Hello from Mommyville

There are plenty of things that have fallen through the cracks in the past 33 days. Some of them don't matter, and some should but don't. Mr. Declan Benjamin Clark, or as I like to call him Mr. Bugglesworth (or Buggy Bear, or Baby Bear, or Bugglelodeon, or Toots McGroots, or Buggster) has consumed the past nearly five weeks, which is how it's supposed to be when you're a new mom....right? Just agree with me to make me feel better. Before he was born people told me that, post-birth-giving, sleep would be but a sweet memory, that "me" time would be akin to that memory from college when you drank too much, partied too hard and made a fool of yourself in a totally non-self-aware way (in other words, something that you wouldn't do now, but you can secretly daydream about it when the baby is sleeping for 10 minutes in a row...which is a small victory some days), and that personal hygiene would go out the window, which will have to be cracked open to air out the stench of a grown woman who hasn't washed her hair in 5 days. All of this is true.

It's amazing how quickly days disappear without much thought when you're a walking, non-showering baby-feeding machine. I have enough energy to feed Mr. Bugglesworth, to change his constantly collecting diaper, and to bathe him every other day. In between, I try to entertain him while he's awake and keep him asleep when he's sleeping. Sounds like easy tasks, but my goodness, not easy. I am now 35 years old and this past month makes me wonder how women much younger and much less prepared to be mothers get through this. It's not easy. Combine the sleep deprivation with the hormones and then add in the random paranoia that this child I've given life to may or may not hate me at any given moment, and it's enough to make this grown woman (though I'm not grown up) have little meltdowns along the way. I've decided to take an inventory of things that I no longer have the desire, energy or give-a-crap to do anymore:

1. Putting on makeup, fixing my hair, getting dressed. I used to see mothers at the store in sweatpants and a stained shirt and think to myself, "Dude, just because you have kids doesn't mean you should look like you've given up on life." But now I know very intimately from the flipside what's going on when you see a disheveled mom with a bundle of joy at the grocery store. When Buggy Bear is fed and dressed, I have exactly 2 hours before the next feeding to get something, anything, done. I get him in that car seat, in the car, and on the road before I realize that I'm wearing what I slept in. Or that I forgot to brush my teeth. It doesn't matter though, because we're out of milk or eggs or bread and I need to get to the store. Everyone else, I apologize for my breath, hair, face, stained shirt, but unless you're offering to breastfeed my baby so I can have a three-hour block of pampering before I go to the store, um, shove it. Yeah. I said shove it. And I meant it. I have enough time to shop, get the groceries to the car, get home, get the groceries into the fridge before Little Man is insisting on being fed.

2. Updating my blog. My brain doesn't work very well anymore, and when it does I don't have the time or two free hands to type. Anyone who wants to volunteer to hold Mr. Bugglestein whilst I write completely pointless crap, just let me know. Halfway through writing this post, Toots McGroots woke up to feed, so I've typed this with one hand while dispensing nourishment to my offspring. I'm a multitasker. I'm also asking forgiveness for typos.

3. Returning emails or phone calls. I love you, and I'm sorry about not returning your email or phone call or text. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm using all my energy to do things that are required for the survival and well being of my progeny. Please forgive me, and please stay on the line until a representative is available. Currently the wait is about 4-5 years.



On the flipside, here are things I somehow find time to do everyday:

1. Vacuum. Not because I want to, and not because the floor is dirty, but because this weird child of mine cannot sleep when it's quiet. The more RC and I tiptoe around him when he's sleeping, the more he wakes up. Turn on the TV, the fan in the bathroom, and then vacuum around his bassinette? Kid's asleep in 12 seconds flat. He's weird, but that's what makes him mine. So, the floor around our bedroom is cleaner than anything in the house. And the fan in the bathroom is about to detonate from overuse. But Declan is sleeping, and that's what matters.

2. Exercise. Not because I want to, but because Declan is not a child who likes to be stationary. If he's awake, he wants to be in motion. So there are daily walks, adventures to the store or Target, and lots of pacing and dancing in the living room (thankfully we have the same taste in music...so far). He gets the need to be on the go from me when I was young. Not now. Now I'm lazy as crap. But I used to like doing stuff and junk. Now I like napping.

