I'll Take a Double

So on the flight home from Thanksgiving, we had a little bit of technical problems. It was a real hoot. Here is what happened.

The flight is fine, we get a little snack, The Baby is playing on my lap and it is all good.

Then, we start to descend. Nothing major, but it was enough of a drop, and fast enough, that all 6 infants on the flight can't regulate their ears and start screaming.

All at the same time.

It was kinda like that Family Guy episode with the four singing Peters singing Christmas songs. Except less singing and more ear shattering screaming....and not as much harmony as parents trying (unsuccessfully) to quiet the babies in the six row radius we have all been seated in. But just like that.

So we hang out at the lower altitude for a little bit, and we see the flight attendant put her little cart away and take her seat. We then start to ascend a smidge thinking that we are going to be flying into a storm or something and the pilot was getting around it.

Not so much.

After we regain our altitude, the pilot decides to rip out the landing gear. Which, at 30,000 feet, sounds like the wing has just been ripped from the side of the plane.

I start kinda freaking out but The Husband tells me some BS about the flaps and whatever. I know he is full of it, but I appreciate the effort, so I let it go. Plus, in his head, I can see the mouse turning that all the years of watching uber nerdy airplane shows on the military channel is finally gong to pay off. And I don't want to ruin that for him. Even in a crisis, I am a giver.

So we are hanging out, the noise is unbearable and I am getting more and more, apprehensive.

Then, the pilot does an abrupt 180 and we are going the other way. It really appears that I am the only one who is even alarmed by this.

The bitchy mom three rows behind me is still cussing out her husband, who is sitting three rows ahead of her, for not being able to find her wireless card.

The couple behind me are still reciting their lines for something. (Although I think their lines should have been "No we shouldn't have gotten married, because you are actually my sibling"...yeah, they looked, um, well, off).

So I decide to call the flight attendant and find out what is going on. Her name is "Jessica" but I am pretty sure her name ends in an "i" because she just seems like the type of girl with a name that ends in "i". Like a "Brindi", or "Cami" or "Tiffani". You know who I mean. She is of no use to me, giving me some excuse of "running some tests and that is all she knows". Damn you Miffi.

Then the pilot comes on the PA and I almost totally lose it. The guy is so middle eastern that I am shocked he is actually a pilot, and not the owner of a shipping store/dry cleaners that also dabbles in air-terrorism. I could hardly understand what he was saying. Every other word sounded like "Puff-puff. Ding-ding." Yeah, I did. But it's my blog and I can racially profile if I want to.

Maybe, and this is just a suggestion, but maybe, it is a better idea to have the co-pilot, John from Utah, make the announcement that we have a failed hydraulic pump and have to make an emergency landing in Nashville to "fill out some paperwork". Huh. Just a thought.

So we land, get the pump changed and it is all good.

Except, the bitchy mom behind me immediately starts to gripe to her husband that "the kids are really,really thirsty. We didn't get anything to drink. Go get us something." I wanted to slap her and hug him.

But he ended up getting his....as did The Husband and I.....and that would be the complimentary drinks (Ah, thank you Punjab).

In the end, tough, the joke was on us. When we finally landed and I needed to go to the bathroom, it was so backed up it resembled the windshield washer bucket at the gas station and not an airplane bathroom.

So I happened to learn a few things over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Such as:

No matter how cold it is, The Baby will still overheat in a sweater. Yes, we live in Houston and we were in Ohio. No kind of cold is going to get him. Bad for his Burberry sweater, but good for all of his summer clothes that still fit.

My Mam will always find a way to bring up death and/or dying. Like when we were talking and she mentions someone who just died (because she happens to know all the people who have just died, and how to bring them up in the conversation)...and her reply is usually "Gee, Jerry, that is only 9 years older than you."

Or, half way through your flight home, it is suddenly redirected, and then makes an emergency landing, the captain decides that drinks are free from that point on.

I think we all win on that one.

Poor Puppy

Dear Charlie,

I am really sorry that I posted about trying to get rid of you. It probably wasn't the nicest of things....and maybe it wasn't your fault. We both know you aren't too bright. There, we said it. Maybe you were confused when you unloaded in the nursery. After all, there are trees painted on the wall. Maybe you thought you were outside? Maybe you don't bark excessively, you have a case of turrets? Maybe we should look into some sort of testing then?

But, in trying to get back in my good graces, it probably wasn't the best idea to go outside and bring in every single tick in a 5 mile radius. This might be another time that we are just having a little miscommunication. See, you may not know that I don't enjoy seeing huge, bloated ticks on my bedroom floor. The only thing that better be drunk in my bedroom is me....not something that just feasted off your blood. (And, yes, insert any Twilight comment here.)

See? we are discussing this and getting it all out there in a friendly way....Something else you might not be aware of, is that while The Husband was gone, and you were sleeping on his pillows, not the best idea to leave a few of those suckers behind you on your pillow.

Or under the covers crawling on my leg.

Twice....therefore forcing me to sleep on the couch after vacuuming my bedroom for an hour.

Surely you understand why I have forced you to be a dog and sit on the floor rather than on the couch. And I don't have to explain to you why I refuse to pet you because my increasing case of the crawlies and itching is making my skin raw.

Even if it is really all Jock's fault, I still have to blame you because he is so old and basically grandfathered in. You understand.

Love,

Mom

Screw You Universe

So, The Husband is hunting. What does that mean? Well, other than saying an extra prayer that the Special Doe-lympics are being held in another part of Texas so the "cooler of death" will remain extra storage for old baby clothes? Well, that and, The Husband has flown his mom in to hang out with me and The Baby. Let me tell you, The Mother In Law is super great. She loves to read books and talk them to death (as do I), and hold The Baby (which means shopping and a mani for me). She is also so low maintenance, I truly believed her when she told me the peanut butter sandwich she made from the heel of a crusty bread was "a great lunch". She also has zero judgement when it is, say, 2 in the afternoon and we are still in our jammies.

So, since I know I have a seasoned grandma in house, that also happens to have a slight case of insomnia, I am sure that I will be able to sleep in while she gets up for the morning feeding. Not that my Mam wouldn't, but I can bet that The Mother In Law is already up reading in the next room and drinking her zillionth Dr. Pepper.

So, imagine my utter shock, and immediate anger, when I awake at a very early 7 am to my head seriously pounding. Was it the fact that the night before The Husband and I had a date and I decided to consume all the Cosmos? Usually a safe bet. But today? Nope.

At first, I actually think the dog is having a dog-mare and that explains the horrible twitching rocking the bed. Nope.

I then thought that the pounding in my ears was simply The Husband thinking that watching Point Break while we fell asleep was a good idea. Uh-uh. But, for what it is worth, Point Break is really never a good idea. Although I have actually heard of lifelong friendships actually ending because one friend named their dog "Bodie" when clearly the other friend called it.

So I pour myself out of bed (what did you think I was going to say??) and follow the noise. It is outside my door. Now, let me tell you, we live in a town home that has a layout like a New York brownstone...so as I look down my front stairs to the street and what do I see??

At 7 o'clock in the freaking morning?

On the day I have baby care and can not only sleep off the box of wine I drank, but also stay in bed and watch re-runs of ER???

On the same day that, evidently, the Universe is about to end, because a Mexican construction worker decided not to hang out under a tree for an extra hour and actually start their job early?

So there is Paco....with a mother f#&$!%# jackhammer. (And I can't handle the "Jean, why do yooou have to taaalk with such a dirty mouth" talk from my Mam, so pardon the fill-ins).

Yeah. Just going at it. It is so early, my dogs are even a little ticked off.

And to top it all off....I finally watched The Proposal....and it was so bad.

Like, really bad. All the Franzia in all the land could not pull it our of it's pit of humorless predictability.

In fact, please do not tell me if you liked it because I just might rethink our friendship.

So the score stands.

Universe: 1

Jane: 0

For Sale...Or Trade

For Sale or Trade:

**Chocolate Lab, Male

**Aged 7 years

(I guarantee he is cheaper than scotch....unless you are an alcoholic.....and your drink of choice is Macallan 30 year.)

**Fixed. Correction: Neutered

(He hasn't humped anything in years)

**Housebroken

(Kinda, but will probably eat his own poo, so it is the same, right??)

**Built in Security System

(This dog will bark at anything. Your home will be totally protected. There is no way anyone, or anything, will infiltrate your home when he is on the clock. He is so overprotective, he has been known to bark at nothing. See? He was just thinking there might be something there.)

**Good Eater

(He will eat anything. In fact, if you have any other animals, he will pick up after them too. He doesn't discriminate. He will eat any other dogs poop, no question asked.)

**Athletic

(He will fetch for hours....and hours...and hours...and hours. He is so dedicated, The Husband and I were worried that he had over worked himself because he was limping after playing really hard one afternoon. Not so. Turns out, he had been fetching for 9 hours straight and was just a little sore. We cut him some slack.)

**Helpful

(Please refer to "Housebroken")

**Fuzzy

(If there were any sort of apocalyptic ice age, you could totally skin him up and either keep yourself warm, or sell him on the black market for some gruel.)

If you make me an offer, I will even include a box of personal effects that include some Christmas ornaments, stocking and Halloween costumes of Robin (of Batman and Robin, naturally) and a rooster.

We really didn't think it would come to this. Charlie had so much hope in the beginning. Even with the poop eating, and the constant blank look in his eyes, we thought there was a glimmer of something. But, when he decided to stare me down, and pee in front of The Baby's crib, infecting the imported silk crib skirt, painstakingly maid by moi (and actually, it was quite easy to sew, but whatever), I just knew something was amiss. Too bad.**

**By the way, all you animal lovers, I am totally kidding. Unless your offer is good enough, that is. Waaaaa?

Nice.

You know what's fun?

Fun is cleaning a bucket of poop off your baby....

off his shoulders.

Luckily, the Universe returned the favor by putting The Proposal on my DVR this month. Finally, I can watch this feel good movie in the quiet shame of my own bedroom.

Good times.

Please, Send Cold Weather...To Wherever You Send Cold Weather To...

To Sally Struthers (Or anyone else who can help...),

Please let it get cold soon. Houston is hot. Really hot. But, seeing as it is now November, I feel the need to ask someone, anyone, for help. It is not for me, but for The Baby.

You see, The Baby is really hot natured (he gets it from The Husband). The kid gets so overheated that when we wear jeans, he is still in shorts. I think he has only worn socks a couple times in his short life...and one of these was while he was in the airport, because, well, ew.

The thing is, is that when The Husband decided to surprise me with a trip to London for my 30th birthday, we had just found out The Baby was a boy. Like, 4 hours earlier. Sooooo, when Harrod's was having an a.maz.ing sale on Burberry and we got a little out of control. Whaaaa?

Did we need the lambs wool sweater? Maybe not.

Did we have to have the jean jacket with leather patches on the elbows? Actually.....did I mention the leather patches? Yes? Well, did I mention the detachable Burberry hood? That changes things, I know.

Was the double insulated, feather lined, fur-trimmed hood winter coat really necessary? YES! By God, YES!

We have already gotten him into the super cute sweater vest, so we are safe there. But the thing is, is that we got them in size 6 month. Although The Baby is only 5 months, in European sizes, I either need to get him on a pack a day habit or seriously start restricting his rice cereal to keep him in that size for a few months until the weather here will be permitting. Somehow, I think there are parents, pediatricians and fashionistias alike that will agree that is not a good idea.

If you could please help me out with this and toss around a couple 60 degree days I will promise to send monies to wherever you send monies to.

If not, please let me know so I can put some clothes in the fridge.

Sincerely,

Mom of The Year

Come ON Now!!

Ok, so The Husband and I have been super nerdy and watching the World Series the last few days, or weeks, or however long it has taken.

But the thing is, is that I kinda have a problem. And it is this.

The MVP was Hideki Matsui. That is great and all good. But my issue is not that an Asian player won the MVP award....it is that I find it totally ironic that that the MVP award went to an Asian who was presented the award through his INTERPRETER. The guy doesn't speak a lick on Engrish. (Typo intentional and go ahead and get pissy with me about it.) Anyone?? Bueller??

Does anyone else find it oddly, ironically, hilarious that the MVP for the World Series Baseball Game, The Great American Pastime, DOES NOT SPEAK ENGLISH???

I'm just sayin'.

(No Title....Just Envision Me Rocking Myself in a Corner)

With The Husband working late, and The Baby teething (AKA crying all the time), I have been stuck in the house all day.

