I live

This thing is kicking my ass.

On a week I cannot afford an ass-kicking.

Despite an amazing domestic takeover by the spouse extraordinaire this weekend so I could "rest," I am still fighting this thing. (That's how I refer to it now, as the "thing," because it has taken on a life of its own--my life--and has applied for residency and a social security number.) But I have to beat it this week because the Griswolds begin our Magical Mystery Tour 2007 this weekend. The tour which only contains the mystery of what the hell are we thinking by doing this. The itinerary is so bizarre and non-sensical, the timetable impossible, and we are as unprepared as we usually are for such excursions. But yet we continue year after year just adding kids.

And can you believe I am really looking forward to it?

Because despite the crazy which we pack plenty of, we do have a great time. And I'm going to see a whole lot of people that I love and miss a lot.

And you wanna know the best part? Is that the whole thing will be filmed and posted here so that you, too, can experience it with us. You'll be able to smell the gasoline at $3.50 a gallon, the rest stop bathrooms with a potty-training toddler, and all of the Cracker Barrel toys you can shake a 6.99 rain stick at. It'll almost be like you're right there in the passenger seat eating licorice and yelling at your husband on the Crackberry while driving.

I hope the thing stays home and watches the dogs and picks up the mail.

D Day

Would I be a complete baby if I admitted to being just a teensy-weensy bit nervous today? It doesn't help that I cannot have a cup of coffee or put my contacts in, either.

So, focusing on the bright side besides the obvious. I'll get an hour of solid sleep under anesthetic. I'll get some reading done in the waiting room. I don't have to cook tonight.

Here's to a fresh start next week...

Poetry

Ode to the carpet cleaners. In Haiku.

Oh wielder of steam
Cleanse my domestic failures
Saving puppy's' lives.

Return to the land

Armed with an 11th hour doctor pass, a pharmacy of drug cocktails and a bottle of vanilla vodka; we made it to our beach vacation after all. I figured if I was going to die, it might as well be on the beach where I want my ashes scattered anyway, so it would save my family a trip.

I am going to refrain from further comment on my physical condition because it depresses me. Surgery is scheduled for Friday, and I have never been so happy for something so awful in my entire life. Nothing could be worse than this. Truly. Let's hope this is the cure, because, really--I need new material.

But back to happier subjects: vacation. We all had a great time. I have determined that there is nothing more beautiful than the Gulf of Mexico. I love living near it. I love vacationing on it. And every time I get in front of a camera or cover some retarded meeting, I do so knowing it is getting me one step closer to our beach house there.

Anyway, I wrote a column with the humorous specifics which I hope to publish before Friday along with a hundred other things, but the weather was gorgeous; the water divine. My kids are officially beach babies--even Jessie in her sun dome castle. We played from early morning to late at night, but rarely did we leave the water. I got my sunburn and hangover, but both feel pretty damned good.

Here are a few pictures until I figure out my technical issue with the others I took.

Vacation

We're packing as though we're leaving in a few hours, but that still remains to be seen. But I have blinders on. Blinders that look like Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to be on that beach so badly...

So if the planets align with Doctor-Everything-Will-Be-All Right, then I'll be back Tuesday. With a hangover and a sunburn.

Happy Father's Day.

Elephants

I've been avoiding you.

It's not you, it's me, really. It's complicated. So I'll post as we both ignore that huge elephant in the blog. Sorry, those are the terms.

Instead of my obvious malady, I'm going to focus on the positive. Like, I bought a new dress for a wedding next month that I didn't hate. On sale. In a single-digit size. And it's not black.

Yes, I hear the elephant coughing in the corner. I'm sure it's fine. Really. Ignore it.

Oh, and how about my return to the freelance world last night? It was as entertaining as it always is after a 4 month maternity leave. And they didn't stone me. Well, they sort of did with their eyes when my favorite member of the board called me out and everyone turned to look at me. I just flashed them my hundred dollar smile and kept right on writing.

That elephant can't hurt you. He's lame. Or anemic.

And that today while someone else is cleaning the house, I will be buckled down writing said article and packing for summer trip #1 that I am surprisingly pretty prepared for. Complete with a new bathing suit that I don't hate. On sale. And it is black, but a little white, too.

A little hemorrhaging never hurt anything as strong as an elephant. You're being needlessly squeamish.

I'm sorry, did that sound a little like self-pity? It did, didn't it? Well, the only cure I know for self-pity is getting drunk on a beach for 5 days. Which is what I'll be doing starting tomorrow if the elephant doesn't pass out on me.

You don't even want to know

In ER, being teased threatened with a blood transfusion:

Sean: I think your doctor hates you.

After no transfusion but loaded up on even more hormones than before:

Me: No, he obviously hates you more.

Long weekend. For my family.

Time machine courtesy of Ortho Novum

This will be as close to discussing my innards as I will ever get.

I will not tell you the problem--only the "cure" as prescribed by my doctor.

*deep breath*

I have to take 4 pills of the hormone regulating variety a day for a few days.

4.

It is not to control my freakish fertility, so shut yer yaps. It remains to be seen if it will solve the problem, but the side effects are killing me. I feel like a 13 year old girl with all of these surging hormones. I want to hang Andy Gibb posters in my locker and put on some Bonne Belle bubble gum lip gloss. I have a sudden urge to write down the lyrics of Peter Gabriel songs. I have a craving for Funyons and Mountain Dew. And I am this close to donning on some leg warmers while lip syncing to "Xanadu." I think the only thing I haven't done is pick a fight with my mother.

Oddly, and whether or not related is unknown, but this week has been an odd culmination of time and opportunity domestically speaking. I have not only turned in all of my freelance assignments early and somehow managed to keep the visible house almost respectable, but today I cleaned the refrigerator and oven. I know, I know. Those nonpareil sprinkles that Amy spilled in the vegetable drawer and that turned into a solid sheet of rainbow shellac, is now gone. Hold your applause, please. Dinner is bubbling away on the stove, the kids are bathed, and I am one organized--although pre-pubescent--girl.

Excuse me while I go weep now over a particularly poignant episode of "Full House."

Can't we just be friends, doc?

I've self-diagnosed myself with regard to my heart.

My cardiologist has a crush on me.

Now that is not hubris, I assure you. Rather it is just simple math. I noticed today that I am his youngest patient by 100 years. I am his only patient that walks into his office on my own volition without any aids--human or otherwise. And since there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, I must be an easy $300 office visit.

We did the heart sonogram today. It "was normal...basically." So, this means what? "I see you again in 2 months." 2 months? There is no rhyme or reason to these follow-up appointments. Nothing significant cardiologically speaking has occurred in 2 years, and I went almost a year in between appointments, so why 2 months now?

It would be a whole lot cheaper and more convenient if we just met for coffee instead.

****

Pricey needless medical tests gave me an excuse for a day out, though. You would be very proud of my organizational efforts this week--closet is cleaned, vacation meals prepared, baby equipment purchased, 3 workouts so far, 1/2 of freelance assignments completed, and it is only freakin' Wednesday. I am so seriously impressed with myself, I can barely stand it. I almost feel like a bonafide grown-up as my kids ate homemade dinners in clean clothes. I might even bathe them tonight for a domestic Trifecta.

So I treated myself with a new bathing suit, which let me tell you at 8 weeks postpartum is not that much of a treat, and a delicious club sandwich for lunch on this special day.

T.S. Barry and Barry Manilow

I awoke to the melodious sounds of rain pattering down on the roof. It is melodious because it is sound we haven't heard around these parts in months, and it took me a few minutes to recall what one does on rainy days--bake cookies, make soup, clean closets, read, watch drippy old movies--all of which I would be more than happy to partake in until...ACK!

Barry.

As in Tropical Storm Barry. Which means this rain is no longer a good excuse for domestic pursuits, but rather for battening down hatches and finding batteries that work. So I will spend the entire morning racing around doing these stupid storm rituals because the Weather Channel will be evoking panic within me all day, only to have the storm pass well north of here leaving only a too full pool and muddy paw prints.

*****

Wedding last night: beautiful. And here is the compliment of the evening as rendered by a charming table mate #3: "You are the smartest wife of a sports executive I've ever met."

You are thinking that must be a shallow pool indeed, but I'll take it, people. I will take it with a handful of Jordan Almonds and a heaping scoop of Thanks.

Amphibious metaphors

Blessedly, I got a few shards of sleep last night. I may even be rested enough to do the Electric Slide at a wedding tonight...

Intern-nephew's presence here is a lot of fun. Not only is he a big help, but he does provide comic relief. And I think by the end of the summer, I should be able to improve his use of metaphors so he doesn't have to use some like these:

D: This house is so loud. I am just not used to...

Me: What? Being part of a family? Because I know you have one. I've met them.

D: No, it's just like getting plunged in...you're used to it. Like if we were frogs swimming in a hot pot of water. If your frog eased in and got used to it, he wouldn't die. And my frog just gets thrown into boiling water and it's such a shock, he dies.