3. Cooking. I have to eat well to feed him well, so I cook. Oh how I would love to be lazy and eat junk food and frequent drive-throughs, but when I eat junk Baby Bear suffers. Damn, this selflessness is hard work.

4. Work. I had a 2,000-word article due for Consumers Digest Magazine the week Declan was born. I sent it in 2 days late after being granted an extension from the editor. While I didn't get to proofread my work as closely as I would've liked, the story was complete and more "together" than a lot of articles from freelance writers. I would've rather been in bed recuperating from the emergency C-section, but when you're unemployed you take what you can get and you write articles while popping 600mg ibuprofen and Vicodin, and you have a rag on hand to mop up the drool from the keyboard.

5. Take photos. Baby Bear is photogenic, and I've documented that fact ad nauseam. I'd say it's not my fault he's so cute, but it's half my fault. The weirdest part is when he's asleep I look at photos of him. I may need an intervention.

Okay, my talent to multitask is running short. I can't burp Bugglelodeon while typing, so I hope you all have a fabulous 2012, and I hope that I'll return to the land of the living sometime in the new year.

Where Do I Protest the New Student Loan Web Site?

With all the protests and anti-government, anti-bailout, anti-establishment, anti-corporate-greed, anti-being-anti-stuff going around, I have been too content to just sit back and watch everyone get faux riled up about a whole lot of things that they don't even fully understand. Let's face it, this OWS movement is more fractured than my little toe after trying (and failing) to defeat the door frame in the laundry room last week. If there are 300 people protesting, they have 300 different reasons why. I have no cause to protest: I went to school thanks to a government-fronted student loan. I have been laid off twice in two years, and I'm currently unemployed. Frustrating? Sure, but it's my burden to bear...and I don't feel the need to take it out on a city park with a bunch of hippies. I mean, what can I complain about? I'm well educated thanks to Uncle Sam, and while the job market isn't really ideal, it's not anyone's fault that I'm unemployed. I could've taken a lower-paying job last year but I didn't, and now I'm suffering due to my own sense of elitist optimism. I am not owed a job. Or a paycheck. Or what I think I'm worth.

But after today, I'm joining a new movement that I just started. It's called "Occupy: Hire a Web Developer Who Knows What He/She Is Doing." I'm protesting the government's student loan web site. Those of you who enjoyed receiving an education thanks to Direct Student Loans may feel my pain here, but for your sake I hope you have not recently found cause to log into the "NEW AND IMPROVED!" "TOTALLY REVAMPED!" "STREAMLINED FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE!" "UNNECESSARILY CHANGED!" student loan web site. It is utter and complete shit. Sorry about the strong language, but there's no other appropriate term.

At the beginning of October, I logged onto the old student loan web site to update my information and to further my forbearance. See, when you're unemployed the government is nice enough to let you skip student loan payments until you get back on your feet. Sweet, huh? Yeah, I appreciate it. So, last October (2010) I asked them to excuse me from paying my loans for one year. Maybe I'm psychic, but I thought that I might need some time to get back into the world of the working. They obliged me, we shook hands, albeit electronically, and we went along our merry way. They continued to charge me interest, which is fair enough, and I continued to think that by October 2011 I would be employed and ready to repay my debt to the government. I was wrong.

My first payment of 2011 to the government was slated for October 21, 2011. A tidy little sum of $250 was going to be debited from my bank account on that day, and as a workless woman, that amount seems like so much money right now. I really do want to repay my loans, and I have been repaying them since I was 23 years old, but now is not the time. I logged onto the old, trusty web site to further extend my forbearance and I got an ugly announcement that it was being reformulated and wouldn't be available for use until October 11, 2011. (In fact, this web site was going to be obliterated from the web entirely and replace by a whole new system! GOODY!) That was cutting it close, but I figured I would wait. Then I figured I shouldn't wait, so I called the Department of Education hoping that a little human to human contact would solve my plight. It did not. The lady at the other end, who I'm sure was taking her 5,003,241 call of the day simply told me she couldn't help me and I just would have to wait for the web site to be launched. *Gulp* For some reason, I was nervous about this whole scenario.