Alone.

By myself.

All.Day.Long.

After sinking to a new low and watching old reruns of 90210, I cornered the poor window guy who was innocently just trying to give me an estimate for some rotting windows we need replaced. I would not let the poor guy leave. (Did you know he was originally from Oklahoma and went to OU and that the OU alumni meet at Fox Sports grill and watch the football games and he also has kids and like dogs? No? Well, he is, they do and he does.)

It hasn't been this bad since The Baby was a month or so old. I blocked the isle at Target and kept a little asian lady from continuing her shopping going on and on and on about a rotisserie chicken cooker. I think at one point I even told her I had been to China. And I may have even asked her if she knew anyone there.

Mental note: to those of you who may see me out and about....be advised that it is in your best interest to avoid me at all cost. Unless you either A) don't have any place to go for about an hour. Maybe two. Or, B) want to hear all about I thought my dog was so smart one year that I tried to teach him how to read. Although I will say, that those who know Jock will agree.

I had better go. I have some flash cards to make.

**And, yes, Sarah, I fully expect you never to talk to me again after this.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

I need help. Actual, real help.

Here is the thing. I have this problem and I don't know how to deal with it. Lately, I have been drawn to something that is so unnatural and out of the norm for me. Frankly, it scares me to death.

It all started about 6 months ago.

I was about to pop out The Baby any day, and The Husband and I were at the movies. We were enjoying the air conditioning and super comfy chairs, my cankles kicked up after I just got back from my eleventy-ith trip to the bathroom....when I saw it. At first glance, it was nothing. But since, it has shaken me to my very core.

A preview for The Proposal.

That's right. The one starring Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds.

While I agree that Ryan Reynolds is yummier than the Birthday Cake ice cream from Marble Slab, the fact that I would be so drawn to this movie just isn't like me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good romantic comedy as much as the next gal. However, this predictable tale of "a fish out of water comedy about a reformed mean-girl coming into her own and ending up with the guy" isn't something I would, say, consider scheduling my c-section around.

But I couldn't get it out of my mind! I seriously thought it was the hormones.

Really and truly.

I mean, I was fixing to have another human removed out from under some organs, but by God, I wanted to know what was going to happen when they went to Alaska to keep up the shenanigans of this fake marriage.

True, that The Baby was over 9 pounds, but is that bigger than the drama of watching the tables turned on this mean boss, who is now at the mercy of her underling? How will he pull the strings??

I have these feelings of unforeseeable interest in something that isn't part of who I am. But, as the birth of The Wee One had come and gone I was convinced that this slight error in judgement was simply a result of the huge sure of hormones. Much like my massive hair loss.

So, imagine my sheer horror, when I see a preview for The Blindside.

Hanging my head in shame, in the darkness of my own living room, while The Baby is asleep and The Husband is at work. Nothing but me and the preview. This is so much worse than becoming addicted to 16 & Pregant on MTV.

And the shame. Lest we forget about the shame.

I must see this "based on a true story". I have to know how this homeless kid makes it out of the ghetto and into the NFL. Who is the little boy he bench presses?? How is his blue "homeless guy shirt" always so clean?

And you want to know what is the worst part?? The fact that this time.....this time, there isn't even yummy Ryan Reynolds to hide behind. No eye candy. And Sandra Bullock has this horrible southern accent that is about as good as my English accent. This is the very one that I like to use when I have had just a little too much to drink....or when I am in London. But really, that is just to assimilate. And because The husband loves it. No, he really doesn't.

Where have I gone?

What has happened to me?

I should have known that something inside of me was shattered forever when I got sucked into the Twilight series. And then, proceeded to hide the fact that I loved it, by claiming it was a selection for my book club one month. I mean, it totally was.

Who am I kidding. Maybe Sandra Bullock could team up with Robert Pattinson some day.

As if I could be so lucky.

The Incident

So, before I had kids, I never wanted to be one of those parents.

You know the type. The one who is constantly over correcting people, giving semi-dirty looks to someone who isn't doing something for your kid the way that you would be doing it. Someone who is constantly making lists and schedules and making sure I appear to be raising the most uptight baby on the planet. I never wanted to be a parent that was so rigid, if you looked at my baby, you doubted if he was able to sit on his own, or if the stick up his ass was holding him up.

Why am I bringing this up, you ask? Well, here is what happened and please, please, please tell me if you think I am going a tad bit overboard.

Here goes.

So my parents are in town this weekend to see The Baby. We have a super fun time when they visit. Lucky for me, my parents are actually more scheduled than The Baby is, so their trip is predictable, but fun.

Example.

Every Friday, after they arrive, we always go to Truluck's. It is this amazing seafood restaurant with the world's best happy hour. The food is amazing and the drinks are also great. So great, in fact, that I am pretty sure just setting a Cosmo by a breathalyzer would set it off. It was on their last trip that my mam learned that The Baby likes to take little naps in the booth while we eat. Throw a blanket down and instant crib. He loves it as much I love their carrot cake. We are all winners!

Then, Saturday, we hit a breakfast spot and then dinner at this little I-Talian place around the corner where my dad will proceed to order the veal and talk about how it is the best veal he has ever eaten, while we rehash how inexpensive the meal was. Good times.

Well, today, we decide to mix things up and take advantage of the amazing weather. October and November are God's way of paying the citizens of Houston back for suffering through the summer months. So we head to a great park.

We start strolling around the park and looking at this and that. We pass the yoga class that is going on that my parents accidentally talk a little too loud around causing a few people to break from their fancy-schmancy yoga poses and wonder where the noise is coming from.

Strolling, strolling, strolling and there is a vendor making little mini-doughnuts. By the way, I don't know why the gal is churching it up, they are funnel cakes pure and simple. But that is neither here nor there. So my dad, having just polished off an omelette, ordered a 1/2 dozen. Followed by another dozen and a half so the doughnut gal "doesn't have to make change." Naturally. (I really can't give him too much crap. They were delish).

So while I am taking pics of The Baby looking super cute in his little halloween outfit, I find myself actually having to say the words:

"Um, Husband...maybe we shouldn't be feeding our baby a doughnut".

Seriously.

And you know what he says??

"Whaaaaa? He is a mini-me. His digestive system is just like mine, just smaller. I will just give him smaller bites. He can take it."

Really?? Our (almost) 5 month old can handle a bite of a powdered, fried doughnut???? He has never eaten anything that didn't require me to mix it with water before consumption.

So, now, because I said something....because I thought it wasn't the best idea to give The Baby a piece of fried, doughy carbs topped with artificial sugar, I am all of a sudden "Super Freaky Mom".

Seriously.

If I am wrong, please tell me....but I know where most of you live.

The Plot Thickens

So Jane...how does that deer mount look?

Huh. Funny you should ask in this blaag that I happen to have complete control over.

The Head doesn't look like anything. Wanna know why? Because when The Husband and I went to pick the mount from Mothers Day Out, the taxidermist was totally closed. And I mean done.

So here is where it gets kinda nasty. See, The Husband and I do not fight over, really, anything. The Husband just knows to agree with me. It is one of his worst qualities. One of mine is that I often spit whilst I talk. Ssssorry.

However, we go to the taxidermist shop and it is closed tighter than a Krispy Creme next door to a Weight Watchers meeting. There is nothing inside.

Nothing.

So, when The Husband gets back in the car, he looks all defeated.

Me: "Um, so what's up?"

The Husband: "They closed"

Me: "Wha?"

TH: "I guess they moved or something..."

This is where is gets uncomfortable....

Me: "How much did you already give them?"

I am met with a silence that is deader than the googledy-eyed deer The Husband lured to it's death with his camo style Mr. Rodger's cardigan.

Needless to say, The Husband was less than thrilled that I was more worried about where our family monies were, rather than statement of his hunt-man-ship.

Don't worry...I totally calmed him down with a pudding cup.

Bambi

So The Husband loves to hunt.

He is a Native American, so it is really just part of who he is, as a person. (And,

if any of you frequent any of the local Choctaw casino's, I thank you...as does The Baby's college fund). Hunting is just part of him...you know, One With The Earth and all.

Well, it seems each time he goes to hunt, it is for different animal, which needs a different gun, different anti-smelling gear and different camo. I know, right? Different camo? I am suppose to be OK with the hundreds and hundreds he has spent on "clothes that look like trees" when he not-so-mockingly asks me why my Chi Hair Dryer is on the ground. Really? We live in HOUSTON! It takes an act of God to not look like I am fresh from puberty every morning.

Anyway, so The Husband goes on a hunt a few months back. He knows the guy who owns the ranch and promises to mount anything he kills as a nod to his host.

Big Mistake.

So, The Husband does, in fact, kill a "deer". He brings it home to have all of the things done to it that need to be done. He actually brings it back in a huge corpse sized cooler and lets it thaw in my garage. Yeah, hi.

Meanwhile, as The Husband is telling me all about his slaughter and, I am not going to lie, there are a few things that are not adding up.

Such as....

The Husband, so proudly, tells me he got two shots off to get this deer. This is a big deal as most hunters can only get off one shot before their prey gets scared off never to return. Why was The Husband able to get off another shot, you ask? Because, after the first shot, the deer decided to go and take a nap by the feeder, so The Husband was able to get him on the second round. Huh.

Also, the deer seems to have antlers that are not even. In fact, one is fully formed, and the other is about 1/4 the size. It was so odd, the taxidermist laughed at The Husband for spending the money on having it mounted.

But Jane, "Couldn't you have the skin all tanned, or whatever, and made some great baby pics" you ask? Yes, except, with this type of deer, the fur is MANGY!

Here is where I insert the image that the deer The Husband actually nabbed. Imagine, if you will, this poor less-than-smart deer sporting a wicked case of "Billy-Bob-Teeth" and some googledy eyes. I am fairly certain, that if I visited the scene of the crime, I would encounter a pudding cup and Rainbow Bright lunch box.

I would say that it tasted delightful, except for the fact that our fridge died, and I had to toss out a zillion pounds of the deer after it rotted to the point I could see the roaches walking up to our house with lobster bibs on.

I am sure you can imagine how torn up I was when The Husband was unable to track down the Short Bus on his last hunting trip and came home empty handed.

Whaaaaaat?

So, I don't know what happened to my last post. It looks all strange and I don't know what that is all about.

What can I say? I went to my first Junior League meeting and I drank to much.

What?

Family Circle

So my brother and sister in law are the proud parents of a beautiful, amazing baby girl who is smart and gifted and actually opened for Conan the other night. You should have seen her. She rocked it. Their precious bundle is about 4 months younger than our itty bitty baby. And, my brother and I have had so much fun talking babies and pregnancies and all things about our lives to come being parents.

Honestly, Tam, as I call him in my Mam voice, is good people. Instead of "should-coulda's" I have "wishes and wants"....

Like I wish I was as funny as he is. He is hysterical. People have actually lost bodily control when around him. I am not just missing the math or spelling gene from my family pool, I am also missing the humor gene. I once thought of going on a humor mission trip, but they didn't have Franzia there, so I was out.

I also wish we lived closer. He is in Kentucky. I am in H-Town. Bad times. It is hard to kick ass at a game of spades when you live, roughly, 20 hours away. Or, it is hard to recount that time when we had a few cocktails (AKA: 97 solo cups of keg beer) at Dave Simpson's house and then tow' da goal posts down after whooping the Sooners. One of the best days ever, BTW. (Tam, 'member when we tow' da goal posts down?? You don't want to say it in your office, but you soooooo do).

Another, is that I want his daughter, Annie to know how much her Aunt Jane loves her. Not just when she is 13 and shopping for her first bikini or when she wants to "try" some Wild Island flavored Boones....but all the time.

However.....

In talking with Tam I have become increasingly more neurotic about being a parent. See, Tam was a better parent than me when I was still pregnant, and they still had a long way to go. One thing he is fearful of, as most parents are, is SIDS. I have found myself checking on The Wee One much more frequently since Annie's arrival-I guess my senses are heightened too. So, I check The Hammer (oh, that is his UFC name) all the time to make sure he is still good.
But, all this parenting has made me think about my own Mam. What she must have been thinking. Her parenting ideas, the way she wanted to do things....

And in all of this I realized.....

When she would sneak into my room at night when I was a teenager and feel my feet? She wasn't checking to make sure that I hadn't stuffed my bed with some pillows and snuck out my window...she was making sure I wasn't a victim of SIDS.

