants, but it's really just walking around downtown Chicago and shopping. And, we went to the top of the Hancock building. It was cheaper than the Sears Tower, and we did have to pay for our own entertainment. And, we went on a sightseeing Chicago River and Lake Michigan architecture boat tour. This is something I wouldn't normally do, because my mother used to make me do things like this and I always hated it. But I'm so glad I did it; the Chicago skyline at dusk is truly stunning.

I've been to Seattle lots of times—I usually have dinner with the Biostatitician and his lovely wife when I'm there. But, we don't do the touristy thing, we do the “hang at the pub and look for fist-shakin-fine women” thing. Well, the Biostatitician and I do; his wife doesn't know about our antics.

But, I'm done with being a Rock Star. I'm off to be an Early Childhood Development Specialist with a Sample Size of One.

No thanks. I'm finished.

I quit my job yesterday.

Actually, I resigned. I'm a grown-up. Grown-ups resign. When you're a teenager working at Carl's Jr., you quit.

Anyway, I'm done being the Tobacco Prevention Queen. No thanks. I'm finished.

I'm done enforcing the laws around smoking related issues. I've written a law where I made it illegal to smoke on county-owned properties, including the fairgrounds. I'm not what you'd call popular out at the fairgrounds. I'm responsible for making sure you don't sell tobacco to minors because it's illegal for minors to smoke. But, I'm not responsible for making sure the kids who smoke get in trouble—that'd be the police. Finally, I'm responsible for making sure that there is no smoking in public places, including within 25 feet of any door, window, or air intake system.

No thanks. I'm finished. The only downside is that people won't respect my authority any more.

I'm done with meetings. Especially the meetings where I want to poke my eyes out with my latte straws. The other day I was in a meeting and my arch-nemesis was knitting. It wasn't the knitting that bothered me—I often times will work on a quilt binding while I'm in a meeting. But, my arch-nemesis was knitting, and she wouldn't shut the goddamn up, and I wanted to poke her eyes out with her knitting needles.

No thanks. I'm finished. The only downside is I won't have too many more opportunities to poke out the eyes of my arch-nemesis.

I'm done with not being on a regular schedule. This is of the up most importance to me because Baby Kaos is on a schedule. Sometimes the poke-you-eyes-out meetings are in the middle of afternoon nap.

No thanks. I'm finished. The upside is I'll be able to take an afternoon nap with Baby Kaos if I wanna.

I'm done with the travel. Before Baby Kaos was born, I was traveling far and wide and often, but that's a blog for another day. And now, I have this overwhelming urge to not leave my baby.

No thanks. I'm finished. I'm done with the rock-star job.

I like to think of it as having a career change: I'm going to be a full-time Early Childhood Developmental Specialist, with a sample size of one.

Comment of the Day, May 30, 2007

I was in a meeting yesterday with a colleague.

We'd met before, but it wasn't in a professional manner, and we were both trying to figure out where we knew each other from.

In a town of 25,000 people, you tend to see folks around.

The topic of yoga came up; we both practice yoga.

She said, “Did you practice when you were pregnant?”

“Yep,” I said. “I practiced before I got pregnant and then I practiced throughout my pregnancy, and now I try to get to class once a week.”

She said, “That's where I've seen you! I remember practicing next to you when you were pregnant. You were hard core.”

“Wow! Thanks!” I said. I was a bit taken aback, but in a good way. I mean, what do you say when someone says you're Hard Core and they're not referring to porn?

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, you were huge—and I don't mean that to be mean—and you were keeping up with us. It was pretty impressive.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Hard core. Impressive. That's me.

Comment of the Day, May 18, 2007

Baby Kaos and I went to a new bookstore today. A new used bookstore. I'm not down with paying new prices for books.

We don't get over to the other side of town much, and that's where the bookstore is. We were on our way back from shopping at the secondhand baby clothes store. It's my new favorite store, but that's a different blog.

So, we go in to the used bookstore, and we're the only customers. No biggie.