On October 11, full of the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning who knows that Santa is a prick and was only going to leave a pack of socks and a lump of coal, I tried to log onto the web site. No luck. It was experiencing "a high volume of traffic" and was down. Awesome! I mean, how many other people could be unemployed and buried under five-figure student loan debt from a liberal arts degree that didn't magically turn into a fulfilling, long-term and high-paying job in the arts? Oh...that many, huh? Shitballs.

On October 12, full of skepticism, I tried to log in again. The web site sort of loaded, but it sputtered more than my mom's old Chevy Cavalier when the catalytic converter crapped out. I spent 35 minutes trying to load and reload the site to no avail.

On October 13, I tried again.

On October 14, I ignored the site and lamented that being mega-pregnant was preventing me from having a beer.

On October 15, I logged in. The new site was a mess. Sure it's new, sure it looks different than the old one, but it didn't improve my experience AT ALL. It was confusing. It was convoluted. It STILL DIDN'T WORK RIGHT. Son of a...

On October 17, I was able to log in after 3 tries and then somehow found my way into my account. I tried to sign up for a forbearance, but they said I wasn't qualified under the "unemployment forbearance" or the "economic hardship forbearance." The reason for that is I'm not collecting unemployment. See, if I was suckling off the government then they'd be totally cool with me not paying them, but since I'm trying to get by on my own...since I'm trying to do the all-American thing and pull myself by my own bootstraps...since I'm "Making my way in the world today takes everything you got," they don't believe me. It seems that the only way they were going to help me out was if I was teaching English at an inner-city public school that faced southeast and had two floors, not including a gymnasium, and a principal who was once in the Peace Corps but didn't really find it fulfilling and came back jaded and decided that suppressing the teenage angst of schoolkids was his only way to get back at the world. I might have just made that up, but it's close to the truth.

Finally, the next day, I felt like I had gotten somewhere. Now, mind you, my payment was due October 21, so this is looking bad for me. I signed in, got the "approval" of this evil little web site for my forbearance, and I logged off. Whew! Payment averted!

Nope.

A few days later I got a notice from my bank that my account was overdrawn thanks to the student loan payment that did not get deducted on the 21st, but instead on the 24th (I think they're just trying to keep me on my toes).

I wrote a not-nice email to whoever the poor sap is who has to read emails from the Direct Student Loan web site. I called them, but they were conveniently "Not Taking Calls At This Time." Hmm, I wonder why that is? Oh, because you just pissed off everybody ever, that's why. Good idea. I called my bank and they told me there's nothing they could do for me. My $250 (some of which was imaginary money that never existed in my account in the first place) was gone to the government. That's alright...groceries are overrated anyway.

A week later, I signed on to that damned web site and again submitted for a forbearance. It didn't work the first time. The second time though, I got a step further than I ever had! I got a little pop-up message that said my request had been logged! OH JOYOUS DAY! It even said that it was approved and thanked me. No, no, I said, THANK YOU. Stupid web site.

Why would you launch a huge government-funded web site that doesn't work? I don't know. I will never know. I guess this is the government, so I'm sure the company that was contracted was horribly underpaid and the workers were horribly overworked and it was just such a big undertaking and they probably only had a week and three people on the job to develop the whole web site. (This is one of those times I wish there was a sarcasm font.)

Did I mention earlier that the old web site WORKED JUST FINE? Cause it did.

So today I logged onto the NEW AND IMPROVED WEB SITE THAT HAS BEEN UP FOR OVER A MONTH, with a sinking suspicion that maybe things were still all...hmm...what's the word?....Government-y. I logged onto my account, and guess what? They're going to debit my account again in 5 days despite the fact that they approved my forbearance last month. So I tried again to reapply and went through the whole song and dance. Unemployed? They don't care. Financial Hardship? Suck it up, they say. But after 15 minutes of cursing like a sailor who just dropped an anchor on his foot while simultaneously realizing that the jugs of rum on the ship are empty, I got somewhere. To the place I was last month. I applied for a forbearance. They thanked me for applying and said the application was approved. I removed all my bank account info in hopes that will keep their mitts off my money. I doubt any of this is going to make one damn lick of damn in 5 days when they, again, help themselves to my cash. But I understand: I have mouths to feed, but they have banks to take care of and corporations to bolster.

