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Tis The Season

Some assembly required should read instead…some swearing required for assembly.

Merry Christmas

Sesame Street Smells Like Old Spice…Not Just For Grandpa Anymore

My 2 1/2 year old son and I don’t seem to be agreeing on much these days.  I think he should pee in the potty, he thinks he should pee in the produce section at Whole Foods.  I think night time is for sleeping, he thinks night time is for yelling “MAMA” 50,000 times while trying to pry my eyelids open so I can watch him jump on the couch.  I think food is for eating, and…well…he thinks food is for decorative wall art.

THANK GOD FOR SESAME STREET!  WE BOTH AGREE SESAME STREET ROCKS!

Case in point, the video above.  Grover parodies the now famous Old Spice commercial “The Man Your Man Could Smell Like.”  Old Spice has always smelled like Grandpa to me, but apparently there is a new Old Spice man in town.   The Sesame Street version is hysterical, adorable, and right on the pop culture money.

Just in case you haven’t seen the Old Spice original, see below.  Put the kids to bed, turn on the TV for your Man, pour yourself a good glass of wine and watch dee-lish actor Isaiah Mustafa.

Your welcome.

P.S. As I am typing this…I’m on a horse.

Godzilla Lives Another Day

I swear to God this thing was 8 feet long.  The computer screen make it look MUCH SMALLER.  I would never scream like that over a little lizard.

I Double Dog Dare You

A friend recently asked “what effects does pregnancy have on your body?”  This required the putting down of the coffee.  I didn’t really know how to reply.  Sometimes a picture of a dog speaks a thousand words.

lampard-poodle[1]

The pre-birth vagina. Proud. Groomed to perfection, on point, able to do tricks, and ready for the show.

The post-birth vagina. Sad, shocked, and more than a little floppier than before.

The post birth stomach…no words necessary.

Big Girl…Small World

Bathroom PhotoBathroom Photo 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In bathrooms across America I have no head.  The mirrors in bathrooms everywhere seemed to be positioned for 7th graders, the cast of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, every woman under 5′ 7″ tall, or Hayden Panettiere.  I have always said, “I am 5′ 10″ in a 5′ 7″ world.  The world fits perfectly if you are 5′7″ tall.  You don’t have bruises permanently raked across your thighs from forever walking into tables.  Door jams don’t pose immediate danger, you don’t have to yell “INCOMING” whenever attempting to enter a Porsche.  If you fall during co-ed soccer people don’t yell “TIMBERRRRR” (thank you high school P.E.) and you don’t check your make-up in the bathroom mirror at a gas station by having to stoop over, as the photo above illustrates.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being tall.  I am trying to wean myself off the self Hatorade so I am not going to sit around and stew in my height while I have two legs to walk around on.  Sure they are covered in bruises from slamming into things and there hasn’t been a pair of  jeans yet that seem to make it all the way to the floor.  I have been trying to make high-water pants cool since 1981.  It is a good thing I don’t have modest ankles, because those baby’s are never covered up.  My ankles bare it all to the world.

When I was growing up I was a gymnast.  Nadia Comaneci was my hero.  While other girls were slobbering over Barbie, or if you were on the early developed side Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains, I spent my days in a white leotard and braids convinced I was a Romanian Olympic gymnast, or Cher’s child that was put of for adoption.  I actually am adopted and I was convinced Cher was my biological Mother,  but that story is for another post.  Mostly I wanted to be Nadia, except that as other little girls stopped growing, I just kept right on heading North to 5′ 10″.

I didn’t mind being taller than say everyone, as a 7th grader.  Sure there were some awkward school dances, and the unfortunate comparisons to a zipper when I stood sideways and stuck my tongue out, but I had bigger worries…like my perm….and the also unfortunate comparisons to a microphone.

All was not lost.  I may of had to give up my dream of being a gymnast, or at least the first 5′ 10″ gymnast, but as one door closes another opens.  I ran track, modeled a bit and eventually filled out in proportion to my up.  In fact, when I was in my high school’s production of A Chorus Line my lovely and supportive gay friend Joel would assure me it was wonderful to be tall and my time would come…for instance his Dad saw A Chorus Line four times and Joel would tell me his Dad said I was the reason he sat in the front row every night.  I can only imagine.

She stoops to conquer.

Fundraisers Are Hell On My Thighs

Fudraising CookiesSpring is coming.  How do I know?  The school spring fundraising has begun.  Warning ladies!  Adorable children everywhere will soon be trolling the neighborhoods and streets of America with brochure after brochure clutched in their little hands toting the likes of Girl Scout Cookies, Candy Bars, and in our case…BUCKETS of Otis Spunkmeyer Cookies.   We now have FOUR in our fridge.

My thighs don’t need buckets of Otis Spunkmeyer cookies.  My thighs need a bucket of carrots and a good personal trainer.

 Here is the thing though.

I felt bad.  I wanted to help my stepson Reilly with his fundraising for his school.  We try and teach giving back, working hard, and putting efforts in to your education.  I couldn’t turn him down when confronted with his eager face hoping to do well at the fundraiser and put into practice the lessons I had been teaching him.

Actually that is a load of crap.  Reilly is FAR MORE SAAVY THAN THAT.  I felt guilty and did NOT want to be the Stepmom that didn’t but any cookies from her stepson… and the kid knew it.

I bought four buckets.

With a check for four buckets of Otis Spunkmeyer cookies safely tucked away in his fundraiser envelope I got a hug and an announcement of ”your the best Stepmom in the world!”  In turn for selling his buckets of cookies Reilly won something made of plastic that will end up in the vacuum, the baby’s mouth, or on the floorboard of my car.

Guilt sells.

This is not this Stepmom’s first guilt filled misstep in the unchartered territory of school fundraising.  I met my stepsons when they were well into their elementary school careers.  There was no warming up to school fundraising for me.  No learning the ropes, no pacing myself starting in my child’s kindergarten class.  I dove head first in the live auctions, donations, and volunteering.  My fundraising learning curve was like jumping off a cliff.

“It’s for the children”  is all I could  mutter to my wallet shocked husband when I got in a bidding war at a school auction and paid several hundred dollars for horse back riding lessons even though horses scare the crap out of me and I have yet to ride a horse that I haven’t fallen off of.

Ettore: (with Swiss German accent) “Sweetheart!!!  What are you doing?  Put that bidding paddle down….YOU DON”T EVEN LIKE HORSE!”

Me:  “It’s for the children…we can bond.”

I should of known my stepsons would be horrified when I was the lone bidder at ANOTHER school auction and bid on and won a box of home grown seasonal vegetables delivered once a month for an entire year.

“YOU BID ON WWWWWWWHHHHHHAAAAAAAAATTTTTT………….AND WE WON IT???????!!!!!!!!!!……………..NNNNNOOOOOO” was the  response I received when I got home holding a token Eggplant to show the boys we will be learning all about where our food comes from once a month for the next year.

Aparently the boys learned our food comes in a box that sits on our doorstep while their Father and I Google what to do with random vegetables we have never heard of.

It’s for the children.

I am signing off to go turn on the oven and bake me some cookies.

At least I have until Back to School night in the Fall to finish them off.

Milk Does A Body Good

Lucas and Milk Carton

Uh-Oh…She see me

I live with all boys.  I call our house the Haus of Boys.  One husband, two teenage stepsons, one male toddler, and one boy puppy.   I even think our one lone plant we have is a boy.  The plant was a gift from a neighbor for Christmas and while the plant has grown big and strong…it has yet to flower.  I swear it is a boy plant, or just a girl plant slowly dying (and sprouting chin hairs) under the pressure of all the male testosterone in the house.

When I got pregnant I put in a request to Jesus.  I said,  ”Jesus. It’s Meggan.  I am so grateful and blessed to be pregnant and of course a healthy child is all that matters…BUT Jesus…I would like to put in a small request.  Being surrounded by the wonderful husband and stepsons I have in my life, my tank is all filled up on boy.  My girl tank however is empty.  Is is possible to order up a nice and quiet baby girl?”

Jesus being Jesus, and I am sure very busy, must not of got my message, or he has a wicked sense of humor because I got…Lucas.  I AM SO GRATEFUL TO HAVE MY BABY AND I LOVE HIM WITH ALL MY HEART, but not only is he not a girl, he is the boy of all boys.  There is not one quiet or delicate bone is his body.  He runs, he jumps, he throws, he hates to be inside, loves to be dirty, loud, funny, on the go, messy, exploring, chasing, never ever ever sit still, and as of today, boy who drinks out of the milk carton!

He just turned  two-years-old.

The boy gene runs deep.

Wecome to the family.

A Zen Moment

Lucas and The TractorSomtimes a picture DOES speak a thousand words.

Tummy Discrimination and Truckin’ Through Motherhood

“East bound and down, loaded up and truckin’, we’re gonna do what they say can’t be done.  We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there, I’m east bound just watch ol’ “Bandit” run.”

- Singer Jerry Reed (lyrics from East Bound and Down from the movie Smokey and the Bandit)

Reminds me of Mommyhood.  Too much to do, not enough to do it with, but that ol’ Mommy sure does get it done!

Trucker Belt Buckle

As seen on Monday

 OK, so I have a belt buckle in the shape of an 18-wheeler.  I have had it for years and I love it.  I got it in the Central Valley when I used to live in Los Angeles and drive back and forth between L.A. and Sacramento ALL THE TIME.  I would drive for hours late at night up and down I-5 and it felt like the only people on the road were myself and my roadway brethren, the long haul truckers.   This belt reminds me of those truck drivers and that time in my life.  The above photo is my actual belt buckle when I wore it Monday.