The owner, who is an older woman, greeted us and asked if she could help us. I told her we were looking for children's books.

“Well,” she said, “I have some here, but he's a little young for those.”

She was pointing to “The Cat In The Hat”.

“And we have some over here, too,” she said.

“Baby Kaos,” I said, “Look! It's 'The Cat In The Hat'! You know this book!”

In other words, beeyatch, don't tell me my kid's too young for “The Cat In The Hat” because my son is a genius because we read to him everyday.

So we start looking at the books. And the owner starts talking. She asked if she could hold Baby Kaos, “After all,” she said, “I'm a grandma. You know grandmas when you see them, don't you Baby?”

I said, “Well, he's not had much lunch and he's pretty tired, so I don't think he's the best company right now.”

And she kinda disregarded what I said and did that thing that people do with their hands when they're getting ready to hold a baby—the “clap, clap, come 'ere” maneuver. You're done it. You know it.

Fortunately, Baby Kaos leaned his head into my shoulder. He's a great performer. But, she still didn't get the clue that he wasn't interested in her.

She kept talking. I learned all about that she's the mom of twins and that she has two granddaughters that live in California and that the granddaughters want her to move down to California but that she can't afford to live there and that they don't live in a great neighborhood and houses are sill $600,000.

“Do you mind if we look around?” I asked. I'm trying to make us scarce and be polite.

We start to walk away. Just walking around looking at books is really the entire reason I wanted to go in there anyway.

We're about 2/3 of the way through the store and I hear her say, “Are you a Christian?”

Sweet Jesus. You coulda knocked me over with a feather.

“No,” I said.

She said, “Well, if you were, I was going to tell you that we have a lot of Christian books for children.”

I said, “Thanks. We have lots of Christian friends, so we'll be sure to tell them.”

And we left shortly thereafter. I was a bit concerned that she was going to baptize Baby Kaos.

When Baby Kaos and I got out to the truck, I said to him, “If that dumb beeyatch would've looked at our noses, she would've known that we're a bunch of Jews!”

What's the Difference

What's the difference between a poodle and a sheep?

Apparently none for some people.

I have this thing lately, where ignorance is really pissing me off. I can tell you that I don't feel badly for the people who bought the sheep. They're ignorant.

Comment of the Day, April 20, 2007

I'm not sure why the comment of the day has been happening at the grocery store. Baby Kaos and I weren't at the usual grocery store. We were at the big-chain grocery store, where they have things like the best cheese in the world. The other grocery store is locally owned and while we can get locally grown fruits and veggies, and the cheese is good, it doesn't compare.

Anyway, so we're in the checkout line and the checker said to Baby Kaos, “Oh, Mom took you out of the cart. That's ok! I'll just flirt with you over here instead.”

And I said to Baby Kaos, “Are you going to flirt with her?”

And he did, because flirting is his new trick. But, he's not a circus seal, so I'm trying to limit performances, yo.

And the checker, who seems to be a nice lady—I usually try and go through her line—tells me that she has a 3-month-old at home, and she asked how old Baby Kaos is. Then we started talking about names and she told me her son's name and I told her my son's name and we agreed that we named our babies with good names.

And I said, “We have one of the top 10 most common last names, so we wanted to go with something uncommon for a first name.”

And the bagger, who is probably about 55 felt this was his opportunity to pipe up. He said, “What's your last name?”

And I told him. Common last name—didn't think too much of it except I did kick myself a little for opening that can of worms. But, it's not like they don't have my vital information in their goddamned club card database. So, again, didn't think too much of it.

So then I turned to the checker to continue my conversation with her. And we started talking a bit about common last names.

And then the bagger said, “Well, what's your maiden name?”

And I said, “Smith.” Which it isn't. But, the bagger thought it was funny that I was a Smith and I married an Anderson. Fucking hilarious.

Inside my head I said, “None of your fucking business.”

Then he said, “Your hands are pretty full. Do you need help out today?”

And I minded my p's and q's and politely said, “Nope. We can manage. Thanks anyway, though.”

Strange. Why the fuck do you need to know my last name and my maiden name? So you're trying to make conversation, which is a learned art. But, it's really none of your business.

And, I know you're trying to do your job, but do you want to know what type of vehicle I drive and get my license plate number so that you can track me down and ax murder me? Or, perhaps you know the guy at the locally-0wned grocery store and you're working the child molester scene together. Ok, the last two parts were a little paranoid-Jew, but you know what I'm sayin.

Comment of the Day, April 7, 2007

At the grocery store this morning, the checker said, “Do you have any plans for Easter?”

I said, “No, we don't really do much. How about you?”

And she proceeded to tell me what she was going to do, and that I must be excited because this is Baby Kaos' first Easter. But, that's not what this blog is about.

This blog is about this:

When we got out to the car, I turned to Zel and said, “First Easter. Honestly.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. And then I said, “I should have told her that we were going to paint pentagrams on the living room floor and dance around naked.”

And Zel said, “With chicken blood.”

Nursing Bras

Nursing bras are not hot. They're functional. And, it's a learned art to be able to use one, especially in public.

I shopped around a bit before heading out on this new endeavor. I found a nursing bra on-line which is hot, but I'm not ready to pony up $110 + tax and shipping for an f-ing bra. Honestly.




And, while I respect that Agent Provocateur is helping the lactating woman to feel sexy, in reality, I feel anything but.

So, I headed over to the Evil Empire, because I'm one of those girls who needs to try bras on before I purchase one, and I've become a bit more practical since Baby Kaos was born (you can stop laughing anytime now). And, I HATE shopping for bras. I used to go to Victoria's Secret, but they're not in the habit of producing nursing bras; at least I didn't find any.

I purchased two styles of nursing bras.

This image is from the cover of one of my bras.
This image says, "I feel like such a sex kitten when I'm lactating!" Honestly, bitch, I don't think you're in touch with reality. At least my reality and the reality of many breastfeeding women I know. Also, I think this bra is for the A-cuppers out there. It's not ok for the 38-DD women because there is no coverage and no support.

This image is from the cover of one the other style of bra that I purchased.

This image says, "I'm about to feed the baby for the fourth time in 8 hours. What the fuck do you want?"

I purchased two more of these bras. Mostly because this is the bra that fits and covers my boobs the best and doesn't make my boobs sit on my stomach (trust me--not a fun thing). Partly because I like the model's 'tude. Anyone who says, "I'm lactating, your penis isn't really important to me right now" is a-ok in my book.

Ladybugs Picnic

I hope they still have this on Sesame Street when it's time for Baby Kaos to start watching television in a few years.

'I'm allergic to modern living'

"The 39-year-old is so sensitive to the electromagnetic field (emf) or 'smog' created by computers, mobile phones, microwave ovens and even some cars, that she develops a painful skin rash and her eyelids swell to three times their size if she goes near them."

Oh, Sweet Jesus.

Sucks to be her for the following:
1. Cost--it cost her family a ton of money to outfit their home to protect her. But, when it comes to a person's health, money shouldn't matter (but we all know it does).

2. What would happen if she needed to get a CT scan or some other type of medical diagnostic?

3. I presume this means no vibrator for her. Oh well...I guess she cums the old fashioned way, she earns it!

Rants & Raves

There’s a section in my local Sunday paper called “Rants & Raves”.

In the 2/25/07 paper, somebody ranted about a diabetic injecting themselves in the stomach with insulin, whilst in a restaurant. They felt it wasn’t appropriate for the diabetic to behave in such a manner.

In the 3/4/07 paper, there were five rants that were in response to that rant. There was this one rant that stood out above all the others:

“What is wrong with a diabetic giving themselves an insulin injection at an eatery? It is not like they are being an exhibitionist by breastfeeding or showing a lack of manners like talking with their mouth full of food or picking their nose or any other distasteful action.”