I am not a protester. I am not trying to dodge my loans or shirk my duties. I appreciate the fact that the government provided the means to get a wonderful education that I would not have otherwise been able to afford. But I swear, if this web site does not figure its shit out and start acting right, I...well...I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm certainly not going to draw up a sign and go protest. What would my sign say, anyway? "I WENT TO COLLEGE AND ALL I GOT WERE THE SKILLS TO PROPERLY SPELL ALL THESE WORDS. MAYBE I SHOULD'VE FOCUSED ON JOB SKILLS INSTEAD." Or maybe, "YOU PAID FOR MY EDUCATION AND NOW YOU WANT YOUR MONEY BACK? SUCK IT!"

Yeah, I think I'll just stay home and try to log onto that damn web site again. Wish me luck.

One Hour and Counting

One hour. Depending on your situation, one hour can be a short amount of time or, for instance, if you're watching a terrible movie with 60 minutes left to go before you get any sort of reprieve, then it  seems like an eternity. One hour before you have to be in class, at work, or in a meeting goes by pretty quickly. One hour before you can leave work, class, or a meeting goes by very slowly. Right now, I'm going through what feels like the longest hour of my life.

For those of you who own dogs and wonder what your little bundles of furry joy do all day while you're at work, I hope the answer is "nothing much of note" or "sleep and wait to greet you enthusiastically when you arrive home." For the dogs in my neighborhood, what they do all day is bark. At nothing. Constantly.

The dog next door has been barking now for an hour straight. He's starting to sound a bit hoarse. (Not horse, because if that was the case and he was neighing I would gladly go next door when the owners got home and propose some sort of daytime talk show circuit tour and book/endorsement deal while only asking for 20%. After all, they feed and clean up after the dog; I just discovered the talent.) But no. This dog is barking. Still barking. Barking at something only he finds stressful. He's a chihuahua mix breed, and while I must concede that I have plenty of friends who own tiny little dogs and love them very much and enjoy the shit (not literally) out of them, the barking of the littlest yappers, to my ears, is excruciating.

The houses in our neighborhood (planned community, perhaps I should say) are all packed in tightly. Our backyard butts up against the backyards of five other houses. Two of those yards contain chihuahuas. Both of those dogs bark incessantly. The good news is they usually take turns: Yesterday the neighbor directly behind us had some sort of chihuahua episode that encourage the little bugger to bark on and off for about five hours. Not exaggerating. Today, it's the chihuahua right next door...the one who is often seen roaming freely around the neighborhood and trying to hump any dog, male or female, that crosses his path. He once followed us to the park when we were taking RC's Boston Terrier to play frisbee and he did nothing but chase her backside and try to mount up. She, being a single-minded terrier, wasn't having any of it. She wanted her frisbee and only her frisbee, and she put that little Cassanova right in his place.

He's been barking for an hour plus the time it's taken me to write this. No other dogs are joining in, though the pit bull in another yard occasionally speaks once or twice. I can't tell what the pit bull is saying, but I assume it's the canine equivalent of "Dude. SHUT. UP."

Oh, now we're moving onto yelping. The dog is now yelping, and the dog lover in me feels bad because I know this is the sound of a dog who doesn't get enough exercise/attention/whatever else he needs. But the cranky pregnant woman in me wants to go leave a note on their front door that explains the next time my ears are assaulted with constant yapping I will be forced to kick the owners in the shins until bruising occurs. It's not the dog's fault it's irritating, after all.

Newsflash: The pit bull has spoken...and for the moment, all is silent. I don't know whether to celebrate by doing a jig or by taking a nap in silence. Let me think...yep, nap.