Me: Ribbit.

I'm not even going to comment. Because really, what can one say when one is compared to a pot of boiling frogs?

But then this morning, when he didn't know I saw him, he kissed each one of those little toads before he left for work.

What a prince.

Summer So Far

Yesterday, I vlogged about summer vacation not going quite according to plan:




That isn't even the half of it.

Please, allow me to wax bitchetic for a moment if you will.

I am soooo trying to be that kind of Mom who has summer wrapped up in a Tupperware activity box with pre-cut shapes and glitter pens. I want to bake bread from the slightly overipe bananas on the counter. I want to have made 3 trips to the library already, with an organic cotton sack stuffed with interesting reads that we'll peruse together on pillows on the floor. I want to make a weekly field trip to somewhere totally locally exotic. I want a clean house. Or even just clean hair. But I am sooo failing in these wants so far.

I am fighting this stupid summer cold which just keeps lingering, an refuses to move from my throat so that I sound like I've just smoked a few dozen packs of Camels. I have been to a different doctor every day this week, and I will spare you the details because I'd rather gouge out my eyes with a speculum than discuss those things here, but suffice it to say...well, suffice it.
Hours pass without me getting much done at all except feedings and changings and more changings which only reminds me of my failing in the potty training department which is another goal on my aggressive Summer Tracey To Do List, which is getting longer by the day and more unattainable. I may have to cross off #12, which is master the perfect pitcher of Sangria and #24: Clean Closet.

But setting all of that aside, which I realize is a lot to set logistically aside so you may simply have to peer up from beneath in breathless anticipation, but somehow through all of this mess, I have had a creative breakthrough of sorts. The sort of quiet epiphany that clears its throat as it humbly suggests what should have been obvious from the get-go had I been paying attention to the get or the go.

So I leave you with that nonsensical announcement, because part of the revelation is that nonsensical announcements are pretty much what I do best.

Tupperware craft boxes notwithstanding.

Watch how I pull this althogether in the end

Little known fact about me: I've seen Niel Diamond in concert 31 times.

I've just started reading a most intriguing novel, "Loved Walked In," by Marisa De Los Santos. I am only on page 20 so I don't yet know if it will hold up to the last page, but so far I am completely hooked. It reads like the webcam in my mind. Scary. Like this: If you are not a big believer in signs, then, trust me, we have that in common. If your impatience with people who are forever telling stories containing fairly ordinary coincidence that they interpret (after a pregnant pause) as "a sign" that borders on nausea, I'm right there with you. And if you've noticed that such people almost invariably opt to take as signs only those things that point them in precisely the direction they wanted to go anyway, while ignoring plenty of other seemingly valid sign options, well, my friend, we're three for three.

But then she goes on to describe her personal compilation of signs completely contradicting herself mere seconds beforehand. Which is totally something I would say, but reason that because I admit to doing it, my criticism doesn't apply to me, in fact it makes me even more in touch with the universe because I am so honestly intuitive. I know, I am seriously messed up sometimes.

So I read this passage as I am in the waiting room for the doctor. The cardiologist, as a matter of fact. And the reasons that I see a cardiologist are unknown to me--it is a mysterious cardiac condition that gets more mysterious as the years go by, and for some unexplained reason, I allow this because...I have no valid reason as to why I don't take charge of this situation. Anyway, I haven't seen him in almost a year because in cardiac terms pregnancy equals the plague. Completely hands-off for 40 weeks. No meds. No tests. He didn't want to see me, talk to me nor even receive my co-pay in the mail until I hatched. Fine, I say. So I had honestly forgot that I had an appointment today except for the helpful reminder call I got yesterday. I honestly forgot I had a heart condition anyway as well. But I go in anyway for sport. Here's the dialoge:

Dr. P: Anything new?

Me: No. I had the baby 7 weeks ago.

Dr. P: (Quickly flipping through chart.) How did it go? Any chest pain, shortness of breath?

Me: I honestly can't recall. I think the other miserable symptoms of pregnancy masked any cardiac troubles I may have had.

Dr. P: Ok, let's do a sonogram of your heart.

Me: Why?

Dr. P: Because we haven't done one in a while.

Me: OK. How was my ekg?

Dr. P: It was...(pause) okay. I schedule you for sonogram next week.

And what do I say? Nothing, because I accept the nebulousness of it all. So I get back into the beast of a car and even though the tank wasn't empty I fill up for $78. I flip through the satellite radio which is the greatest thing ever I determine, because the soundtrack of my life plays every day spanning the decades reminding me of memories I'd forgotten. I have a particular penchant for the 70's channel, because invariably, my mother's voice will sing (badly) along to the tunes. As today when I heard Niel Diamond 3 times. She used to love the Niel Diamond. And all of her friends, too. And I could never see the attraction because by the time I was listening to music with a discerning ear, Niel had just released that stupid "Heartlight" song, which even at the sage age of 10, I realized it was a complete sell-out. But over the years, after reacquainting my adult ears with songs like "Solitary Man," I've appreciated Niel in a different light. Today I listened to "Longfellow's Serenade," and "Sweet Caroline," and thought I can see why so many middle-aged women loved him in his prime. Then I thought about what it was like being her kid, and then I thought about Niel Diamond's kid who is Dustin Diamond--"Screech" from "Saved by the Bell,"-- and how that freak has his own reality show now and that's how I sort of consider these video blogs to be in a way, and Oh My God I am Screech, and then I thought about my Mom and her "Jazz Singer" album pressed against her chest like a swooning teenager, and my chest seized a little too and I realized that I doubt if the cardiologist can ever fix my broken heart.

Festivus on Memorial Day

Well, I suppose Neighborpalooza was a relative success. More showed up than I thought, but it was clear that we all live in a bubble--no one has a clue as to whom is living next door. And of course The Grumpy Old Man (next door neighbor who doesn't even give the obligatory nod when passing) did not show, but then I think Neighborpalooza would have resembled Festivus, and we would have had the Airing of Grievances...

Of course, my mothering skills were showcased at their absolute finest as usual. Sean was a tad late to the party as he had to take Stevie to the ER for a broken wrist. 3rd time he's broken this wrist. Mrs. K was sure to point out that she makes her kids wear helmets and wrist guards. Sean said he was, and a condom too, but she didn't see the humor.

Matty fell off the roof of the Little Tikes truck and hit his head on the ground. Amy fell into the bushes and got a black eye. Jingle ran away. Twice. And then after all of this daily chaos, the guy from the corner who was sitting on my chair in my driveway drinking my beer said to me holding Jessica, "So, is this your first?"

A freaking bubble.

Neighborpalooza

I'm pausing briefly in my preparations to update, because this is just too funny not to...

Yesterday, my husband decided that after living here for over 7 years, we don't know the neighbors well enough. The only contact we have (with the exception of the daily assaults from Mrs. K.) is when they call the police on us or complain that a ball flew into their bushes. Or when we have the Stanley Cup full of champagne on our front lawn at 3 a.m. When the St. Pete Times article came out a few months back and my secret identity was revealed, I think they were a bit surprised, but somehow I don't think it helped our cause. So, in the spirit of neighborliness, Sean decided to hold driveway Happy Hour--"Neighbopalooza"--and invite everyone on the block.

I can't even imagine what this is going to be like.

Seriously.

I told him I would only make pigs in a blanket if I could write a column about this later.

1st Day of Summer

Well, I won half of the battle anyway.

I brought the camera to the last day of school ceremonies this morning. Just without adequate batteries.

So use your imagination and picture my eldest official 6th grade son wearing the last semi-clean uniform shirt with the paint stains from Christmas, and since we couldn't find his uniform pants this morning--a pair of non-regulation khaki's 3 sizes too small and too short. His brother was the one with the rock star hair, shirt untucked with a trail of starry eyed new second grade girls following behind him.

Aren't they cute?

In other news...I guess there isn't much other news. Except I am looking forward to this long weekend of nothing. I did make a rare book store run earlier today and loaded up on all of those heart-wrenching, gut-tearing foreign novels I love so much. I can now say, "Her kiss was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering" in 7 different languages. (Bonus prize if you can tell me what book that came from, and no fair if you Google it.)

So I am cracking a spine of a book and a bottle or 7, starting.....now!

No words

Okay, yesterday pretty much sucked. It started out fine, but later in the afternoon it disintegrated in a matter of minutes.

Amy opened the front door and the dog got out. That's a typical occurrence that drives me crazy daily, so it isn't unprecedented. We caught her rather quickly this time, and I took Amy and Jingle back into the house. Matty went to go tell his brother of the capture. About 10 minutes later, I change a load of laundry, and notice that Amy isn't around. Then I notice that the boys are not back yet. So I tear through the house calling Amy's name, searching every room. Nothing. I run outside. I'm calling all of them and still nothing. I find the boys at the pond's edge and my heart sinks and my stomach lunges and still no Amy.

At this moment, Mrs. Kravitz, my neighbor that can make an intolerable moment even more insufferable, comes up and tries to "help." I send her and the boys back to the house to search there because I know Amy will never respond to her outside if she calls.

The seconds crawl by as I run down the street and through back yards calling her name. Other neighbors peer outside. Sweat is pouring down my back and I realize I am shaking.

Finally, Stevie comes from the house and announces he's found her, curled up under a blanket in the baby's crib.

And as I stood there holding on to her for dear life, a thousand fears pulsing through my body, Did she not hear me when I called her? Is her hearing not working right anymore? How will I know? What if she had made it outside?, Mrs. Kravitz said, "You've got so many kids now, you can't keep track of them all."

If I hadn't been holding my precious daughter, I would have punched her in the face.

As a mother, she should have just understood intuitively that that is the absolute lowest a mother can feel. If she was trying to be funny--which I have never known her to do--comic relief at that moment of sheer panic is just plain cruel.

And supplying the 1001st fear is even crueler.

Rambling Sunday nonsense

I should probably make a personal rule not to blog while under the influence, but then I would probably never blog...Besides, it would go against my one woman campaign to bring drinking housewives back in vogue. (If Sean leaves a McPudding legacy, then this can be mine.)

That said, what a weekend, my dear, obscure friends. I am approaching that 6 week mark when the the world is supposed to suddenly right itself again, and I just spent 2 days testing the theory.

I had some big plans to complete about 30 home projects in various states of completion. That albatross of a back bathroom needed to be sanded, painted and reassembled; and our yard looks like that pollution scene from the old PSA commercial from the 70's where the Indian on the horse begins to weep. Tonto is parked at my mailbox.

Anyway, in between all of this, there is the usual feeding, changing, bathing, entertaining and caring for the kids, which takes up more time than I ever allot. But last night I broke away for a girl's night out. We went out to dinner to a restaurant at the beach, and if you think that 14 Catholic school Moms talked about anything wholesome and decent, well, you must have been drinking as much as we were. A sample of the evening's topics:

1) How I found out my best childhood friend was a lesbian.

2) Who are swingers in the neighborhood--categories for old swingers and young ones.

3) Who needs therapy for ironing their pillowcases. (And you do, btw.)

4) Where are the most exotic places you've lost your children?

5) Why phen-phen should have never been removed from the market.

The rest is just too explicit to reveal in this blog.


Sunday rolled around, and we started off so productively...Sean sanded that bathroom so that it was as smooth as Jessie's bottom and cleaned the Lanai as I worked on the front yard. I even went to the gym for the first time in a year and reacquainted myself with the treadmill. It missed me.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up dinner fixings and a bottle of wine, and the cashier said this:

Cashier: Can I see some I.D. for the wine, please?

Me: What language are you speaking?

Cashier: English. May I see some I.D. please?

Me: Of course!!! Let me find it...(Searching madly through my purse, hoping she won't change her mind for about 20 minutes under Target receipts, bubblegum wrappers, hair ties and lipstick tubes.)

I thrust that license at her so proudly, and then almost kissed her on the mouth. But instead, I ran home and we drank that bottle of wine in the hot tub for the next 6.5 hours and I actually got a sunburn in a non-maternity bathing suit where the remainder of the incision glue must have come off by now, and I swear that I almost felt human again, singular in body, mind and liver; a perfect way to celebrate my 6 week milestone.

One more for the evidence file of bad motherhood

Dudes, I'm beat.

I've spent the entire week playing catch up, and now it's caught up to me.

Sean's been out of town, and that's always an exhausting circumstance, but I'm just not able to rebound like I used to. But it's finally Friday--thank God--and at least I don't have to make a lunch at 6 am tomorrow morning...

So far Amy has done well with her new sister. She likes her well enough--as much as a 3 year old can like a sleeping, sometimes crying blob--and I was worried that her speech would regress once she was born. That has NOT happened, which is a very good thing, but last night she showed a different sort of protest/regression.

I was changing Jess' diaper on the changing table, and Amy decided she was next. That's fine, I thought, no harm in hoisting this enormous child onto the too small changing pad and making a fuss over her. I took her diaper and tried to put it on, but that wasn't good enough. Instead of her size 6, she wanted the newborn swaddler which seriously can only fit her thigh. No matter how many times I reasoned, demonstrated, refused, and tried anyway, she insisted through her tantrum that that diaper was going on.

I'm just too tired to fight, so I duct-taped it on her.

And you know what? It actually worked.

Score one for the exhausted woman who drove the kids to school in her pajamas today.

Live tomfoolery

In my never-ending pursuit to make a complete fool of myself, I've decided to do so in yet another medium.

Video blogging.

Yep, I vlog now.

Why, Trace? Why??

Actually, I've been experimenting with it for about a month now, but today I finally got properly inspired after my nephew made the astute observation at dinner last night with the dogs barking, kids talking, boys wrestling, phone ringing, baby crying, and me drinking, "This house is so loud."

Yep. It is. Life is loud. Welcome to mine.

Diva math

We just spent 4 grand on Marco Island so I could make $20 in book sales.

But the weekend was a success otherwise. I did sell out of books and we had a great time chilling on the beach for Mother's Day. Here are a couple of examples of fun:



The kids in the pool




The boys on a jet ski



The limo ride to the signing (quite a surprise, I might add)



The signing



What Jessie did through her first weekend at the beach

Mother's Day

Scrambling trying to get ready for the long book signing/birthday/Mother's Day weekend in Naples now...Oh my Lord are my days of packing light long over.

But before I go, I need you to read this.

I don't really ever cross posts between my column and blog too often. It perhaps seems silly, or perhaps you haven't even noticed there is a difference between the two, but I have this strange need to keep them separate. Which is stupid and pointless because neither one is anonymous--it's sort of like this blog is the crazy friend you keep from inviting to parties because although she's way more fun, she would upset the balance of your normal crowd. Or something like that.

Anyway, sometimes writing a column is merely me transcribing the thoughts of the day that I have already written in my head. (Perhaps that explains the quality of many of them.) And then other times, much less frequently, I feel as though there is something that I need to say, but don't quite know what it is--like when you walk into a room and forget why you came in there to begin with.

Tired metaphors aside, this column came about because through no purposeful planning, just accidental coincidence, my Mom's Happy Place beach is in Naples--to the exact one we are spending our weekend. The irony was not lost on me (or Sean) when the original book signing event was proposed months ago, but with everything going on, I guess I didn't let it rise to the surface of understanding.

Until this week when I walked into that room and remembered what it was I wanted to say.

Happy Mother's Day everyone.

Splish Splash

Well, I got the o-kzay to go swimming from the doctor yesterday--the incision still looks like someone brushed rubber cement across it, but it is fine to get wet now. Which is pretty good news since we're spending this long Mother's Day weekend at the beach down on Marco Island after my book signing in Naples on Saturday. It is not even funny how badly I can't wait to get away to a luxury hotel. With a spa. And room service. And a housekeeping staff.

And another diva in the house also got her o-kzay to submerge, so here is Miss Jess after her first bath and 1 month birthday.

A self observation

My cynical nature, which makes me a fun cocktail party guest also makes me a less than ideal Stepford mom.

Just sayin'.

Normal--diva style

On the eve of my one month post-birth check-up, I feel like I'm beginning to approach my version of normal. While many things continue to elude me like submerging in water or making it to dinner not looking like Quasimodo, I have started to re-engage into society.

Friday night we went out to a rather ordinary event, but it was special evening nonetheless as it was the first time in many moons that I've crossed county lines. And although still accompanied by le infant diva, we managed to make it to dinner afterward to a place with cloth napkins and a full bar.

And on Saturday, I cooked. I spent all day in my element over the stove element preparing a thank you feast for just some of the many people who helped ensure Jessica's healthy entry into the world with all of their help over the last several months. It was a wonderful evening, truly.

Yesterday I was pretty much wiped out from the previous evenings, but I didn't strangle the cashier at the grocery store for remarking on how tired I look, so that's progress.

And today's normal agenda will include laundry (of course) and a new gym class for Amy. And while I can't check off reading (hello June book review deadline) and running from the back-to-normal list yet, I did think seriously about doing both, so it almost counts.

sleepy

No sleep last night. Nada. Nill. None. And I was hoping to have a little bit of energy today to not look so tired at the obligatory social function tonight, but mainly so I could walk up to the open bar on my own accord. Maybe I'll just bring a really long straw...

Happy Cinco de Mayo all.

Where is the label maker?

Back to a kinder and gentler-speaking diva...

Mainly because I've reached a new level of exhaustion. For a variety of reasons--some obvious, some just plain insane--we are in an unprecedented period of re-organization in casa de la diva. Making room for Oscar and the slew of guests that accompanied her began this season, but soon we will be joined by another. Namely in the 6 foot+ college student nephew who is interning with a Tampa professional sports team this summer, and must need to have more schooling if he thinks this house will be anything close to a fun time with an infant, toddler, and bunking with 2 boys that are going to "sweet chin music" him (that's a real wrestling move, btw) every chance they get. Not to mention a postpartum insane woman who will be sending him out for milk and diapers every two hours and saying things like, "D, can you see if Jingle took Amy's pig outside? No, not that pig, the little one. Not that one, either, the one that looks like a rat? But not the smiling rat, the one that looks like he has a head cold."

And so on...Although he will have to learn an entire new vocabulary of Amy-speak and Matty quirks, it will be nice having another set of hands and sweet company around here for a couple of months.

And to add to all of this, new furniture is being delivered today for the boys, and so many things in the cosmos had to shift to make room for such a major endeavor. I can't even count the number of petrified pop-tarts I cleaned out from under the bed yesterday. And I could open a pop-culture museum with the sheer number of McDonald's Happy Meal toys dating back to the early 80's in the toy box.

I apologize ahead of time

Warning: I am feeling feisty tonight. Maybe it's because after months confined to this house, today I finally resumed my Tuesday Nights Out. Although abbreviated and accompanied by a 3 week old to the grocery store, it was still more activity and freedom I've had since Christmas. Maybe it's because I'm 37 now. Maybe because for the first time in ages, I got to choose the car media, and instead of one of Amy's speech DVD's, (not that I don't love to hear her repeat, "le cow" when the language gets mysteriously changed) I chose satellite radio so I could sing at the top of my lungs (badly) "Cracklin' Rosie," The Fray, and Nancy Sinatra within a span of seconds. Whatever the reason, I beg you to bear with me and my foul language, random musings and general saltiness.

********************************

Well, I am more than a little pissed. I have been looking forward to this hair appointment for weeks, and it got canceled. And the even worse part is that I have to wait another 10 days for another one. My hair is the longest it's ever been down to my ass and with these grey streaks running down either side, and I do not exaggerate when I say I look exactly like Lily Munster. Not Mortisha Addams, mind you. Lily Munster.

So feeling feisty and a little macabre, I went shopping for some clothes. I need something for Friday that meets the "tropical casual" label Floridians are so fond of using on their invitations while 3 weeks postpartum. And yes, I do mean to brag and I really don't care who knows it, but I fit into a single digit dress, beyotch.

Back at Publix, I was reminded of an idiotic post I made a few months back about not ingesting any other liquid besides water and milk. That plan is officially over, my friends. If it is not caffeinated or alcoholic, there is no room in my diet for it right now. Essentials, people.

So as I loaded the cart with Coke, coffee and beer, I had this conversation at least 17 times--4 in the produce aisle alone:

"Oh what an adorable baby! How old?"

"3 weeks."

"My, and look at all that hair!"

"Yes, she has eyes and ears, too." (I really never know how to respond to the whole hair observation thing.)

"Is she your first?"

"No, my fourth."

Audible gasp followed by long pause.

"I thought you looked tired."

What the f*** is that? These are complete strangers. How do they know my tired face from my coked up face? How do they know those bags under my eyes aren't from a recent WWE Diva match? How do they know it's not just bad mascara? Or bad lighting? Or from after the scrap I got into with the last idiot who said that. I mean, seriously, what the f***?


Okay, I feel better. I think I need to show this much verve in my new video blogging venture which I will share with you as soon as I show this much verve in my new video blogging venture.

30-something

It's my birthday. Yeah, yeah, thanks. Truth be told, I would have been happy with a Margarita, an extra generous slice of mint chocolate chip ice cream cake and a nap, but I'll take the luxury hotel in Naples for a long weekend, too. And maybe I'll be able to fit into the itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie red polka dot bikini that Matty got me for my birthday. It's like a size .5, and he thought I could actually fit it over one thigh. He also thinks I'm 26 today. I love that kid.

I'm moving a little slowly this morning. We had the big Matty birthday bash on Saturday complete with large inflatable jumping/slide apparatus. Buoyed by my first beer(s) in 11 months, I thought I'd slide down at the apres-party where there were no witnesses. Don't ask me why I thought this was okay. I can't submerge under water for 6 weeks because of this huge incision that they glued, but since they didn't expressly warn against inflatable fun, I thought I'd be cool. Not so. I'm burning. Ouch.

With age does not come wisdom, apparently.

******

I'm celebrating today with laundry, (it's still Monday you know) lunch with a friend, and Jessie sleeping through the night which may have been the biggest treat ever. And just to be corny and nostalgic, today is one of the prettiest spring mornings I've ever awoken to. I walked outside and was hit by the sweet smell of jasmine that's in bloom right now. It was almost as if someone was sending me special wishes from beyond. I love spring.

Rhetorical Questions I Don't Expect Answers to

1. Where do these large blocks of time I'm missing during the day go?

2. If the scale says I've lost all of the weight, why am I still in my fat pants?

3. If you know you are insane while committing an insane act--oh, say throwing a birthday party on Saturday for 30 7 year olds 2 weeks postpartum--are you still just as insane?

4. How can one tiny baby produce so much laundry?

5. I forgot what I was going to ask for 5.

Baby steps

In an effort to regain a little self-sufficiency, I drove this morning.

I tested my ability beforehand like the doctor said, and then I loaded up the two girls and all of the crap I need now just to go to the pediatrician's office for Jessica's 2 week check-up. I made it without crashing, dropping anyone, or tearing my incision. Woo Hoo!

I am exhausted and now can't walk upright fully, but I logged my first unsupervised field trip.

Now I've got to go take a nap.

P.S. That little chub gained 9 ounces in week. I love chunky babies.

It takes a village

I hope I get permission to drive soon. There are just so many favors a girl can call in to get shampoo and formula. My poor baby sitter had to buy de-wormer at the pet store and take Stevie to baseball already today. Last week she had to pick up and out Matty's birthday cake and the requisite Chik Fil-A nugget dinner.

I have to go back to the doctor earlier than expected tomorrow, and I literally had to arrange a 17-person tag team of people to take care of me, the baby, Amy, the boys, switch the cleaning day and change a light bulb. I need graphs and a flow chart for the logistics of a stupid appointment.

So sorry for having to actually take up the offers for help. I feel bad for constantly asking. You all have been beyond generous already.

We hatched...

I know I've been absent from the world for a while, but I've had a little reason...



Jessica Marie came into the world on April 10th at 8:44 p.m. At my regular doctor's appointment that afternoon, the contractions were 2 minutes apart, and I was 2 minutes away from a complete nervous breakdown. So we made the difficult decision that it was at long last time, and she was delivered 5 hours later.

I won't say it was an easy delivery, actually, it was pretty rough. After four c-sections, I think I've missed my opportunity for a Playboy pictorial. I'll have to settle for a centerfold in Parenting. But the baby is absolutely perfect and beautiful, so my complaints are few. Men just read it for articles anyway I'm told.

But as a result, my re-entry is slow. Today was our first day home alone--me, Amy, Jessica and the dogs--and it was all pink sugar and spice. But sugar and spice is exhausting. I tried to catch up a little, but I fear "catching up" is no longer an option, and I'm just starting from scratch again. By Monday, I hope to be walking fully upright and off the pain meds. But drinking again. Kidding. Sort of.

It's funny, but although she is only 10 days old today, I can't remember when she was Oscar.

But for now, I am going to be enjoying this bliss uninterrupted for just a little longer.

Linguistics lesson

I know where the turn of phrase, "A watched pot..." comes from....

Just wondering....

Can I Fabreeze the dog?

Good Friday

I honestly didn't think I'd be cooking Easter dinner this year. I thought I'd either be in the hospital dining on Similac with Oscar or at home recovering and being tended to by doting others.

It is now Good Friday, and it looks as though I may have to re-evaluate my holiday plans to include cooking for 12 on Sunday.

The upside is that maybe since wallpaper stripping yesterday didn't work, perhaps stuffing a leg of lamb and peeling fingerling potatoes may just push me over the edge.

Do you want fries with that?

I might just have found the one benefit of looking like I have a large medicine ball perched on my hips. At Matty's baseball game the team mom looked at me with those wide eyes of disbelief mixed with empathetic discomfort and said, "Well, you get out of concession stand duty for the rest of the year!"

That might have even made up for the bagger at Publix asking me if I was having twins today.

Spring Break

In an effort to steer Karma in a different direction, (hopefully toward Mease Hospital) I will point out 2 positive events for the day.

1) That 24 pound mark still holds. No, I'm not kidding. Last week I was up to 25, but yesterday I lost a pound. I can only attribute it to the unwitting ab crunches I do every 12 minutes (now down to 6 since I refuse to take any more meds). Not that my waistline shows the effort--that's more obscene than ever--but at least the scale does.

2) Today is the last day of school before a perfectly timed spring break. We all need it. The boys need to be home knocking down all of my nesting efforts, and Amy needs her brothers' attention. They need to be swimming and coloring eggs and sleeping in. On Friday, we will be besieged by family coming for Oscar Easter, and that's a good thing, too.

Let's hope I can give them something to do while they're here...

My O.B. Hates Me

Hiatus

They stopped it.

I held out for days before going to the hospital with contractions 2-3 minutes apart, and they stopped it.

Or perhaps I should say delayed it, because the drugs only make them come at 12 minutes apart which I am supposed to consider some sort of victory.

I don't know why exactly we have to wait any longer, but apparently we do. Or I do, because I am the only one that really is affected every 12 minutes. And the best part is that I get to play the home version of this game, and so I can take the medicine 3 times a day or whenever I feel the need to make my pulse race and shake like a crack whore.

Anyway, the thing is, yesterday I realized I sounded like the angry pregnant woman all of the time, and now tonight I am just the depressed one. I lost the last bit of sense of humor I had somewhere between the first and second shot laying there in the hospital. So I give up. I'm checking out for a while from the fucking relentless pressure of the maternal universe and going to try to figure out a way to think of something else for 11 minute intervals.

Upright

Well, we did it.

By all calendars, we have reached the safe week. We have made it through the shower (more on that faboo event later), we have made it through nesting, fridge stocking, ridiculously ambitious home projects, Jingle semi-training, tax season, reading, photo placement, pedicure, Easter shopping, hair highlighting and bag-packing. We have performed everything asked of us medically. We can now put bed rest to rest and move on to Operation: Evict Oscar.

You are all unwitting co-operatives in this mission. You will start by lighting candles to St. Gerard, and then sending along every wives tale, urban legend, bona fide medical fact or preposterous grandmother rambling on how to induce labor. I have been busy preparing for this delicate operation by doing laundry all day and vacuuming. Contractions are strong and present, but not regular yet. Yet. The casualty of this mission is that inducing labor for someone who planning on a c-section is so not fair, but every war has its sacrifices.

***
But the shower that my gracious friends threw for me was a beautiful event. Everything was perfect and the only thing left I need would be more space for all of the generous gifts. My sis came down for a few days in hopes of meeting niece or nephew #4, but instead got treated to cleaning the garage fridge and making dinners at Dream Cuizine for said fridge. (I went to Florida for my Spring Break and all I got was a case of ptomaine poisoning.)

***

Okay, you all have your dossiers, get busy. This baby is going to be born in March. Defeat is not an option.

Comic relief

I hacked up a lung laughing at this.

Achoo

The only thing that could make this any more fun would be if I woke up with a cold this morning. Oh look, life just started to resemble the freaking circus.

Seriously. How did I piss off the cosmos this much to be punished like this? Whatever egregious offense I may have committed, I am truly sorry and beg your mercy.

Please pass the tissues.

My Tuesday nights out have been reduced to Michael Jackson and toothpaste at Target

I ventured out of the diva cocoon to go to the doctor's. He was running behind, and I found myself sitting next to a skinny drug rep with a bag full of Ortho Novum samples which I almost reached into and threw them to women around the room shouting, It's too late for me, but save yourselves!

But I didn't. Instead, I just timed my contractions on my cell phone wondering how much closer they had to be before I asserted myself to the front of the line. (7 minutes but if they went to 6 I was knocking over anyone who was there just for a pap smear.)

When I finally got in to the exam room, the nurse had to pause taking Oscar's heartbeat for a big contraction to pass. We breathed through it together, and I felt a little vindicated that I had a witness.

The diagnosis was the same, however. Longer is better, gravity is not your friend, and Thriller, was the best album Michael Jackson ever made. (You don't control the conversation when you're in the stirrups, people.)

So what exactly does this mean? Well, if I want Oscar to be on a breathing machine, then I can start the jumping jacks now. If I would like to increase the odds against that, then wait a few more days until I feast on the chicken parm and calisthenics...

*****

Since I was out, I cheated a little more. I decided that I deserved a pedicure since I haven't been able to reach my own toes in 5 months. Let me tell you, it was worth the abdominal pain. It's amazing how a foot massage and a coat of "Dutch Tulips" can brighten one's general outlook.

****

I cheated even more and went to Target to start stocking up on Easter fare, and now as I write this I feel as though the afternoon just caught up to me so I'm back to horizontal for a few days. I need to finish the boring novel I'm halfway through and there are a few episodes of "My Super Sweet 16" that I need to catch up on.

Toodles.

It is time

Well, I think this can be considered the home stretch. Once given the ok at tomorrow's doctor's appointment (which had better be forthcoming lest I rip his spleen out) I will resume normal activity and give birth mere hours after I carry a laundry basket to the kitchen.

I know I am supposed to wait until after Saturday's shower, but I cannot adequately describe how badly I want to be done. It hurts. Yesterday, I made a pan of stuffed shells to freeze, and the contractions came at 7 minutes apart. It's time. Oscar must have a thing for turkey and artichoke stuffing. And remember when I used to be fun? Remember when I accepted your gracious invitations and contributed to conversations? Remember what I looked like upright? Good times...

Besides, I have every contractor and craftsman in the greater Tampa area scheduled to come out for some various last-minute nesting project this week, so it really is time.

Think birthing thoughts....

Highlights and low lights

I know I haven't posted this week--I'm miserable company even in a blog. I can characterize the week in a series of highlights and low lights which will explain my absence from the computer.

Highlight: Doctor's appointment with news of only a 24 pound total weight gain.

Low light: Same doctor's appointment with total bullshit surgery schedule date. I am going to do the at-home version of a c-section with some pinking shears this weekend.

Highlight: I read 3 novels this week.

Low light: I had time to read 3 novels this week.

Highlight: Sean taking Tuesday off and doing an amazing amount of work around the house and with the kids. He even called the 1-800 number for the Scooter Store demanding his free scooter just to get me to laugh.

Low light: Wallpaper stripping in the next bathroom he remodeled.

Highlight: Return visit from the dog whisperers.

Low light: On said visit, one of the dog whisperer's had to look under my bed to get Jingle out from under it. I feel so utterly naked. Also, Jingle is tall enough to jump up on the couch now. We're done.

Highlight: Amy's speech is really progressing nicely. Granted, most strangers wouldn't be able to pick up what she says, but they wouldn't help but smile at her version of the word, "butterfly."

Low light: First attempts at potty training.

Highlight: Matty getting excited for baseball and going to the hockey game tonight.

Low light: Signing the permission slip for "the movie" for Stevie and having him tell me that I had better hide those Easter baskets in the trunk so Matty didn't discover "the myth that is the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy." 1/2 Highlight: He didn't mention Santa in that sentence.

Highlight: Retiring one pair of maternity jeans to the closet bag.

Low light: Because I look like this:

3 Wishes

If a genie in a bottle washed up on the shore of my bathtub right now and offered to grant me 3 wishes, at this precise moment, this is what they would be:

1.) An English Governess (preferably an ugly one but one that can cook)

2.) Hard liquor. Anything on the rocks--no mixers.

3.) Forceps.

I know I can't have any of those things right now realistically, but I can dream....

You can't imagine how long and how many people it took to code this seemingly simple image and link

Bon Voyage

Ok, so a MySpace profile for Fantasia, my new Siamese/Tabby mix it is then.

I'm checking into a hotel for the remainder of this pregnancy. I am going somewhere with room service, and maids that change the bedding for you so that in the event that you just spent 35 minutes and most of your finite energy changing the sheets on the place where you spend most of your days and nights and someone under the age of 4 comes in with a stash of pixie sticks and proceeds to open them and dump their sugary contents right under your neck so that the excruciating hot flashes that now accompany the contractions transform the powder into blue raspberry Kool-Aid that now coats your entire expanding body in some sort of nostalgic torture/sticky practical joke so thoroughly that even your tears which now flow copiously out of sheer frustration taste like a blueberry sno cone that was made from seawater and a Downey dryer sheet, will be taken care of for you.

So just send me a bottle of Wild Turkey and a leather strap to bite, and I'll give birth at the Marriott. Oscar and I will see you at the Christening.

Home stretch

Although we've had some excellent entries--both here and via email--we are by no means done with group "The Preserve SubDiva's Sanity Project" in which you all are prisoners. I feel like we've reached a critical point in our efforts, and I could either make it through another 7 days or I could start voting for American Idol contestants and creating a MySpace profile for my cat.

And I don't have a cat.

So keep them coming.

Spring Break!

I probably overdid it a little on the activity level today with Amy's speech and a return visit from the dog whisperer, but I thought I could afford it because in a mere 2 hours, help arrives in the form of one godsent nephew on spring break.

For the next week, there will be a lovable young man of driving age wrestling his cousins, running to Publix for milk, taking Jingle for walks, attending numerous spring training baseball games and anything else that should come up in exchange for my car that no longer gets driven, all the food he could possibly eat, unlimited access to the beach and hot tub and even cash bribes.

It is going to be the best spring break EVER. For me.

For him, not so much.

P.S.