I didn’t realize that feeding my infant with my breast in a public place is the same thing as “1: a perversion in which sexual gratification is obtained from the indecent exposure of one's genitals (as to a stranger) b: an act of such exposure; 2: the act or practice of behaving so as to attract attention to oneself.”

Huh. Glad to know that I’m getting some type of sexual gratification out of feeding my infant in public. I feel so sexy when my baby’s hungry and I need to feed him. It’s such a turn on to have a hungry baby trying to latch while I’m getting dirty looks from some people. In fact, it’s such a turn that I’ve left the restaurant and fed him in the truck.

I was also unaware that me breastfeeding my son is me behaving in a manner that I’m trying to attract attention to myself. Wow. I thought it was better for me to stick my tit in his mouth and feed him than for him to go hungry and wail about it the entire time. I guess next time I’ll know better. Just don’t bitch at me when he’s crying and tell me that I’m a horrible mother for letting him starve rather than exposing my breast. And, no, I’m not giving him a bottle. Bottles aren’t an option for Baby Kaos. He took them from Zel when I first went back to work, but he’s a straight from the tap kind of a guy. Furthermore, we avoid similac and other artificial mommy juice at all costs. Breast is best.

I also didn’t know that the act of my son drinking milk from my breast is in the same category of one “talking with their mouth full or picking their nose or any other distasteful action.” I don’t even know what to say to this. But, feel free to picture me with my eyes closed, slowly shaking my head no and taking deep breaths.

In the 3/11/07 paper, there were two rants in response to the anti-breast-feeding rant. Both rants basically said that breast feeding in our state is protected under state law, we’re not exhibitionists, and that we’re using our breasts for what they were intended for, not what our society thinks they were for. Solidarity, sister.

New Book

There’s a new book out where author Steve Ettlinger analyzes the 39 chemicals that are in a Twinkie. The book is called: “Twinkie, Deconstructed: My Journey to Discover How the Ingredients Found in Processed Foods Are Grown, Mined (Yes, Mined), and Manipulated Into What America Eats”.

I’m not a big fan of Twinkies. Never have been, and hopefully, Baby Kaos won’t be either.

However, I have two comments:

1. This book is 304 pages. Let me say that again: Three-hundred and four pages. Apparently there’s some serious shit in a Twinkie. So much shit that a simple 10-page pamphlet wouldn’t do. And books sell--good for you, Ettlinger...I hope you make some money.

2. According to MSNBC and Newsweek, “Ettlinger received no help from Hostess and its parent company, Interstate Brands Corp., despite appealing directly to the Vice President of Cake.” What I’d like to know is, where do I apply for the VP of Cake position?

Live in the Now

I’m so glad the folks at Wimbledon decided to live in the now.

The All England Club bowed to pressure and announced that it would offer equal prize money to women and men at the grasscourt grand slam for the first time at this year's championships.

One Digit Off

Most people have phone numbers that are a digit or so off from some type of business.

When I was a kid, our phone number ended in 0962. The sporting goods store down the street—their phone number ended 0926. One time, mom mother actually got in a fight with someone on the phone about our phone number and the sporting goods’ phone number. The fight involved her getting out the phone book, ordering the other person to get out their phone book, and they each looked up the phone numbers.

There was yelling. And, at the end, my mother was quite pleased with herself.

I’m not kidding. I wish I were. But I’m not kidding. I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to.

Currently, the phone number Zel and I have is one digit off from an automobile wrecker. The second number in our phone number is a 5, while theirs is a 1.

Sometimes, we go weeks without a wrong number call.

Sometimes they ask, “Is this the wrecking company?”

Usually, we’re very polite, and say, “No, you have the wrong number.”

Sometimes, we get called several times in one day. Today was one of those days.

The first call came as I was changing Baby Kaos’ diaper, and I was in the bedroom, and the cordless, which has caller id, gets fuzzy back there, so I didn’t know who was calling and I picked up the phone.

The man on the other end was nice. I can tell this about a person because the nice people apologize after I tell them they have the wrong phone number.

Baby Kaos and I then laid down for a nap.