What I Want to be When I Grow Up

I have spent the last 365 days unemployed, clueless as to what to do about that, and searching my little crumpled-up brain for a solution to the problem. I have halfheartedly applied for jobs that I didn't really want. I interviewed for jobs that I knew I wouldn't get. I sat for days trying to think of a job that I could make up all on my own to pay the bills. Through all this, the only true revelation I've had is that the eight-year-old little girl who had her poem published in the Westwood Elementary School newsletter (that was mimeographed in purple ink and handed out to the student body) is still alive and well. I don't want to be a technical writer like my high school guidance counselor tried to convince me I should be for the job security and pay. I don't want to be a corporate shill writing copy for products that I don't like, don't care about, and don't match my writing style. I don't want to sit down and dread what I have to write about; I don't want to write listings for corporate housing, I don't want to describe solar panels or medical equipment, and I sure as hell don't want to be a beat reporter covering the county board meetings every other Wednesday night. I have come full circle to that first "A-ha!" moment when I wasn't even double digits yet: I want to be a writer, and I want to be myself.

I guess this is the hard thing about trying to marry your artistic self with your employment. I have only ever loved to write, and I thought the perfect plan was to make that my job. The problem therein is that what I want to write is not going to garner me a paycheck...at least not a traditional one. There is no office I can go to, write about whatever ridiculous crap pops into my brain, and then walk out at 5 pm with a pat on the back from the boss man who will enthusiastically sign his name on my compensation every two weeks. So, that leaves me with two options: Either get a "real" job and know that every day when I get up and go to work it will not be a palatable endeavor -- I will not feel overjoyed by my work, I will not feel fulfilled from 8 to 5, and I will not enjoy most of it. On the other hand, I can not get a job and sit here and write to no one, for no one except myself. That's far more rewarding (I mean, I don't mind writing for others but I realize that most people aren't going to enjoy my writing as I do). The problem with that scenario, while pleasing to me, will not keep the lights from dimming permanently and the roof from being removed from overhead. It's a conundrum, but not really when you look at it from a realistic viewpoint: I need a job. I just don't want one. And the ones I want I can't seem to find. And the ones I find I can't seem to get. And when I do get close, the whole "super-duper pregnant belly" tends to scare off prospective employers. And when I'm not pregnant anymore, those crappy jobs are not going to seem worth it when I have a little bundle of awesome to hang out with at home.

Can't Even Fit In on Halloween

Halloween is two weeks away. I'm sure you already knew that because, well, every store in the country has had masks and bags of far-too-easy-to-inhale funsize candy bars as soon as you walk in since the end of September. I think Halloween candy should be illegal to buy until the night before Halloween because, you know and I know, you're going to buy a few bags of little treats for the kids a week early under the false pretense of being prepared and it will never see the light of the jack-o-lantern. You should probably be ashamed of yourself, but I won't pass judgment because I just ate four Oreos with DQ Blizzard cream in the middle. (Yes, they make those. And yes, they are impossible to ignore. And no, I'm not sorry that I mentioned them and now you're going to go out and buy some and eat them all. If I have to suffer through this entire bag of deliciously evil chocolate sandwich cookies then so should you).

I love Halloween for two reasons. First, it's my mom's birthday (hi, mom!) and I like her a lot. Always have. Secondly, I really enjoy dressing up. I've only bought one costume that I can remember, and that was about four years ago when I was having a less-than-creative time in my life. Other than that, I've always been a DIY kind of girl. I don't do the "sexy" dress up costume stuff that seems to be the only kind of costumes they sell for women now. I mean, you can be a slut 365 days a year...why make Halloween just another hoochie day? Last year I made about 30 T-bone and ribeye steaks and strips of bacon out of red, brown, and white felt and made myself a meat dress, ala Lady Gaga. I went to a party and sadly no one had any idea who I was supposed to be...or even who I was. I guess that's what I get for going to a party in which I only knew two people. I thought it was clever (or cleaver?). I guess true artists like myself and Gaga just aren't fully appreciated in our time. Or I went to unimaginative party where a guy who bought his costume at the store won the prize for best costume, and that was my mistake.

A meaty costume you could really sink your teeth into.

