Clearly My New Year's Resolutions Had Nothing to Do with Writing More

Oh, this poor blog. Someone should shoot it and put it out of it's misery, yet here I am again, willing it into the nursing home of feeble attempts to write occasionally still. Ha ha. Take your meds, blog!

So the Crise D'Identite also kind of sputtered out, if for no other reason than I got busy with birthdays and holidays and The Crud of '12, which caused much grief and sickness everywhere, and reaffirmed that I really, really hate vomit (NEWER CONCEPTS HAVE NEVER BEEN UTTERED! JUST DIE ALREADY, BLOG!) but my kid is awesome (SUCH EFFING NEW CONCEPTS) because she managed to get all her puke into the bucket in the middle of the night, despite not having actually ever thrown up before. (Besides baby spit-up. Which she did plenty, what with the reflux. But I don't think she remembers that?) Miss Thang = So Smart, and SKEELED with the vomit control. Yay, child.

So anyway. I still feel boring, but I am mostly happy with my boringness.

We have recently had a run of Stupid Expenses, which I define as stuff I hate spending money on because it is not pretty but would not like to live without. Like my cats' teeth and our car. Sugar didn't need an extraction this time (hooray, though still insanely expensive for routine feline dentistry, which, if you think about that hard enough, is probably worth every penny paid) and the car needed new tires, so I guess it's good that we did that before attempting to drive very far again, but URG. Mama really wanted a new pair of jeans for the first time in...years.

I have developed a love/love relationship with Pinterest, because it suits me at every level. DIGITAL HOARDING! I don't even have to dust. The aesthetic is just right-brain porn. My 100% left-brained husband does. NOT. get. it, and that's fine. He gets me, and that's close enough. Pinterest doesn't intimidate me the way it apparently does some people, I just love looking at all the pretty things. If you are looking for me on the internets, that's probably where to find me these days.

xoxo (keep that lifeline going, blog!)

"S-M-R-T" -Homer

I have been going through a little crise d'identité recently. (I find it much sexier to say it in French.) It boils down to 1) I feel a lot of pressure, both internally and externally, to go back to work and 2) I don't want to.

My grand aspirations to be this awesome everything woman who juggles a brilliant career for myself with awesome parenting skills for my supremely awesome little girl is not coming to fruition because. Fuck. I get SO TIRED after crayons! and dolls! and oops-toddler-pushed-GO-on-the-blender-before-I-got-the-lid-on-mess! every day. So I do the arts & crafts, including dried-smoothie wall art and sometimes make dinner and then crash and it kind of works for our little family right now. Except it leads me to be socially incompetent (you may note that I reference poop at least 10 out of the last 12 times I posted here...make that 11 out of 13, now) and I hang out with these people with multiple children and jobs and cheery dispositions and I am like..."how?"

I think I just don't have as much energy as a lot of my peers. I have always been suspicious of this fact, it was just highlighted when the raising a kid thing came about. I have never been able to keep up with most of my friends' schedules/activities/cleaning habits. And I realize that it's all about not trying to keep up with the Joneses and not coveting thy neighbors vacuuming habits, but sometimes that is hard because I do like how my carpets look when they are clean and also when my child is not crying. And also when I think regularly about things un-fecal matter-y.

I am happy with our current routine, and I don't feel crazy stressed most of the time, which is a fairly recent development. So it boils down to the person I want to be (creative, role-model-y feminist with Martha Stewart tendencies) is not, in fact, the person I am when I am happy. Le sigh, oh the first-world problems of ME.

What else? We went on vacation, Miss Thang did wonderfully, it is brilliant when a child no longer needs special food or special beds. And when she will sleep through the night in a place that is not HER BED, HER ROOM, 72.6 DEGREES, with oscillating fan pointed at 49 degrees north whilst "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"/ocean whales white noise machine hums at decibel 2. It gets easier. I liked vacation. I told The Funasaurus I wanted to move to vacation, and he pointed out that then it would not be vacation, it would be have to work in vacation location minus our awesome mountain view and support network, and then that was a big stupid but factually accurate rain on my fantasy parade.

So we're back (happily) in Colorado, talking about poop, waiting for the temperature to drop out of the 90s. Supposedly today is the last day of that nonsense. I just hope there is some fall and 60-70 degrees before the snow arrives.

Zine. Because I Miss the 90s, Perchance?

I've been toying with the idea of making a zine for a while. I need a creative outlet. I am trying to get back into blogging, but as I may have mentioned, I struggle for topics not related to toddler poop and/or sleep depravation, although moreso the poop issues, recently, thank goodness.

And whoever thought I'd say that?

Parenthetical Aside List: SHIT I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY UNTIL A TINY HUMAN EMERGED FROM MY VAGINA:

"I am not a Kleenex!"