Then, about an hour later the phone rang. The phone in the bedroom was off, and I was expecting Zel to call, so I picked up.

I said, “No, you have the wrong number” in a bit of a terse manner, didn’t get a response, and so hung up the phone. Not a nice person.

I came out to the living room, and saw that the dude had called twice. Apparently it was the second call that woke me up, because I didn’t hear it ring the first time.

Not only was he not nice, but he was not bright.

Honestly, now, if you misdial, do you look up the number again and make sure you dial very carefully so that you don’t misdial a second time? Or do you just hit the redial button?

Comment of the Day, February 12, 2007

I’m speaking with a colleague of mine on the phone. We’re at the beginning of our conversation; that ice-breaker stuff. The conversation goes like this…

Her: “How’s Baby Kaos doing?”

Me: “He’s great, thanks for asking.”

Her: “How old is he now?”

Me: “Five months.”

Her: “Wow! Time has really flown by. He must be getting bigger all the time.”

Me: “Yep. I just weighed him last week and he’s up to 20 pounds and he’s 26.5 inches long! I get a workout just hauling him around!”

Her: “Wow! He’s huge! Is it normal for a baby his age to be that big?”

Me: “Well, it’s normal for him. But, technically, he’s off the chart for weight, and he’s in the 96th percentile for height, which means he’s just a really big kid.”

Her: “Maybe you should take him to the doctor, you know, because he’s so big.”

Me: “Well, when we were at the doc’s a few weeks ago for Baby Kaos’s four-month check-up, the doc said everything was fine. And the nurses I work with, who have worked with babies as their profession for years, say that he’s a great example of a very well-breastfed baby. So, I’m not really worried about it. But, thanks for the suggestion.”

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry people are fixated with another mysterious death of a celebrity. Why are people obsessed with Anna Nicole Smith? I don’t get it.

Did you hit Drudge Report today? There are 12, count them, TWELVE, links about Anna Nicole. Honestly, Matt; find something good to do with your time.

And, can we please stop comparing her death with Marilyn’s? There are no similarities: Marilyn was murdered by the Kennedys because she knew too much, where Anna Nicole didn’t know much of anything at all.

I’m also sorry that Anna Nicole’s son died back in September. I cannot begin to imagine loosing a child. I hope I never know that feeling.

But, most of all, I’m sorry that there is another baby in the world who will grow up with out her mother.

Yes, Anna Nicole was a bit of a trashy whore. But, kids need their moms. So, I’m sorry little girl, that you won’t know your mom.

I’m sorry that you’ll probably grow up in our celeb-obsessed culture and that your claim to fame is going to be that you’re Anna Nicole’s daughter.

Just don’t pull a Lisa Marie Presley and marry the Michael Jackson of your generation, mkay?

You’da Thunk

You’da thunk they would’ve picked up on the issue that she could flip her lid on the Astronaut Psychological Profile.

Perhaps they need to ask something like, “If you train with another astronaut, and he never ever licks your pussy, would you still turn into a psycho and try and kill another woman he becomes involved with?”

I wonder, during the 900-mile, 14-hour trip, did she once think of how her actions would affect her family? What her kids would think?

Did she think about any of the repercussions when she was purchasing the wig? Or the diapers?

Luis is the only human alive that can vouch that I’ve made it from Flagstaff to Tucson without stopping the car to pee (280 miles; 4 hours). I must say, the idea of wearing diapers on a long road trip is a clever one. I’ll have to consider that for my next road trip, which will not involve attempted murder.

Torn Between Two Lovers, Yet Again

I’m torn between two lovers, yet again.

Colts or Bears? Bears or Colts?

Last year, my decision was between the Seahawks and the Steelers. Because I live in the Pacific Northwest, I rooted for the Seahawks. But, I’ve been a Cowher fan for quite some time, so I wasn’t upset when the Steelers won (except for that bullshit TD by Roethlisberger; and the fact that Heins Ward was voted MVP because there wasn’t anyone else to pick, and he shouldn’t have been the MVP, but I digress).