I was feeling particularly ferosh (and trucker tough) so I thought I would do the trucker meets NY fashion outfit.  I had on my trucker belt buckle (see photo above), the latest skinny jeans with my not so skinny body (my first mistake), my Euro cool boots (see a few posts below) and my super hip white Michael Kors man’s watch that the sales girl said I needed because the man’s watch made my wrist look small…sigh.  I thought I looked edgy and hot, but as it turns out it was less hot and more hot mess!

I went in my getty-up outfit to lunch with my toddler Lucas and the entire staff at the restaurant treated us like pariahs.  I thought I had a case of toddler discrimination on my hands.  I have been reading a lot of tongue in cheek blog posts recently about toddler discrimination.  You know, when you go somewhere in public and anyone who has never had a baby or has children over the age of eighteen sees you coming with a toddler and rolls their eyes, runs madly in the other direction, huffs and puffs at the mere sight of you, or hands you some hand sanitizer and the phone number of a good nanny.  I had read about toddler discrimination, but had never really experienced it first hand.

That was until today.

Something was up.

There were sideways glances from the staff, ineffective service, and almost no communication from the server, busser, or manager.  I thought they must be pissed I had a toddler with me, even though this restaurant touts it qualifications as a FAMILY restaurant and Lucas was on his best behavior happily scarfing down croutons dipped in creamy pesto dressing.  Everyone seemed to be doing the restaurant walk by and looking at our table, but not stopping.   I know from YEARS of working in the restaurant industry a restaurant walk-by when I see one.  That is where the staff  ”casually” walks by to get a look at the crazy going on at a table.

“Go walk by and check out the _______ on table seven.”

Don’t kid a kidder, this ain’t my first rodeo sailor.  I am proficient at the restaurant walk-bys and I know when one has been put into action.

I sat there pondering what could be going on.  What was triggering off the crazy alarms to the staff?  I felt really uncomfortable and asked for my check early so Lucas and I could leave.  It was when I began to pack us up that I realized the true reason for the stares…the belly had gotten out!

Tummy Roll

Peek-a-boo…I see you

Not only had the belly gotten out, but it had happened to of flopped over my 18-wheeler trucker belt buckle!

OH THE HUMANITY!   The belly had completely buried the top half of the trucker belt like it was buried in snow on top of Donner Summit waiting for the roads to clear.  You can’t even see out the windshield.

I HAD NO IDEA!!!  My tummy turtle was peeking it’s head out from under it’s shell.  The puppy was poking out from under the covers.   The groundhog had left the burrow signifying that winter will end soon.   I was horrified!  It wasn’t toddler discrimination, it was tummy discrimination.  The restaurant staff had been cruising by to see the belly flung over the trucker belt….white trash at it’s finest.  No shame in my game, like any self respecting Mommy blogger, I whipped out my camera to take a picture.   Add that to the long list of “crazy” already going on at my table.  Can you imagine that conversation among the restaurant staff?

“That woman’s stomach was TOTALLY hanging out over her truck belt buckle AND THEN she got out her camera and took a picture of it!! OMG!”

I felt like those Hollywood starlets who get breast surgeries so intense that they loose all feeling and always seem to get photographed with their tops half way off in the freezing cold, having no idea their nipples are exposed…I am talking to you Tara Reid.  Apparently my pregnancy and BIG 9 lb. 11 oz. baby blew out the tummy so much that I now have no sensation to all the skin left behind.  Now my tummy can just flop around out in public and I have no idea.

Good times.

I thought about explaining the situation or demanding the staff  to call me in ten years after THEY HAVE BABIES and see what their belly looks like, or simply yelling out “ask your Mom about her stomach after YOU ruined her body you assholes,” but I didn’t.  I folded all of me back behind the trucker belt, wiped a tear, had a laugh, scooped up my beautiful and amazing toddler and got ready to keep on truckin’ in Motherhood…belly, baby, boys, and all.

Farewell Canada

Ettore:  “Sweetheart, why are you crying?”

Me:  “Because the Olympics are over.”

Ettore:  “But you barely had a chance to watch them.”

Me:  “I know, I just love the Olympics though.  The stories, the triumphs, the comradery, the struggle, the success, the world stops and comes together, and now it’s over till the Summer Games.”

Ettore:  “Wow, I didn’t know you felt so stongly about this…you don’t even ski.”

Me:  “For me the Olympics are like therapy.  You don’t need to go to therapy everyday, but it is a comfort to know it’s there.”

Ettore: “You are comparing the Olympic Games…to therapy?”

Me:  “Uh-huh (sniffle),  both make me happy and both make me want to be a better person, although therapy never made me want to be a figure skater.”

Ettore:  “When is your next therapy appointment?”

Me:  “Thursday.”

Ettore:  “Good.”

Me:  “I love you Shaun White!  I love you Bob Costas!  I love you Meryl Davis and Charlie White!  I love you Team USA!”

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