Sure I was 15, but can you ever be too sure?

Good Mam.

Check Please

So I decide that I need some new clothes. Not an easy task to tackle with Sir Screams A Lot. However, I head out to the local mall and am not taking "No" for an answer. I am in search for some jeans to hide my newly (OK, semi-newly) acquired muffin top, and the cutest tops to hide my jelly belly that would make Santa look like the newest Jenny Craig model.

Although The Baby is fed, watered and recently went out (wait, that was my dogs...I am confused), I knew I was on a time clock. Meltdown was inevitable and every second counts.

I only make it to one store....and I get my dressing room loaded, and I mean loaded, with goodies The Husband is sure to give me his best under-bite-smile when I tell him how much it all cost. This is the same "smile" he gives me when I ask him if he is mad when we get our ridiculously high electric bill because someone just has to sleep with the thermostat set to 68.

So Major Meltdown decides he has had enough of his stroller and is having nothing to do with his toys that adorn his carrier. Really, the kid is set up. The car seat is gaudier than a Mexican car lot.

Hoping to buy some time, I pick him up. I already managed to put on 2 tops with such fury, you would have thought they were actually laced with AIDS. I am still wearing one top and Baby Einstein decides that he needs to vomit allllllll over the shirt that I do not own.

Needless to say, I am the proud owner of a new semi-too-small cami that smells life barf.

So, Um, Yeah....

So here is the thing.

Blogging is hard.

Like "Trying to hide the fact that I get my period while I am still in middle school" hard....

Or "Running the shower for a longer than necessary to hide the fact that I am actually in the bathroom taking a deuce" hard...

Or even "Liking what my aunt gave me for Christmas even though it has a tin-foil lid and Iknow it came from her Gift Closet" hard.

I think it has to do with that fact that I really don't have anything to say. Really, about anything. Or if I do happen to have something to say, it really would not interest anyone...or may totally gross them out.

Or both.

Probably both.

Example.

I have 2 dogs. They are great. A black lab-mix, named Jock (named after the old patriarch from the TV show Dallas), who is 12 1/2 (cause when you are that old, the 1/2 matters).

Then there is Charlie, a chocolate lab who is 7. We named him Charlie, because, well, I told The Husband that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would have to name him Charlie. To which, he told me, that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would promptly get divorced. So we settled for the dog name.

Jock is excellent and wise and a total couch potato. Although he is a 90 pound lap dog, he has magical powers. One time we left him at home while we went out of town and the dog sitter had to drag (literally pull) him off the sofa to go to the bathroom. His bladder truly inspires my dad to be all that he can be. He once ate a 6 pack of Sara Lee bagels and chased it with a 1/2 pint of Chinese liquor and was sound as a pound. No joke...we found this out after we came home from church. Upon telling The Husband, his initial response, was "Christ, is he drunk?". Good times. (And, no, he wasn't).

Charlie, not so much. Yes, he is tiny and cuddly and fuzzy, but he barks at everything. Like people walking by, other dogs, little girls in frilly dresses holding balloons, evil. Pretty much everything. He also has a liiiiiittle problem called....

Eating poop.

His poop, Jock's poop, the poop of other dogs. It is very gross. I am, however, thankful that it isn't as bad as a friend of mine...their dog has an affection for lady-time things. They once got in a wicked game of tug-of-war, and I realize it could be worse. However, there is really nothing grosser that after your dog burps and smelling thenastiest fart, just knowing that he brings new meaning to the phrase "Shit Eating Grin". I can't even go into how nasty is has gotten in the past. Really, that is for your benefit.

However, Charlie never seems to eat the poop when it is good for me. Like when he had a wonderful smorgasbord of Jock's Meals Past, only to rid himself of them 9 times......in 3 different rooms of our house. What?? It is like leftovers?? Or when Jock has a slight accident, say on the wood floor landing, and I find it after I realize I didn't just forget a dirty diaper somewhere within the wall of out house. Why could he not pull his own weight and little clean up then?

Then, this week, The Baby is playing in his jump-a-roo and having all sorts of fun and laughing and cooing and basically being freakishly cute. So, I look at him, and think, "Yeah, I totally want a piece of that". I mean, who wouldn't? He is rocking that jump-a-roo and totally making it the master of his domain.

You see, the seat swivels and slides so he can rotate all around keeping him totally engrossed and "learning". However, The Baby is too short to reach the floor, so I put this handy tray underneath it so he can reach it and bounce his little heart away. He lourves it.

Anyway, so I look up at him and am truly admiring how he is swiveling and playing with all the toys. He is rocking this thing more than the You Tube video of KISS singing Rick Astley. (you know you want to.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf79MCuQ8jM) I wonder how I could be so lucky to be so blessed with such a smart child. What did I ever do?

Then I realized....yeah...

The Baby had taken a massive deuce and literally was playing in it. He was slipping and sliding in his own stuff while looking so cute in his jump-a-roo.

So I take him out to change him, and basically burn the entire toy. But wait, when I get back to the toy after giving The Baby a bath, and what do I find?? The little tray The Baby was playing on was totally clean.

You soooooo know where I am going with this.

I am not saying he didn't do me a solid, but still.

Uh, Oh. We Are All Doomed

This blog may be looking a little different to you, my 17 followers.....and although I think the template change will not really matter to any of you, there is one person that I know when they see the change they will immediately cringe with true horror.

And here is why....

So my Mam has many, many wonderful qualities. She is kind and caring and hilarious. Seriously, my family would sit around and actually cackle at this or that. Usually there was a target:

Like my Dad and his Boy Scout Camping trip with my brother that he refers to as "worse than going to Vietnam"...

Or that my brother, who once walked in on the rest-home version of a Baptist Gospel Hymn He Touched Me, and my dad thought his uncomfortable reaction was so hilarious, he had the bakers at Albertson's put it on my brother's birthday cake....

Or the ever running joke that I once thought that Sigourney Weaver was a host on SNL and have never heard the end of it. But it was all in good fun.

Enter my Mam... and her CRAZY superstitious. She is, as she will herself admit, well, freakishly superstitious. Like...bad. Worse than a freshman their first week of college.

I mean, sadly so. This goes beyond your standard "hold a button when a hearse drives by" or "Friday 13th". Beginner stuff, she would say.