"Knives are not for throwing."

"Please let me go to the grocery store." (Alone)

"Would you like a bite of my Nutella crepe?"

"Your love is suffocating me. *GAG* Literally. Please stop hugging mommy around her jugular with your tiny but freakishly strong toddler thumbs." (Paraphrased)

"No, we're not buying any M&Ms." *sob*

"My gray hairs ARE beautiful, thanks baby."

"No more peeing on my shoes. I MEAN IT THIS TIME."

Anywhos. Zine! I have decided I may have a chance at less poopy, more interesting things to publish if a) I force others to participate b) I have to go to Kinkos to make copies c) there is potential for glitter usage.

What do you think, internets? Am I just nostalgic for the 90s? Do I not wear enough black? Would you buy one if I made it? (If I promise to send any profit to a nice, hopefully thematic-ish charity? [And I'm talking like, $1 here, people. Girl's gotta buy aforementioned glitter.]) Should I just get a job and talk to other adults in the real world already?

#2

A number of people have asked, joked, or been giving meaningful glances at my slightly-more-bloated-than-usual abdomen (which is purely due to the re-discovery of an old high school favorite ice cream sandwich, but thanks for noticing, mother-in-law) and so I am here to relieve you of any doubt, NACHT, no more babies.

No.

Here is my deep, dark secret: I want another two-year-old so badly. Miss Thang is amazing. Full of "why's" and tantrums, but also primative jokes, terribly off-key singing, whole-body hugs, and actual conversation. I adore her. I always have. I have loved her deeply, from the second she appeared, but that first year was really fucking hard work and I struggled to keep my sanity, no joke there. Now it's (mostly) just fun. And I would love to have another, but I have not developed the amnesia about how hard it was at the beginning. (Plus, you know, all the swelling and bleeding and whatnot to get her here in the first place.)

Mostly I am terrified to have another because of darling little haikus that I would write, tears streaming down my face as I felt like my nipples were slowly being ripped off, much like this one:

Three o'clock A.M.
Death would be better than this.
Go the fuck to sleep.

But you know what? A year and a half later, I realize it was so, so worth it that I wish for another. I am glad I did it. I am just not sure I could survive it again, and that would really suck, because life is really good right now. Meanwhile, I suggest you get yourself an It's-It for a little taste of heaven.

50 Shades of OHmyGAWDIamsoembarrassedtoadmitthis

I broke. I read 50 Shades of Grey. What's that, you're living under a rock and only read Yahoo! news scrolls on your way to checking into email and have no idea about 50 Shades of Fucked Up? (Sadly, that is lifted straight from book content.) It is awful, terrible, AWFUL AWFUL housewife porn.

Porn porn porn, crappily written porn. It is Twilight for the less-educated adult set. If I thought I was embarrassed to admit I read Twilight...this shit makes Twilight look like refined literature. Remember how I felt about Twilight? I had no idea it would get SO MUCH WORSE.

Anyway. It sucks. The writing is so very bad, and I stayed up until 3:00 AM several nights in a row finishing the damn series because I was sucked in to a silly, unhealthy, pervy little world. I swore I wouldn't read another word if one more person's breath "hitched" or gave a "holy fuck," and yet I did. I read those phrases hundreds of more times (I am sending that author a frickin thesaurus as a cry-all-the-way-to-the-bank gift) just to learn how the older, completely disfunctional dude was going to sexually tease the young, hapless female who happens to have had this most eligible bachelor fall for her despite the fact that she doesn't seem to have very much to offer except an amazing ability not to get any UTIs from all the sex-ing.

UHG. Don't read it, unless you need to kick-start your libido, in which case I say, lucky your husband! Also, factor in a day to catch up on sleep after you finish the stupid thing.

Nice

I know I suck at updating anymore, I do. I have debated about what to write, but what seems funny at 3:00 in the morning (windows! hallucinations!) is less-so when I am more conscious a few hours later.

This totally doesn't suck, however:
 

In fact, it made me weepy because, well, that's what I do.

I also pilfered it from Dooce, which I'm guessing most of you (are there any you left?) read, so it may not be new, but HEY! It is worth watching again because it is nice to see people being nice.

Go The F*$& to Sleep. It's Not Just a Book!

Hey Ya.

I'm kind of lost in the drivel of day-to-day life. Things are o.k., except for Miss Thang's sleep habits, which have regressed again. I have less and less patience for it as she gets older, but I don't think it's necessarily all her fault...some sort of mommy-intuition thinks there's more going on than her just trying to manipulate us, maybe a sensory issue or restless leg syndrome. Anywhos, I have an appointment with her pediatrician to get it checked out once the pediatrician gets back from her spring break. Sigh. Who told doctors they were allowed to have a life, anyway?

In the meantime, this made me happy: