The Burden of Genetics

Upon reviewing their passport photos, SLB and I concluded that one of these children takes after me.  Can you guess which one?

As a reminder, this is me.

I will NEVER STOP posting this photo, so quit begging.

And now, the children.

Child 1:

Oh, hi, I'm all charming and adorable.  Love me!

Child 2:

WAIT!  WHAT?

No maternity test required.

There's Something I Haven't Told You

Look at how big Livy's gotten!  And, uh, someone else, too!

No, I didn't eat too many doughnuts.  Or, rather, the too many doughnuts I ate didn't cause that bloat.  THIS little lady did!

Don't bug me; I'm busy sleeping and growing hair.

That there is Miss Madeline (rhymes with "nine") Mae, and she is 4 weeks old today.  In that picture she was 1 day old.  She is even bigger and hairier and cuter now.  She does things like smile at us in her sleep and fart like a dyspeptic longshoreman all day long.  We love her a lot and are going to keep her forever and snuggle her and pet her and OH MY GOD, SHE'S SO CUTE SHE MAKES ME TALK LIKE LENNIE FROM OF MICE AND MEN!

Wonder Women!

Luckily, we have an in-house (housemade?) superhero to protect "Baby Sister" from Mama's overzealous snuggles.  Livy loves "[her] baby," and we've yet to see any kind of rivalry or jealousy from her.  I may have just jinxed it, but the love has held for 4 weeks so far.  The jinxy statute of limitations must be up after 4 weeks, yes?

So, to reintroduce myself to blogging and to blog readers, I offer both a postpartum mix tape and a personal cri de coeur.

1.  For you nursing ladies in the crowd, let this inspire you to great lactational heights:

Latch on:  Kool & The Gang's "Get Down On It."

In flagrante delicto:  Nirvana's "Drain You."

Digestif:  PJ Harvey's "Dry."

2.  Mr. Weaver, please forgive me for exploiting another tiny person for my own entertainment and pleasure.  I am a limited woman who needs a hobby, and this is better than making God's eyes out of popsicle sticks and nasty acrylic yarn and then mailing them to you in bulk.  What my children lose in privacy, you gain in not having to haul my handiwork to the dump, and now you have to be on my side.  Sucka.

The Importance of Not Being Earnest

Here.  I'll toss you a cute bone for listening to all of my earnest attempts at personal development and self-improvement.  Here we are on the way to the the-ah-tah.

Our CB nicknames are Hot Mama and Little Biscuit.

Little Biscuit's not really that blurry in real life, but she never did meet a wiggle in which she didn't want to indulge.

So sometimes Hot Mama has to wrestle Little Biscuit still to get a semi-decent photo.  Thanks to Big Poppa Daddy Studmuffin, Esq., for the fine photography.  Hot Mama over and out.

Buy Me That: Microphone Necklace

Because nothing intoxicates me as much as the amplified sound of my own voice, I must purchase this necklace

"Is this thing on?"

to accompany this shirt, an old favorite that I desperately need to replace now that my outlandish mom bosom has rendered it obscene.

"Oh, yeah.  IT'S ON."

And, as a treat for you readers, here is a picture showing me firmly in my element.  Here I am chaperoning prom in 2008, dominating the stage and soundwaves with my earnest yelling and wearing a totally jackass outfit.  Ah!  The memories!  The years of consistent and endless jackassery!  Beautiful nostalgia, take me away on your ear-splitting wings!

Nothing says "the best night of your high school lives" like this lady right here.  REALLY, REALLY LOUDLY.

Mother's Day II: Red Dawn

O.K., people.  An admission before I begin smugly reporting my Mother's Day indulgences.

I dyed my hair red.  Bad red.  Shitty, fake-looking, clown red.  It made sense in theory, is awful in practice, and, should the appointment-making gods smile on me, will be gone by this time next week.  We will not speak of this again.  Dammit.

O.K.!  Mother's Day!

Slept in.  Family snuggles.  Breakfast.  Massage.  Wine.  Tacos.  Presents.  Mariner's game.  Sad toddler.  Happy toddler.  Home.  Wine.  Take out Chinese.  Wine.  Black Swan.  Wine.  Books.  Bed.

I was happy because I couldn't see myself.  She was quietly freaking out at the crowds, noise, and Mama's hair.

Liv hadn't mooshed abrasions into my face in a long time.  She did today.  Plus, she's strong now, and my neck still hurts from counterbalancing against the pressure of her desperate, burrowing snuggles.

So we plied her with french fries with lots of tipsip (catsup) and her first diet Pepsi...

... then took her to the playground, bought her a Mariners bear, and found her smile.  She spent the rest of the game screaming, clapping, dancing, and randomly spouting "YAY, MARNERRS!" and "ICHIWO!"

Ergo = (forced snuggles - face abrasions) = AWESOME!

Happy Mother's Day!  Love, Little Biscuit and Big Red

Because One Can't Not Be Jean Seberg ALL the Time

I'm sidelined from packing with a dreadful headache, so while my Aleve-and-coffee cocktail kicks in, I'll say hello to you, darling readers.  You've been so brave to do without my ramblings - I know I couldn't go this long without reading my charming words - and you deserve a little notice even in the midst of our chaos.  So, hello there!  I notice you!  I notice you noticing me, which is the way I like it.  Notice on, lucky readers...

I got tired of not being Jean Seberg, so I just went balls to the wall and asked Jami to cut my hair dangerously short.  I may have used the term "lesbian chemotherapy short," but I don't rightly recall.

Hail Caesar!

I really like it, and it officially makes me the shortest-haired person in our family.  I don't know why I'm proud of that, but I am.  Also, it's strange even for someone who's had short hair for a while to look in the mirror, see something blatantly contrary to conventional beauty, and LOVE it.  It's not pretty by any standard definition, but it is rad, and I think I'll keep it super-short for the time being.

Dark circles be damned!  Look at how scrunchy-nosed happy this 'do makes me. 

But I know who you really come here to see, so here's a peek of the lady of the hour, Miss Olivia Lee.

Briefly resting between wiggles

The further she dives into restless toddlerhood, the harder it is to get a good picture of her.  She may not be walking yet, but, DAY-UMN, is that kid squirmy.  So don't be surprised if all you see are fuzzy pictures; they're the only kind I can take right now.

"The room, as part of the world, revolves around me."

She still isn't a walker, although nature and physical therapy will change that course soon, but she's a prolific talker.  Her latest surprising linguistic conquests: "attorney" and "tapenade," but "I love you" and her own name remain elusive.  She does slap her chest while yelling "ME!" and she announces all of her farts by seriously repeating "toot" afterward, so at least I've taught her the important things.

But her cutest new word is a mispronounced one, which is why it delights me so.  Let's kick it old-skool, shall we?

Tidbits and Whatnots

I haven't posted in over a week, which is dangerous when one has such a devoted fan base of obsessive parents, in-laws, and grandparents as I have.  But Livy, SLB, and I have been sick - REAL SICK - all over again, and I haven't wanted to take pictures or observe my own life, let alone formulate coherent blog posts about any of it.

So, here.  This is what you get.

1.  I have a cousin named Candice (known better as Kansas, Gorkus, Candy, and Candybaby).  She is awesome and can kill you with one shot from a hundred paces, no shit.  She's in the Navy and just got back from overseas where she fixed aircraft and did not have to put her sharpshooting skills to use, thank goodness.  She is as stubborn and hard-hearted as I am, and our family has speculated about the potential outcome of a fistfight between the two of us for decades.  Now that she can do a million pushups in a minute or whatever the military requires and I'm a squishy mom speculation has dwindled to... well... this blog post.

Livy is convinced that Candy is a celebrity because she's in 3 of the pictures on our fridge.  That means a lot when your exposure to the world generally consists of trips to the grocery store and reading a book about a mermaid parade 7 times a day.

2.  We are bad parents.

It's my kid in a box!  (Anyone wanting to make a joke about her birth will have to remember that I had a C-section).

3.  The Deschutes Brewery in Portland has both delicious beer and crafty beer bottle holiday lights.  There are tiny holes drilled in the back of the bottles to accommodate the twinkle lights that are strung behind the whole row.  If I ever get a fancy glass-bottle-hole-drilling machine I might make some of these.  But most likely I'll just post them here.

Perfect for a man cave.  O.K., the coast is clear; you can make your vagina joke now.

4.  With all due respect to The Pipettes, The Morah and I are the prettiest girls you've ever met.

We wear interesting jackets like the future candidates wives we are fast becoming.

5.  One of the best things about sharing a camera with SLB are the secret gems he leaves me on our memory card.  Viking dog agrees.

Jag håller med.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have more expectorating to do.

Sick Days

Livy and I have caught terrible colds and are lying low this week.  This is what that looks like:

It ain't pretty, but it'll do.

Snuggly baby?  Check.  Her favorite book, Mermaids on Parade (a gift from Mrs. Miller that Livy begs for all day long)?  Check.  Bed head?  Check.  Blanket made out of recycled Crown Royal bags (a gift from my miscreant uncle who personally emptied each and every bag)? Check.

And we're off!

Go team!

Sadly, we'll be here all week!

Razzle Dazzle is a Feminist Issue

It's this video



that helped me gain the self-acceptance to adopt these REALLY tight pants as my new gym wear.

Eeeeek!  I think I can see that lady's Razzle Dazzle in those pants, Mommy!

Yes, they leave nothing to the imagination, but DAY-UM they're some comfy workout pants.  It required some conscious effort, but in the Lululemon dressing room I took some inspiration from Leslie Hall's confidence and decided to raise two well-fed middle fingers to the notions that little dumpling-shaped ladies don't get to have the good workout wear and that being traditionally attractive in what are essentially technologically tarted-up sweatpants is necessary.  And in a world where my recent babyless (Thanks, Oma and Opa!) shopping spree determined that I am an extra-small, small, medium, large, 8, 8.5, 10, 12, and one-size-fits-all ALL AT THE SAME TIME, it feels almost revolutionarily validating to break a sweat in my Razzle Dazzle Wunder Unders not because they make others feel good about looking at my body, but because they make me feel good about being in my body.  That's right.  My RDWU's come in a size juuuuuuuuuuuuuuust right.

No Wardrobe

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Ka-Ching!

Money can't buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy you distraction.  When I'm sad, I shop.  When I'm sad and preparing to be in Uncle Damon and Auntie Katie's wedding in September, I shop for knee-length black dresses.

Thoughts?  Recommendations?  Join me on this journey through little black dresses, won't you?

First up, sassy one-shouldered Grecian thingie:

Pros: The banded waist nurtures the illusion that I have any variation in my measurements whatsoever, and asymmetry makes me happy.

Cons:  Can this thing really stand up to the ol' Circus Tits?  I think I know who'll win this battle, and it's not the dress.

Next, by the same designer (actually, all of these are Maggy London), a festive sarong dress:

Pros:  Again, this little number will give me the waist and hips that God didn't, and the straps are wide enough to possibly accommodate a real bra.

Cons:  I can't really think of any.  That's a good sign.

Finally, we have what I am loving referring to as the Joan Holloway little black dress:

Pros:  IT'S A JOAN HOLLOWAY DRESS.  What more do I really need to say?  Plus, it looks as if it can accommodate a real bra, and the asymmetry both makes me happy and detracts from my sad waistlessness.

Cons:  I can't quite tell how it fits.  It's a bit loose on the model, and it'd certainly be a lot tighter on me if only so that I could emphasize the bootyliciousness of the dress and my ample hiney.  The back of the dress runs the real risk of exposing the dreaded back rolls if I wear a real bra with it, which would be obvious to everyone since I'm last in line on the bride's side and will be likely be standing with my back to the guests for the whole ceremony.  I don't mind being the chubby bridesmaid, but DAMN I don't need strangers having intimate knowledge of the quantity and quality of my back fat.  So, it's worth trying on, but I'll be a brave girl if it's less flattering on my body than it is in my mind.

There you go!  Weigh in, fashionistas!

Before & After

Before:  Sad, boring, limp, forgettable.  I felt like my whole lovely visage was obscured by the blandness of what framed it.

Ho hum ho.

Plus when I tried putting it back in a ponytail I wound up looking a little like this:

"A desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired by his fellows is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man." - John Adams, predicting the advent of my blog like Nostrafreakingdamus

While I love the John Adams miniseries with an ardor usually reserved for my immediate family, that look on my head is not acceptable.

After:  kicky, bold, sassy, and butch as all hell.  It's a little too short and a little too precise for my perfect liking, but it's nothing that 2 weeks of growing out can't fix.  And, look!  You can see my face!  I was under that limp, dead hair all along!

Adorableness by God; Hair by Tart Studios

Hooray!  Hooray!

ENOUGH ALREADY!

O.K., people.  I tried to grow out my hair and be a femmy mommy type, but it's just not working.  So, no more hair, no more headbands, no more ticklishness on the back of my neck as it grows.  Look for something like this on my head in the near future.

Cute, right?  Cuter on me, of course, but cute.  My appointment is at 4:00, and I look forward to seeing my face instead of my floppy, sad hair.  Wish me, or rather SLB, luck.

A Star Was Born

It's my birthday, bitches!

Now make with the cupcakes.

Happy Mother's Day!

To all you mamas out there, good job making and raising those babies!

And to two in particular, good job making and raising us babies!  Thank you for all your love, support, good humor, and fine genetic material.  We love you!

My mama.

SLB's mama.

And thanks to my baby for making me a mama - it's the best job I've ever had.

And I expect some flowers, dammit, because my stomach still hasn't recovered.

The Morah, the Chicken, and other Weekend Miracles

Friends, I have introduced you to The Morah before.  She is my favorite person whom I neither birthed nor married, and this is the furthest from hyperbole as I can possibly get.  I can't overstate how much I love this lady.  The best I can do is illustrate it with a conversation I once had with Uncle Damon about her:

UD:  If you were stuck on a desert island for the rest of your life, who would you want with you?
ME:  No one.  (Like that misanthropy?  It's part of my charm.)
UD:  Could I be there?
ME:  No way.  You drive me nuts too often.
UD:  What about The Morah?
ME:  Oh!  Yeah!  That'd be great!  I love The Morah!  It'd be awesome!
UD:  What about SLB?
ME:  Maybe.

Yeah.  It's like that.  And it's even better when it's like this (notes from a visit the weekend before last):

*We shopped and bought almost everything on my clothing list in under an hour and a half, which combines my three loves: The Morah, having what I need, and not spending tons of time wandering a mall.  Brilliant!

*We had Groupon deals at Spa Willamina for massages, dry body brushings, and facials.  The spa, the services, and the practitioners are flawless.  I highly recommend it to people in Portland looking for a friendly, warm place to be rubbed into submission by strangers.

*We ate beautiful wood-fire oven-cooked pizzas at Lovely's 50-50 and followed up with housemade butterscotch ice cream.  It was wonderfully delicious and exactly what we needed after an afternoon of virtuous spa high-mindedness.  Without the substantial rib-sticking goodness of rustic pizzas and churned yolks and cream we might have floated away on a blissful bodywork cloud.

O.K., so it's NOT an excellent picture, but that is an excellent pizza.  Sauteed kale and chard with a silken yolky egg on top.  Pictures and words can't do it justice.

*A leisurely morning spent reading/internetting/staring into space in bed together with her dog, Ollie.  Her husband, the beatifically lovely Marc (seriously - I've never met a better hugger), was out of town, so we snuggled lazily under the covers with Ollie between us.

*Finally, for me a trip to the specialty lingerie shop for a few sturdy undergarments in a size "WTF???"  Tiny rib cage + mom boobs = a trip to Just Like a Woman for expensive, perfectly fitted bras.  The service is expert and kind, and the selection is incredible.  If you've got outlandish hoots like I've got outlandish hoots, I strongly recommend that you save up for a trip to Just Like a Woman.

My friend Jen calls them Circus Tits.  Just look at the baby or the dog if this makes you uncomfortable.

But all was not paradise on this trip.  We, in fact, weathered some BIG! DRAMA! with the strength and grace of a grieving Jacqueline Kennedy.  Let me explain.

See, The Morah is one of those hip urban farmers you keep reading about.  She keeps chickens in a well appointed coop in her side yard, and the coop opens up into the backyard where the chickens can run about at will.  She had just introduced three new young ladies to the flook of old friends, which apparently can be a risky proposition.  She explained to me that "pecking order" and a "pecking party" are NOT always metaphors to be pondered from behind the safety of a book.  They in fact EXIST in the chicken world, and one of the old gals was experiencing them strongly when the new babies invaded her flock.  And when we were at the spa unaware of the conflict brewing at home, the older chicken chased one of the babies into the yard, which the baby then escaped in her panic.  We had a missing chicken on our hands, night was falling, it was raining, and the mean streets of Portland (dogs, cars, and raccoons, OH MY!) are not a hospitable place for a young pullet to bed down.

So, after a mild Morah freak-out (She has feelings that she, you know, feels.  What must that be like?) she organized a search party of friends and neighbors.  We combed the streets and alleys around her house clucking "Here, chick chick chick!" softly as we tried to find the missing baby.  No luck.  After some strong self-talk about the expendableness of livestock, signs hung crying "Missing Chicken!," a post on Craigslist, and a call to animal control, by the next morning we had both given up hope.  Chickens come, and chickens go, we thought.  Best to move on.

Which, Hallmark movie-style, is exactly when a miracle occurred.  Her amazingly generous neighbor, out looking again for the chicken on his own in the morning, saw a big crow across his lawn.  Upon further inspection he found that it was not a big crow, but a small chicken!  A small, lost, lonely chicken!  He returned it to The Morah, who cried tears of relief and tenderly hugged the chicken to her maternal bosom.  She was saved!  We were relieved and amazed to find it so, but, yes!  She was saved! 

Reunited, and it feels so good!

So, with a warm and fuzzy feeling in my now properly holstered chest, I drove home.  As I was flipping radio stations, I heard the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" and stopped to listen.  Usually I like this song a lot.  After all, I've sung it to so many pouting students over the years that I have a pretty close relationship with it and its message.  But all it did on my sunny, smiley drive was piss me off. 

Because no, you can't always get what you want.  Clearly.  Naturally.  I think only children and spoiled childlike adults need that message delivered via catchy tunes featuring children's choirs.  But is the best we should be aiming for really trying sometimes and just might finding that we get what we need?  Yes, it's true that this does happen.  But is it worth glorifying?  Because sometimes you find exactly what you're looking for in record time.  And sometimes you're lucky enough to get a perfect afternoon at the spa.  And sometimes your dinner is exactly what you wanted exactly when you wanted it.  And sometimes you're blessed with the financial security to afford such luxuries in a time of recession.

And sometimes you have the best friend in the world, someone who makes you seriously consider that there might be truth in the gag-inducing epithet "soul-mate."  And sometimes you're still so in love with your partner of 13 years that you get butterflies when he grabs your hand upon your arrival home from a weekend away.  And sometimes you get through a difficult pregnancy and labor to have a healthy, happy, giggling girl who makes you radically redefine love and your capacity to give it.  And sometimes, people, sometimes your chicken comes back.

I am not a religious person, but I do love the idea of miracles.  And it seems to me that they happen every day.  So, no, you can't always get what you want.  BUT SOMETIMES YOU CAN, and what a better song to sing - a song of hope and gratitude for the good in the world - than one that glorifies the possibility of mere subsistence.  Maybe it depends on luck, and certainly it depends on what you want, but I'm going to be happy to have what I have - to have what I want - while I have it.