I’ve been a Chicago Bears fan since they won the Super Bowl in 1985. I was young and easily influenced by Jim McMahon and his sunglasses, The Fridge, Walter Payton…and the Super Bowl Shuffle. Sweet Jesus.

But, I really like the Colts. I like Peyton Manning, even though he’s an ad-slut and promotes about 9 different products. And I like Tony Dungy, I think he’s a good coach. I'd hate to see Peyton go into the Hall of Fame Marino-Style.

I haven’t watched any of the crap leading up to the game, and I’m not even sure who the favorite is.

All I know is I’m torn between two lovers, yet again.

Monica Lewinsky has a Fucking Publicist

Excuse me?

Why in the goddamn does Monica Lewinsky have a fucking publicist?

I give blow jobs. And I’m pretty good. I’m cute, too (if the term cute can still apply to someone in her mid-thirties).

But, I have no publicist.

Monica’s publicist said Monica is job hunting in London and that she’s “not doing any press.”

Hmm…so does that mean Monica is seeking to give blow jobs in London, but won’t give blow jobs to the press?

Comment of the Day, January 20, 2007

At the grocery store this morning, we had a brief conversation with the guy who works there, who’s kinda nice, but I wouldn’t let him baby sit Baby Kaos because I get a weird vibe from him. I don’t think he’s a child molester, but he’s a bit odd.

Here’s the jest of the conversation:

Him: “Wow! He’s really big! What does he weigh?”

Me: “Yeah! We went to the doc last week for the four-month check-up and Baby Kaos weighed over 18 pounds and was 26.5 inches long.”

Him: “Wow! He’s a big kid! Just wait until he’s a teenager!”

Zel: “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll be here twice a week for turkey.”

Him: “Who’s his doctor?”

Now, what the goddamn kind of question is that?

The grocery store guy has teenagers, so it’s not like I’m having a conversation with another mom in my yoga class about who Baby Kaos’ doc is and we’re comparing notes.

Yes, I revealed too much information about going to the doc last week, so I’m taking that one on the chin.

But, what the goddamn kind of question is that?

Working at the Circus

Sometimes, talking with my Mother is like working at the circus.

My brother recently visited, and on the day he returned to the Desert Southwest, my Mother and I had the following conversation.

Mom: “Did you and the baby make it home ok?”

Me: “Yes.”

Mom: “How was the drive?”

Me: “Long, and I’m kinda tired. What’s up?”

Mom: “Well, I’m worried about your brother. He just called and he’s in Boise. Did you know he had a layover in Boise?”

Me: “No. I thought it was in Vegas.”

Mom: “Well, he’s in Boise, and then he has an hour in Vegas.”

Me: “Hmm…doesn’t sound like enough time to win any big money, but maybe he’ll hit a decent slot machine.”

Mom: “Well, it says here that he’s scheduled to leave Boise at 2:14 p.m. Is that Mountain Time or Pacific Time?”

Me: “Mountain.”

Mom: “How do you know? Did you look it up on the Internet?”

Me: “No Ma, I just know that Idaho is in the Mountain Time Zone.”

Mom: “Ok. And then it says that he’ll arrive in Las Vegas at 2:35 p.m. How can he get there so fast? What time zone is Las Vegas in?”

Me: “Pacific, Ma.”

Mom: “How do you know? Did you look it up on the Internet?”

Me: “No, Ma, I know that Las Vegas is in the Pacific Time Zone.”

Mom: “How do you know?”

Me: “Because I used to live there and I know.”

Mom: “Ok, so is Boise on my time zone or on Pacific?”

Me: “On your time zone.” (Note: In Arizona, they don’t switch time like the rest of us have to twice each year)

Mom: “So, he’s going to leave here at 2:14 my time and arrive in Las Vegas at 2:35 your time and so that’s 3:35 my time. Right?”

Me: “Right.”

Mom: “Are you sure? Did you look it up? Maybe I should call the airlines for clarification.”

Jesus you guys. Sometimes, I feel like I’m working at the circus.