Like how she is totally convinced that it she doesn't forward on any email about "wishes coming true" or how she needs to send the email to a certain number of people to "send on good fortune" she is ultimately doomed.

Like when she told me that I wasn't allowed to leave my shoes in the table because "I will never get married"....mind you, this I was already married...for 3 years.

Like how she totally gives me hard time to make sure that I have eaten black eyed peas on New Year's Day, a normal rite of passage for most people. But my Mam, takes it to 11. She also thinks we should have herring in addition to the black eyed peas. I guess it is a Russian thing? I say this because my other relatives (who are equally sentimental and superstitious have never, ever heard of this little "herring situation".)

For those of you who may not know, which I hope is ALL of you....

Herring is a fish.....that is served in a jar......in a mayonnaise sauce....

Or like how she thinks butterflies or polka dots are bad luck. Granted, I will give her that I was in a serious car accident while I was wearing a polka dotted outfit. OK, so I was actually hit, and then run over by a car while wearing said outfit...but that was over 23 years ago! Isn't it time we forgave the polka dots?? Back me up, here people.

Which leads me to this point...

I can hear her now...

"Uh, Jane, I saw yur blag....and...uh, do you knooow that there are palka daats? Yoou know how I feel about the palka daats."

And, she is in denial that she even has an accent, and she will never admit that she still carries around even the slightest hint of her northern accent...even if she has been living in Oklahoma for almost 35 years. It takes a good ear to pick up that she sounds a little bit like Cartman from South Park. But it is all a good thing. It is endearing and all that....

Having said that......

I happen to like the "polka dot template" blogspot suggested, and I thought it would be a good update to my "blag". What can I say?? While watching The Goonies, I thought I should spice things up.

However, there were not any black cats that crossed my path, it isn't Friday, or any sort of 13, but I can guarantee that my Mam is going to bed thinking I am totally doomed.

That Time of the Month

So, it is that time of the month again.

This is the day I look forward to every single month. Like, when you were a kid, and it was

corn dog day in the cafeteria. Like the day your cleaning lady comes. Or when you happen to get H1N1, but are really pumped because you lost the extra flab, and finally fit into your pre-pregnancy jeans...kinda the same way you think you would want to go on Survivor because it would be such a great way to "jump start your diet". Well, that last one was a lie, but I can imagine what it would be like not to have to tuck my stomach into my pants....and it is really, really good.

Tonight......is......

BOOK CLUB!!!

Let me tell you about our little book club.

Our little book club rocks (do people say that anymore? No? Then we are bitchin! What? Worse? Ok then).

We are a small group who is more exclusive than an interview with The Oprah. We were all semi-tossed together by our fearless ringleader who knew all of us, and suggested we get together and hit happy hour. Since we all know how to read, we called it Book Club. Thus a star was born. Because I don't know if these ladies want their real names published, I will creatively give them some nicknames.

There is:

Jennifer- (her real name, by the way. She has been spotted in several blogs, so I know it is cool to expose her for the animal loving, Snuggie Enthusiast, Basset Hound Mom, that she is.) She loves books as much as I do. Reading them, hoarding them, roaming around the bookstore and buying too many of them, and using her too-cool book stamper on them the second she gets them home. She is one of my closest friends, books aside. Of course, the fact she brought me champagne in the delivery room doesn't hurt either.

The Jewelry Maker-Jet setting between Houston, Florida, and Louisiana, among other places, she is a free spirit with a precious puppy (Ok, the dog is 11, but still). What I feel most connected with her about? Well, that would be the fact that she had to start smoking again, in efforts to get along better with her mom. A girl after my own Franzia glass.

The Barbie Doll-She is the gorgeous girl that you soooooo want to hate because she is so pretty, but she is so freaking nice. You would think because she is blonde you could use that stereotypical angle, but she is smart too. Like, really smart. Being around her doesn't make you hate her because she is the total package, it just makes you realize you need to rethink the carbs.

The Iron Woman-Let me just tell you about this chick. One.Strong.Gal. She was telling us tonight that she was proud of herself because she ran 5 miles the other day. Not impressed? Oh, did I forget to mention that she is in radiation for breast cancer??? Oh, I did? Yeah, hi. Need I say more?

So what do I bring to the table you ask? Not so much. But I have infiltrated their layer with the aforementioned cupcakes and now they find me irresistible. I am so in.

We mesh together like and antique quilt. Close up, you wonder how it will all fit together. However, when you piece them together and take a look, you just know all the pieces are how they should be.

However, for the record, I just want to mention that we totally talk about the book. I mean, we ARE a book club.

Then again, there was the night at Gigi's that we all pretty much agree we were slipped a bottle of wine with a roofie in it. Those of us that remember the night, and woke up knowing where our shoes, and cars for that matter, can recall most of the details.

We were fine, fine, fine, fine, fine...

Until suddenly.....BAM!

A couple of us were stocking up on Parliments before the convenience store closed...and continued to chain smoke them until we started to sound like someone with a voice box.

A couple gals were sent home in a cab only to make it around the parking lot before the driver "refused" to take the rider home due to the fact they were "outspoken clients"....AKA, kept yelling at the cabbie.

Because, to this day, we still attempt to recall that night, but it ends up sounding more like an urban legend...at least to us, anyway. But we can all recall that month's book.

So there.

Time for Birthday Cake...mmmm...Cake.

So, most people that know me, know not to call me before 10am. (hint, hint, Mam). Even as a new mom, I am usually either deep in mid morning nap, or in still asleep from a very, very long night. Either way, it is just a good rule of thumb. A great thing about being a stay at home mom, other than sometimes still being in my PJ's at noon, is that I have the ability to take an extended nap. A bad part of being a stay at home mom? That would be that 3 back-to-back 2 hour 'naps' make up my "nights sleep".

Well, imagine my surprise, and immediate frustration, when the phone rang bright and early at 5:30 this morning.

My first thought: "damn you mom!! I don't care what Fox News said or if Sophie almost went through the kitchen window...cause let me tell you, it was only a matter of time".

My second thought: "Holy schnikey's Batman!! You totally forgot that your brother and sister-in-law are due ANY DAY!!"

So, I jump out of bed so fast to get the phone, I so foolishly left on The Husband's side of the bed, you would have thought a Crave Cupcake delivery man was at my doorstep fixing to take off. And if you are unfamiliar of Crave Cupcakes, you have not truly lived. I am being serious. Let me know and we will work something out.

Lucky for my mom, it was my brother, Tom (the same one our son's middle name is after) telling me I am an aunt...again!

I really can't think of any better way to wake up, than to be told that sweet, precious Annabelle Jane has been born. She is a lucky girl to be born to parents who have been waiting for her and loving her for so long. I can't wait to meet her and smother her in kisses!!

Both mom and baby are doing great. I can't say as much at 2am this morning while my sister-in-law was in active labor that was progressing so fast she wasn't able to have an epidural. Sweet Lord. I know I have pledged my newly regenerated liver (although currently compromised) to my new friend Sarah (who is hilarious and loves $.50 mimosas.....I love her.) but I think I need to rethink my other vital organs at this point. And Sarah, I told you weeks ago about this liver "situation"...AKA the recent spike in Franzia stock.

No.Drugs.At.All.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Annie!! Love your Aunt Jane. I promise to always have gum.

Just One Of Those Days

So here is the thing....

Ladies, you know what I am talking about. You will know, sure as I know now, and I hope you cringe and hide under your covers just the same as I am....Solo cup full of Franzia and all.

When we are little girls, we grow up admiring, but vowing to be anything BUT our mothers. When they don't give us the Barbie Doll we want, or tell us to "keep the bedroom door open", we swear that we won't be like that. We promise, then and there, to be a friend to our daughter, and not embarrass her the same way we were when our mom asked if the new friend we just met was "fast"...and not referring to the track team.

As we grow and mature, we not only don't want to become our mothers, we just don't want to get old. Plain and simple. But slowly.....

Slowly and surely.....

One day....

One day, you walk into Abercromie & Fitch and wonder why it has to be so damn loud.

One day, you wonder how girls today can wear such short skirts without getting an infection when they sit down.

One day, you wonder if those girls at the mall know if their thong is showing (it is, by the way....so says the disrespectful girl in the sorority letters who, if her house knew she was being that kind of representative they would sooooo fine her).

But, those are things that can get dismissed with age, right? Right!?!?

Until.....

Until, you hear yourself ask the girl at the mall if she knows her underwear is showing. (Honestly, it is STICKING out of her PANTS! Not only can that not be comfortable, but leave a little to the imagination.)

Until, you realize girls today should leave things to the imagination. (Shit.)

Until, you realize the music isn't that loud.....You just can't hear as well. (Oh, Sweet Lord)

Until, you go and get yourself tested for Swine Flu because you have a cough. (But, hey, you have a baby, you are just being a responsible adult. There is nothing wrong with being a good parent. I, I mean, "you" are just being a proactive mom).

Until, you tuck your shirt into your underwear.....you know, because it makes it stay down better.

Hello, I am My Mother.

Nice to meet you.

True Love

While this past Friday marked the anniversary of the September 11th attacks, they also marked the first anniversary of Hurricane Ike. Being that The Husband and I were fairly new to Houston we were totally excited and anxiously awaiting the arrival of our first storm season.

Now, we were used to tornado season and all of that glory. You know when the sky turns a mustard color, you fire up your Webber Grill and get to work. You watch the storm roll in while meeting your neighbors in the front lawn. Good times. There isn't time to prepare, so there isn't that anxious build up.

Not so with hurricanes. There is footage on the hurricane for days and days and days and days. And, unlike living in Oklahoma, there isn't a hurricane drinking game similar to the legendary Gary England Drinking Game. At least that I am aware of....people just consider hurricane drinking, well, drinking. We call that Tuesday at our house. Anyway, people get totally caught up in getting enough bottles of water, generators, batteries and peanut butter that you almost expect to see it being scalped on the corner outside the grocery store.

Well, as the coverage was getting more constant and evacuations of Galveston Island started, my office gave us the afternoon off as well as several days after the storm if we need them. Since I was a hurricane neophyte, I didn't really take into account as to how bad the storm and damage could be. So, when I got off work and people were throwin' bows on isle 13 for the last case of Ozarka, The Husband and I spent that time getting some staples we knew we would need.

When I left the office, I took stock in my priorities and made a detailed list of exactly where I was going to go and what I was going to need. Traffic was horrible with people trying to get gas, and with all the shortages that happened as a result, it was an absolute nightmare getting around.

First stop: Linen's and Things

They were closing a store by my house and I needed a new crock pot. I mean what goes better with "hunkering down to watch a hurricane" than turkey chili?

Second: Pottery Barn

While doing some "research" for necessary hurricane supplies at the office before I left, I found some amazing drapery panels on sale. Better pick them up before they sell out! My thought was, that if I am going to have full access to The Husband for a few days, I am going to put that man to work. My "Honey Do" list was longer than the line waiting for the Jiffy to be restocked.

Third stop: World Market

To pick up the curtain rods, naturally.

Fourth stop: CVS

I decided it would be a good idea to pick up some extra batteries for the cordless drill in case we don't have power-that way there won't be any excuses to not hang the curtains! Feeling so smart and proud of myself for thinking a couple steps ahead, I also got caught up in the mob mentality and thought I should get some candles too. Seeing that all they had left at that point we gaudy rosary candles, I figured they were better than nothing. I mean, I was going to need some additional light-especially since the sun would be blocked out by the new curtains. Although if anyone looks in my bathroom closet, you would think I am a strict Catholic straight from Mexico City...and probably a stripper too because they are covered in glitter. To me that didn't seem to safe, but who am I to correct a glittery Jesus?

The Husband, of course, is running all around the city doing the things you are supposed to in order to prepare yourself for a storm-hit the liquor store.

So, I call him and happen to catch him in line. He is growing frustrated because he had been waiting in line for almost an hour and his arms are tired from carrying the huge stockpile of staples. In his frenzied state, however, he only grabbed me one box of my beloved Franzia Chardonnay.

Sweet, sweet Husband. Sweet, Salt-of-the-Earth Husband. Precious, silly, little Husband.

How could I possibly be stranded inside for days on end with only ONE box? I mean, who can live like that? No air conditioning (granted we will be cooler from the newly added insulation the curtains are providing), no TV, and now no wine spritzers to have with my turkey chili? Telling this to The Husband, I am met with a strong silence on the other end of the phone.

Soooooo.....yeah, we all know how this ended. (How I love that man.)

All in all it was a great hurricane. Real success I think.

Fortunately we only suffered a minor impact from the storm.

His name is Alex.

8 Years Ago...

OH MY!!! I have 3 members!! I am not going to lie-I feel like I was just picked next to last for kickball. I am no way near cocky enough to think that I would be picked first-I run like a girl after all-but I feel just great enough that I wasn't the last kid standing. I knew my good pal Katie would read my musings but other than that, I thought it would just be me, Katie and a dog ('Sup Roscoe!).

So, eight years ago today we all saw the towers fall wondered what the hell was happening. Eight years ago our lives changed and our sense of security became more of an illusion than the reality we were used to.

And, eight years ago, my mother began her own war of terror.

Now I must explain that my Mam (Your what? Yes, my Mam. And since I can't give you all of my little nuggets right away you will have to wait for that one.)...anyway, my Mam is very, um, task oriented. She really needs some project to work on or something to direct all of her energy. Since I had just gotten married and she had just moved my dad's dental practice in to a new building, September 11th caught her in between projects. Greaaaaat.

After most of us were able to turn off the TV, go back to work and start to keep going with everything that happened, my Mam turned her anti-terrorism campaign up a notch. She quickly set up her "Command Post" (AKA her desk in the family room) and began collecting anything Americana. Anything red, white and blue, no matter how tacky, big or small made the cut. Anything that had the White House seal on it? You bet! Um, what would come from the White House you ask? Well, being an ardent Republican, my Mam would support the troops, the president and the Axis of Evil. For her contributions, she would receive mailers from The White House thanking her for the support and asking to donate more money. And, in return send more and more letters. And she saved all of them.

Then she began getting pictures of "George and Laura", who she would refer to as naturally as if it was our old neighbors Mozan and Shuku (God love Mozan and Shuku. They used to let me come over and feed me sugar. Really, actual sugar cubes. They were the best). Anyway, we would be talking at her house and she would begin to show off her most recent pics and explain them to me.

"Oh, it is just George and Laura at Camp David"

"I got a new picture of George.....in his flight suit!!!"

"Did you know that Laura is a social smoker?"

Thus began what my brother and I refer to as my mother's boy-band crush on the president.

So anyway.....rarely a day would go by that I didn't hear about how she got up at 4am to check the BBC online to get the most recent news. Or I would hear about the new information on terrorists and that we shouldn't eat salt in restaurants because it might "actually be anthrax". Her favorite website that she would frequent (that I can't even mention because I am firmly convinced that if I do, I will be flagged by the government in some way and men with dark glasses will pull up to my house in a dark sedan and I will never he heard from again) is so out there, my brother and I often refer to it as "Hitler Had Some Good Ideas".com. Yes, it is that bad. The Husband and I told her she was not allowed to access it from our computer in fear of all the viruses we would get....or lists we would be put on.

Thankfully, in the last eight years other, um, projects have helped her refocus a little and she has toned it down a notch. She no longer tells me to "be vigilant" before I fly or has people look under her car for a bomb...you know "just in case". The days of my brother and sister-in-law sending her a Make It Yourself Garden Stone Kit (essentially cement mix and a pretty little mold to pour it in) for Christmas and wondering what all the "white powder" is on it, are gone. Although seeing her frozen expression as she opened it, saw the box, and said "Should I open it? It is all covered with powder" was all the gift I needed that year.

We can laugh about it. Now. Now we can laugh with her about it. Now. She has come a long way, baby.

Speaking of baby, my brother and sister-in-law are expecting their first baby any day now (yay!!). And, while my Mam is beyond thrilled to have a granddaughter, she did express some concern to him the other day.....well, she just said she hopes the baby isn't born on September 11th, because then "the terorists win".

Oooooh, and we were doing so well too.

The First One?

So, I have been told "by some" that I may be hilarious and that I should start blogging. And, even though I will say that I don't believe that anyone cares (or will read) about what I will mention in this little blog, here I go.

But, first, I must mention a little ditty. It goes something like this.....

I call it......First Grade Spelling Bee.

So, this is my main reason for not wanting to blog. I am a horrible speller and the proper rules if grammar are even further behind than post partum weight loss. So picture this, I am in first grade, roughly 6 years old and the class spelling bee rolls around. I mop it up like the floor at a peep show. So, I advance on to the grade-wide level spelling bee and given my special spelling bee list. I take it home, and I am not going to lie...I rock the shit out of it. With a couple teeny, tiny exceptions.

Where

Were

I am not joking. These two words are the constant running joke, even now, that my dad lourves to bring up all of the live long day. Not in a bad way, mind you...more in a "We bought you a new dress for this" kind of way.

So, I am practicing the list and I am showing it who is boss and all that. But, I just keep getting stuck on "where" and "were". Meanwhile, my grandmother who, let's be honest is not my biggest fan (not that I am a giant jerk store, but that is another post.), has decided to drive up from her old people haven to watch me. Can you say pressure cooker??

So I am sitting up there in my sweet little dress with perfect posture and and freshly washed hair (another story for another time) waiting my turn. I know every.single.word. on that damn list and I am more amped than a kid on a Gogurt high.

First Round. (awesome, these kids are going to eat my dust......big spelling trophy here I come).

This is where I envision myself being the spelling bee hero of the day. I am totally and completely the up and coming Benson that is just, well, the best one. My grandma is going to take to take me to Long Neckers for cheeseburgers and tell me how smart I am and how she always liked me and she knew I was so smart and on and on and on.

Kid One: Word- I (really??)

Kid Two: Word- Me (piece of cake)

Kid Three: Word- The (get out!)

Kid Four: Word- Am (child's play)

Kid Five: Word- And (Do you have any idea where this is going?)

Kid Six: Word- Some (Ok, now I am getting nervous, but this will be great?????)

Kid Seven (AKA Me): Word-Where

Are.You.Freaking.Kidding.Me?? Score one for the universe.

I will say that my grandma drove straight home that night and our relationship was never the same. I will say that we did still go to Long Neckers and it was awesome.

Ok, so that is the deep seeded reason that I am afraid to blog. Not that nobody will read it (and I don't expect this to be all James Earl Jones from Field of Dreams. You know, "Blog it and they will come" but there are going to be typos and spelling errors (obviously) and, well, just all sorts of stuff wrong. But, deal.