Did I mention the poster of the funniest joke wins a prize?

mailto:divamail@suburbandiva.com

Cheer me up

Okay, I didn't mean for my column today to sound so depressing, but I guess it is. Maybe the boredom is getting to me. Maybe the frustration. Maybe the pain.

Anyway, it is up to you dear blogience, to change that. I issue a decree of joke submission, either here, under comments so others can share in the laughter, or divamail me if they are really raunchy (my favorite kind).

Your other option is to send along one must read novel suggestion.

Get busy, you have an awesome and important responsibility.

Day 5

Remember that really long Russian novel I was reading? I finished it.

Remember those tedious taxes that needed preparing? I prepared them.

Remember all of that bad television I was going to watch? Saw it. And the reruns.

Now what?

Bed Rest--Day 4 or something...

...Who knows, they all run together.

Granted, the last couple of days have included a bit more activity than the strict definition of "bed rest" implies, but thanks to the generosity of good friends and Sean's return, life will return to the fully reclined position now. The doctor said yesterday I need to get a little more mileage from my cervix. Then I threw up on him for saying such a thing.

So, what's on tap for the rest of the week from the diva boudoir? Nothing but exhilarating excitement, I tell you. There's spreading out all of the 2006 tax receipts into some semblance of order for the accountant. There's the obligatory putting photos in albums. There is online shopping. There is reading a rather slow tome that even on bed rest is going to take weeks to get through the Russian revolution. There is daytime television--court shows and the Food Network.

And of course, there's blogging, so you can all share in the boredom.

Bed Rest--Day 2

Oscar-2, Me-0

I can't believe that a 3 pound baby is kicking my ass so soundly. If it's a boy, I may name him Leroy Brown.

I do look like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone.

Admitting defeat

I've seen some weird shit in my day, but watching the Blue Man Group last night was right up there with the weirdest.

Maybe I just wasn't in the mood. Because it occurred to me rather painfully and a barely avoided trip to the hospital on the way home, that this was the last extracurricular event I will be participating in until post-Oscar. I admit defeat. I thought I could avoid bed rest, but I can't any longer. I'm done.

And so, if you need me, I'll be working from the laptop from bed for the next couple of weeks extracting myself from bad television and a thick Russian novel for only the absolute necessities.

I don't even have the wherewithal to worry about my roots, either. I may just pull a Brittney and shave it all off.

What they say, and what they mean

You look great! You are just all baby!

You are so obscenely pregnant now, that I can see Oscar eating a sandwich in there.

I'm not unpacking that bag

The hospital staff took one look at those roots and agreed that we needed to buy more time.

Remember that scene in "Pulp Fiction" when Uma Thurman overdoses and they have to give her an adrenaline shot to the heart? I think they used the same procedure last night. I know I had to have had the same medication with Amy, but somehow I don't ever remember it quite so bad. I felt like I was having a heart attack, but I guess cardiac failure is the cure for preterm labor. Who knew?

This morning I feel as though I am in withdraws from like, oxygen or something, and I can't stop shaking. But I am thankful that we have more Oscar cooking time.

I better go call the hair dresser.

"How are you feeling today?"

He asked.

"I just packed my hospital bag," I answered.

I'm dying here. I hope I can make it to March. Or at least until Sean returns from Asheville. Or at least until the crib is assembled. Or at least until I have purchased one diaper, p.j., blanket or bottle of formula.

And most importantly, at least until I've had my roots touched up.

Yes, I speak dog

If dogs could talk, Jingle's first words would be, "WTF??!!"

It wasn't really a literal dog whisperer that came over yesterday, more like a dog growler. That's what we have to do in place of saying, "no." It's ridiculous. It's foolish. It is absolutely humiliating.

But you know something? It works.

By the end of that first session, Jingle was a transformed dog. She stopped eating us. She didn't bolt out the front door. She waited at least 8 hours before pissing in the house. It was unbelieveable. I might actually have a functioning dog in 6 weeks rather than Beowolf.

*No dogs were harmed in this training. Only a grown woman's ego.

Ash Wednesday

I've been thinking of my Lenten sacrifices this year. Since pregnancy is a 40 week self-sacrifice rather than simply 40 days, I've decided to go another route as I have abandoned many of my vices back in August. Besides, I hope to give birth well before Easter, and I plan on celebrating my first meal without heartburn spoiling it with a nice glass of Merlot.

Since focusing on a project is particularly difficult as of late, during Lent I am going to seriously apply concentration, creativity and effort to this book that I declared to the world would be out by the end of the year.

I know you are all breathless with anticipation.

Barefoot Mardi Gras

Yesterday, Sean took the day off and proceeded to work at the most feverish pace finishing the bathroom remodel (of which he did all himself and is beautiful), painted Oscar/Amy's room, picked up the crib, took the boys to baseball, went to the grocery store and looked at 2 houses for sale with a realtor. I don't know if I've ever been so turned on in my entire life.

With all of this nesting going on--Oscar is 1.5 months away--the dog whisperer's arrival tomorrow comes none too soon. I am out of shoes now completely, and we all wince every time we walk past her. But then every time I have her bowl and leash packed up ready to send her to the Himalayas where she clearly must be better suited, she'll do something absolutely irresistible like curl up with Cricket under her chin, or Amy will attempt to say, "Jingle," and I have to extend her lease for 5 more minutes.

Happy Fat Tuesday--I'm taking full advantage of the day clearly named after me this year.

Introductions

I feel as though I need to give a shout out to my new friends in Chicago. For some strange--but fascinatingly delicious--reason, The Chicago Tribune ran my story this week, complete with the picture of me looking like a stroke victim.

So, um, hello. I'm Tracey, Sub D, and in addition to all of the things you already know about me, I am a Taurus and I like long walks on the beach.

And you?

I really don't care how much it costs

I am currently doing the advanced math on paying an embarrassing amount of money for a dog trainer to come in and help me train this freaking needle-tooth dervish--or whatever breed she really is--or paying to replace the carpets,(she is now chewing holes in the middle of the floor) all of my shoes, (she doesn't chew in pairs, only singles, of course) our clothes, (they all have holes in them at nose height) and child limbs (prosthetics might be expensive, but at least I'll save in Band-Aids and Neosporin.)


Dog trainer it is, then.

An assortment of nonsense

Please do not read the following as a complaint, by any means. Do not read it as anything other than a musing, a bewilderment, an internal query, an observation, or a pondering. Choose whatever adjective you prefer, but definitely not a complaint.

It has been 2 weeks since the article was published and life has changed. Not that I coveted my former low profile and not that I expect such recognition outside the boundaries of Safety Harbor or just my own street even, but losing a level of anonymity is a little strange.

Let me explain. I expected a few friends to comment. I expected a few unexpected people to comment. That about covers my expectations.

What I did not expect was for my garbage cans to be taken in and out because my neighbors read about my pregnancy rather than notice on their own. I did not expect mere acquaintances to save, laminate, or otherwise display my article in any way shape or form. I did not expect my book to be auctioned off for money much higher than the cover price.

And I certainly did not expect to stare back at my own crooked smile when I walked into the exam room at the OB's office. OH MY GOD HOW PERFECTLY DISCONCERTING WHILE IN THE STIRRUPS. It made trying to distract myself by looking at myself while in that horrific position really rather creepy.

It feels like I'm stalking myself. Maybe I should get a restraining order.

******

Anyway, the doctor's visit was a mixed bag. Besides the self-voyeurism, I just have not been feeling all that well, honestly. I'll spare you the symptoms but it's starting to make me a little pensive. But no matter what the test results today show, I have officially started one aspect of my freelance maternity leave, as last night was the last meeting I will cover for a while. When they started speaking of the March agenda, I gratefully thought, Yahoo! I can honestly not give a shit! And none too soon as last night was the single most uncomfortable experience of my life trying to fit and stay still in those plastic folding chairs while fighting off contractions and hot flashes. At one point during a diatribe on the difference between beige and tan exterior paint, I thought my water was going to break. And the sad part is, I knew that not one bastard in that room would drive me to the hospital. They would fail to pass the motion by a 2/3 majority.

The good news was, if such a thing is conceivable at this point, is total weight gain--20 pounds. Approaching the eighth month and 20 pounds. I feel like I want to eat cake or something to celebrate, but then that might prevent future celebrations. But it is Valentine's Day after all, so perhaps a chocolate covered cherry or seven might be appropriate...

Happy Valentine's Day.

Weekend

That was fun. Even though I can't wear my Cheap Trick hoodie for a couple of months, that purchase still made the evening worthwhile. And the Audrey Hepburn reference(as opposed to Lucille Ball whom I thought I resembled in that polka dot dress) made the exorbitant amount of money we spent on the Cheap Trick hoodie and spa pedicure well worth it.

Before Sean left for Asheville today, I made him go to the store with me and we ordered Oscar's crib. At 30 weeks, this is the first purchase I have made toward Oscar's arrival. In fact, with the exception of doctor's visits and drinking Evian by I.V., it is the first physical preparation I have made.

I joke and complain about this pregnancy thing, but truth be told, I am more than a little nervous for the actual birth and the actual Oscar. I know they are normal fears that everyone has, but, I don't know, I just get scared sometimes.

But today was nice. Ordering the crib was a big deal--both mentally and practically. And it was nice. I actually teared up right there in Babies R Us. Matty and Amy helped, and since we didn't know what color sheets to buy, Matty promised that he would go shopping while we were in the hospital so it would be ready when we got home. Then he promptly used the new crib mattress as a wrestling ring, but the good intention was there...Anyway, I am on such a roll, I might just even pre-register at the hospital tomorrow since the forms have been sitting on my desk since September.

Tonight's Auction

I'm trying my best to rally for tonight's festivities. I swear. I know I've been less than enthusiastic the last couple of days, so today I am really making an effort. To prove it, I:

a) am drinking several gallons of water to combat the swelling and ensuing sluggishness.

b) not polishing off the rest of the red velvet cake from Bunko last night to combat the the swelling and ensuing sluggishness.

c) wearing a new outfit and swanky hairdo to combat....

d) am sincerely going to try to take a little nap later to catch up on some sleeplessness and combat, et al...

e) enjoy a night out with good friends tonight.

I love my job

I want to know how often you can use these words in a sentence together in your lifetime: I am interviewing the second professional wrestling star of the week today.

Today's subject is a bit different because she's a former WWE Diva, and while I may beg to differ with her on that title, I won't, because she could kick my ass.

A Perfect Excuse

It looks like I'm going to have to buy 2 new pairs of shoes for myself so the boys can make their Valentine mailboxes for school.

This is so the craft project for me.

Super Bowl

Although our family considers Super Bowl Sunday to be an almost religious holiday, that is not the reason why I didn't attend church this week for the first time since before Advent--a streak I was kind of proud of. No, with Sean off in Miami enjoying the SB festivities, I am holding court solo with Matty who came down with Strep throat this weekend.

At least that has given us a good excuse to hole up for a couple of days--the little ones playing video games, watching movies and eating pudding while I get caught up on writing, reading and neglecting housework--3 of my favorite pastimes.(And eating pudding, but don't tell my O.B.) The week has been amazing with much attention and many unexpected windfalls as a result of the article. Crazy.

We're going to get in one more dose of antibiotic and head over to watch the game with friends with empanadas--another favorite pastime.

Go Colts!

Me and SD

What a day....

This is what has kept me happily amused all day.

I was overwhelmed and humbled by the generous response, many good wishes sent my way which were warm and fuzzy and kind of nice on a chilly January day. If these were my 15 minutes, then I am more than grateful for them.

There were only a couple of black spots on an otherwise spotless day, but I have cleaned them away with a bit of club soda and didn't allow them to mar an otherwise amazing experience. However, they prompted a thought which sort of sums up the whole Tracey vs. SubD schizophrenic and bizarre dichotomy...

Perhaps upon first look it appears that I live vicariously through SD. The truth is, it is she who lives vicariously through me, and that is a pretty healthy place to be.

Diva Eve

I'm going to pretend like this is just a normal night. I'm going to crawl in bed soon with my book that I'll end up reading the same paragraph over and over and still not know what it says. I'm going to pretend that it is every morning that I wake up to read about myself in the newspaper. Yep.

Under no circumstances will I admit that I will be tossing and turning all night long waiting to hear the thud of the paper land in the driveway unto when heard, I will rise on the coldest morning of the last five years and creep outside in my bathrobe, rip the plastic sheath and read the story in the glow of the moonlight while my toes (I presume I still have 10) freeze to the concrete. I will simply lie to all of my friends when they call in the morning that no, I'd forgotten all about it, and is it in today's paper? Really? I'll have to take a look later if I get around to it, meanwhile I have purchased every copy in a 10 block radius after 17 cups of coffee and a half dozen donuts.

Okay, the donut part is a lie because I just had the most depressing doctor's visit to date, and donuts--and everything else but lettuce leaves and tap water--are off of the diva menu until October. And even worse, now I have to start going every 2 weeks so my monthly humiliation has now just doubled itself. Yippee skippy.

All right, I'm going to pretend to sleep now.

Excuses, excuses

Really Good Reasons for Not Blogging this Week:

1.) I'm heinously busy with agents and publicists promoting Suburban Diva, the stage show.

2.) We found out that I'm really 10 weeks farther along than I am, and Oscar is being delivered tomorrow.

3.) I'm in Cozumel drinking Mojitos.

4.) I'm writing with such prolific fury, that I can't even pause to switch windows for 30 seconds.

5.) The Bears signed me to play nose tackle for the Super Bowl.

6.) I finally found a pair of shoes that Jingle hasn't chewed, and I'm learning the Merengue.

Now, The Real Reason:

I'm just too flippin' tired.

Religiously speaking

My sacrifices to the Clearasil god and the Pantene god were acceptable, and so they shone down upon me today graciously.

However, the god of Calories did nothing overnight about my figure and I still look 7 months pregnant. He hates me.

It is yet to be determined if my offerings were pleasing to the gods of photogenics and puppy bladders.

Light a candle, please.

Boo

After the big anniversary celebration last night (which was wonderful, by the way, thanks everyone) this is what Sean said to me this morning:

"Some days you scare the hell out of me. Today is one of them."

Boo.

My End of the Week Nonsense in no Particular Order

OKay, I'm trying not to wig out about this photo shoot, but I'm starting to wig out about this photo shoot.

****

These next two admissions should be entered into the "Cry for Help" file: With all of the car switching around that we've done in the last week, I inadvertantly didn't buckle Amy's car seat in properly upon the last movement. I buckled her into the seat, so when I turned for the first time, her seat fell over with her strapped tightly inside. She screamed for 15 minutes straight even after uprighted, re-secured and soothed. Now everytime we get into the car (it's superglued now, I assure you) she holds onto the car dooor and cries the whole way to our destination. I feel so awful.

Matty was giving little effort to his homework the other night. He was purposely messing it up so he could purposely mess with my head. So I finished his spelling homework for him by writing out his sentences for him.

1. My kids feel like wiggling rather than homework tonight.
2. There is no use talking about it, it won't work.
3. Someone take me out to the middle of the road and shoot me.

(I got 2 in that last one.)

I haven't got a grade back on that one.

******

At the Vet visit yesterday, they informed me that Jingle doubled her weight in 1 month. This can be explained that upon further investigation, my "Goldador" puppy has some Husky in her. So does that makes her a "Goldadorusky?"

No, it makes her big.

(And to the answer to my question to the vet in all seriousness was, "No, there is no such thing a colon ligation.")

15 Years

Happy Anniversary, Sean.

I'm like a vampire, I don't photograph

I just finished the interview. I am mentally exhausted from being witty and charming on demand for 2 hours. We'll see if I succeeded in a week or so.

There's just one little problem.

They want to send out a photographer "to follow me around photographing me doing everyday things."

I wonder what exactly that will entail? Me eating a blueberry pie by myself from the fridge. Me cleaning up puppy poop. Me singing badly whilst straightening my hair. Me cleaning up marshmallows. (I clean up a lot of marshmallows everyday for some strange reason.) Or me blogging about marshmallows.

Oh, this is going to suck.

What am I going to wear?

I just got an interview request for the newspaper to do a profile piece on Suburban Diva. On Wednesday. Here.

I'm wondering if these maternity jeans make me look fat?

Oh yeah...of course they do.

Come Monday

It's a lovely Monday off following a lovely long weekend. We're waiting for Stevie to return from his ski trip--missed him terribly--by doing laundry and baking cookies. Amy is painting masterpieces and Matty is watching wrestling. In a few minutes we'll turn on a rare midday hockey game and I'll pen a few lines on the writing project du jour since I finished the monthly assignments ahead of schedulein some strange gift from the cosmos.

I'll start the sauce shortly for a big dinner and if the dog doesn't piss on the newly cleaned carpets, life will be pretty close to perfect.

Thursday

I could fall asleep sitting up typing this. Literally, my fingers would slow and start typing gibberish while my eyes closed and snapped back open, a little longer and a little slower each time until the shroud of sleep hit completely and I could fight no more.

Amy was feverish all night long, which meant we were up too, and I just got back from the doctor because I was afraid it was an ear infection and we can't afford that at this stage of the game. But it wasn't. It was just a fever which was good, but also meant no help.

Stevie is off on our family ski trip sans family. Or rather with other family because this is the no-fun pregnancy. The puppy is terrorizing my shoes and we're almost out of milk, so it's a pretty rotten day so far. About the only bright spot is that about a week ago I got the best haircut of my entire life, and everyday since I haven't had to wear it in a ponytail.

And now, hfhfohoeihfoief hifheohflncjdhf....


ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....

The limitations of search engines

I need to express my sincere apologies.

I am sorry to anyone out there in cyberspace who goes looking for real counsel and advice and ends up here because of Google's literal interpretation of the world.

I hope the recent surfers who Googled bursitis+in+dogs and allergic+to+swiss+cheese ended somewhere far more helpful than my ridiculous blog.

Godspeed.

Snow and dirt

The puppy is a strange cocktail of the most annoying creature on the face of the planet and wonderful comic relief. Yesterday, I couldn't help but laugh out loud when she came tearing in acting as if nothing was amiss from the backyard looking like this:



So I scrubbed her down in a bath (which she hates) and went on my merry way.

It was not nearly as amusing the second and third time she came in like that.


****

As I was uploading that picture, I found some of our Florida snow day a couple of weeks ago when Santa dropped a load from his North Pole Zamboni in our front lawn.







Actually, that picture of the sad snowman could very easily be one of this damn dog. It is supposed to be sweet and snowy white, but usually has some mud and sticks stuck to her.

Nice.

New Year's Revelations

Things that need to leave this house before they claim any additional victims:


1) The peanut butter pie from New Year's. It is deadly.

2) About 4 inches of my hair and my roots on Friday.

3) That game system the boys bought after Christmas--the little ones succumbed immediately, and now the adults are quickly sinking into its power.

4) Pine needles. In every orifice.

5) The puppy's bladder, kidneys, and colon.

6) The label maker I bought for Sean for Christmas. I am labeling everything as if the shelf with paper towels on it wasn't obvious enough that it had 7 rolls of paper towel on it.

7) About 4 tons of trash.


These items should be replaced immediately with bottled water, a creative and prolific writing streak, the Amazon book order, and a plate of roast beef.

Thank you.

My last 2006 public reflection...

...I swear. Maybe.

While toasting the New Year with good friends the other night, we all announced something we were thankful for in 2006. This was difficult to do at 1 in the morning asleep on my swollen feet, and I'm sure I said something a little cliche.

But now that I've had a minute, I've decided that the tiniest incident the other morning summed up an entire year.

Amy woke up a little congested and walked over to me sniffling. She crinkled up her face, sniffed, and said, "nose."

It was the first time in her entire life that she actually could tell me what was wrong.

I am thankful for everything leading up to that moment.

Last Day of '06

Admittedly, New Year's Eve is not one of my favorite days of the year. But I am trying to get into into the holiday spirit with my sparkling cider while making my beef tenderloin Crostini for tonight's soiree which I hope finds me still awake at the appointed time. I fell asleep early after another nice party last night, only to combat insomnia from 3-5 by watching infomercials.

I also don't usually do the resolution thing, but this year finds me setting out some goals out of necessity rather than by the turn of the calendar page. I was also rather fond of 2006, so to bid it farewell by cleaning something or giving up a food pleasure is really not apropos. So, I will spare you my entire list of pointless epiphanies, but only record 3 in the blogosphere which should do wonders to bore you all senseless. In no particular order, I have given up my daily allowance of Coca-Cola, decided to reorganize the entire house and to take more pictures. And I also just placed a huge Amazon.com order lining up my reading selections for the next couple of months. Seemingly meaningless, these things will improve my spiritual being tremendously I believe.

Tomorrow, the boys are off to some snack food-inspired Bowl game that lasts most of New Year's Day, so Amy and I are going to begin the de-decorating process and make fondue for dinner.

Wishing you a very wonderful 2007.

6 Months and 6 pounds

I just returned from the six month check-up. Everything is fine...except I gained a tad more this month than my previous boasts.

In my defense--which I didn't voice to the scale Nazi--my activity/exercise level has been considerably diminished due to the tsunami size contractions that occur whenever I walk more than 5 paces.

I also failed to calculate that last glass of eggnog and plate of German Twists would go on this month's total and not January's thighs.

Damned new math.

Recap

Digging...my...way...to...the...computer...

I'm dragging this fine Day After. Full Day After fun, family and food. We feasted on all things to excess, and today we make paths through the chaos. Highlights from the day included the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse that was my Tickle Me Elmo for 2006, the video iPod for Stevie, and Matty's wrestling game. I received many a pineapple-wrapped package from Williams Sonoma including an entire new set of cookware that cost more than our first house. One 8" saute pan weighs more than our first born. They are so beautiful...

Grandpa and the Aunt and Uncle took in the scene bravely. I was proud that they didn't turn around and leave when they saw our living room after Christmas morning and a new puppy. I fed them prime rib, Yorkshire pudding and German Twists, so that persuaded them to stay much longer than I thought. It was nice. We finished the day like all Christmases should end; full and exhausted in the hot tub under the December stars.

Merry Christmas, all.

Xmas Eve Eve Eve

Yesterday was one of the nicest days I can remember in a long time...

It was the boys' first day off of school, and I had visions of everyone sleeping in late. Unfortunately, we were all up earlier than usual, but the morning was fairly busy so I guess it was ok. Because by the time the afternoon rolled in, I was done with all of my errands and shopping for Christmas. *do victory dance*.

I had a carpet cleaning scheduled (thanks, Jingle) so when the guys showed up, we were knee deep into the gingerbread house made from Graham cracker Witch Project, which is particularly messy. The kiids were all assembled around the table in the midst of gumdrops and sprinkles--even Amy--and Jingle was catching half of the scraps beneath while my pregnant belly was catching the rest. The phone was ringing with good news that my great neice had been born, and the TV was blaring the princesses Christmas on a continuous loop since last Tuesday. Cricket slept through the whole thing.

Oh Observant Stanley Steemer man said, "Boy, you sure have a lot going on here, don't you?"

Ya think?

But after they and their penchant for the obvious left, we curled up on the couch and watched movies, spoke to old friends on the phone, made a big pasta dinner, and I slept more soundly than I had in weeks.

Christmas Eve Eve Eve was pretty great.

Just to prove I am true to my blog word...

Twisting the day away

Well, the first step in the German Twist marathon cookie project is underway. But Trace, what about the baking embargo you promised us? We were happy to hear that you wouldn't be bitching about cookie sheets for at least 2 weeks?! And now we hear that not only are you hovering around the stand mixer, but you are choosing the most challenging and time-consuming culinary wonder as the German Twist? Why, Trace? Why???

I guess you didn't read the escape clause of the embargo which states that if 90 year old grandfather is going to be spending Christmas Day with you for the first time in 15 years like every Christmas Day of your youth, then you may approach the oven again with the oldest family recipe you have that will warm his belly and his heart.

I'll let you know how they come out when they are done on Sunday.

Mail call

Regular readers of this blog of idiocy will instantly know everytime they check the mailbox and see the stack of Christmas cards in their mailboxes and the one from our family conspiculously not among them that the reason for this seeming slight is not because I have forgotten you, but because the freaking photo of my children that did not materialize like the ghost of Ansel Adams on the card until, oh, I don't know...say the 15th or so? That means Shutterfly.com--the official sponsor of the Divacard--is in a rush mode (I hope) to get it out to me post-haste so I can afix the pre-purchased stamps and enclose the first annual Christmas letter on annoyingly blinding red paper because when you wait until the 19th to buy Christmas stationary, your choices are limited to leftover pumpkins and easter eggs.

That was a long-winded way of saying the card is coming, if you want holiday snail mail from moi (again, regular readers will know my French reference is more than a cute colloquialism) then email me your address and you too will receive pictures of my kids Photo-shopped around a yule log.

Nomenclature Alert and Purposely Vague Update

OK, "Vanilla" just had one too many syllables for a puppy's name...it's too linguistically complicated to shout, "Goddammit Vanilla!" every time she squats in a corner. So we changed it to, "Jingle."

*****

It's an exciting day here in Divaland. "But Trace, we know you. It's rarely exciting there and especially on Mondays because we know it's laundry day, and you spend 8 am until midnight washing, drying, folding and putting away so you don't have to do it again for the week." Ordinarily, you'd be right, but today in between loads, I have a conference call. It's not too often I get to use those two words in a sentence next to eachother like that anyway, but it just so happens that this call is with a certain network that is affiliated with a huge media mogul that can catapult literary careers into the stratosphere...

I'm just sayin'.

Vanilla

Well, the puppy finally has a name. It is "Vanilla," which is Latin for "shitbox."

I have never seen a creature defecate so much and often. I just walk behind her with a roll of paper towel and bleach. Cricket, the 14 year old black lab, is laughing at me. She's giggling dog giggles and shaking her head in reproach. "See? No good can come of this. I told you, you stupid, stupid human."

I agree.

This morning was a little prayer service at school. Matty played Jesus, and I was not the only one who wondered at the logic behind choosing the first grade class clown as the Messiah. Tonight is the big Christmas pageant, followed by a dumping of the yuletide scrubbed kids with the babysitter, and the rest of the evening spent at the company Christmas party at the beach. In the next couple of hours, I am going to attempt to paint my toenails red for the occasion.

It's going to take me that long to reach them.