The year before last, I went to what I thought was supposed to be a zombie-themed party at Alex's Bar in Long Beach. I was pumped. I decided to pull out all my crafty ability and make a zombie costume to end all other zombie costumes. I ran into two problems: once the costume was on, no one knew who I was, and all the other people at the bar disregarded the zombie theme. So, again, I just looked like some weirdo outcast...which happens on most days, not just Halloween. Anyway, I bought a foam bed pad, lots of felt (I do love me some felt) and some paint. I turned myself into ZombieBob DeadPants. I went to the bar full of WonderWomen and Sexy Kittens and walked sideways (I was too wide to fit through the aisle head-on) to the bar. I dug out as much cash from inside of my costume pocket as I could and told the bartender it was going to be a long, sweaty night for me and to keep the Captain Morgan and Coke coming. I had entire conversations with friends despite the fact they had no idea who I was. None. I stood outside on the sidewalk trying to cool down (it's so hot inside foam and felt) and got egged by a passing vehicle full of hooligans. I scared adults. I was a foam abomination, and I won no contests that night. Other than the "Who's the Weirdo  Dressed Up Like a Moldy Piece of Cheese?" Award, which they don't hand out prizes for FYI. But despite all that, I had plenty of fun.

I did not lay that egg.

Emily was Princess Leia (so adorable) and then there was me...with foam brains poking out of my costume.

I've even gone as far as dressing my car up in the past. My old Scion xB was a toaster on wheels, so for Halloween two years in a row I dressed it up quite literally as a toaster. On wheels.

Toast is ready! I parked in the handicapped spot...no one argued.

Light and Dark on the back window, so when I turned on the wiper blade it went between the two settings.

The following year, we stepped it up to Pop Tarts (frosted strawberry, of course).

With Halloween looming in the near distance, I haven't had much energy to think or work on a costume this year. First of all, I have no where to go anyway. Secondly, I am a hundred months pregnant (at least it feels that way), so my only real options are to either dress up as a beached whale or a penguin (I figure I have the waddle down, I might as well use it). Maybe inspiration will strike me a day before Halloween, when I'm good and hopped up on those funsize candy bars, and I'll get the energy to make a costume. I can roam the streets of the neighborhood and scare the children with my girth! That actually sounds like fun now...I should go buy some felt.

What the Hell?

Soooo...um, yeah. This number keeps showing up. Not only did this number present itself when I checked my blog (see the screen cap from two posts ago), but I checked my resume that I posted online and this is what came up. My writing, whether it be for pleasure or for job procurement, seems to draw the number of the beast. Any ideas on why? Anyone? Go ahead and try to make me feel better about this, please.

My Odd Lexicon

I don't think it's odd to have words or phrases that make sense to you, but to the untrained ear cause confusion or downright panic. I realized the other day after saying one of my everyday words that people outside my circle may think I'm a complete nutjob. Just because I have a special vocabulary doesn't mean I'm a fool. (Trust me, I'm a fool for much better reasons than the few words I've either made up or somehow maimed for my own personal gratification.) So, here's my little CC Dictionary.

Snorgle (noun)
The act of snuggling closely to beast or human for some quality time. It was created when the word "snuggle" collided with...I don't know what.
Usage: "I will snorgle your face off when I get home."

Schnozzleberry (noun)
A small Boston Terrier that goes by the name of Lili. I don't know why or how this came about, but it just fits.
Usage: "Good morning, Schnozzleberry. Quit dragging your hind quarters on the carpet and let's get some breakfast."

Nomulent (adj.)
Delicious food that is eaten quickly and without a whole lot of breathing in between bites.
Usage: "Those cookies were so nomulent that they are now extinct."
Related word: Nomulence (noun)
Food.
"Would you like some nomulence, or did that burrito at lunch sufficiently fill you up?"

Crapulent (adj.)
Anything that is below quality standards.
"That movie was so crapulent that I lost a few IQ points watching it."

Jesus Crime (apparently bad word)
RC's four-year-old daughter informed me the other day that "Jesus Crime" is a bad word and shouldn't be said. She doesn't know its origin or what it means. I can't stop saying it now.
"Jesus Crime, why is this movie so crapulent?"

The Number of the Treat

See? This is what I get for naming my blog something semi-blasphemous.

The only other time 666 has worked its way into my life was when CM, AV and I went to Jamaica. We arrived, straight from the chill of Minneapolis, to the tropical isle and boarded a bus. That bus took us on a life-threatening journey down narrow roads at speeds that I'm pretty sure rendered our lumbering, rickety ride completely out of control at times (with a short stop off for a beer at a roadside bar), and delivered us into temptation. Upon check in, we were given the keys to room 666. The three of us looked at each other, standing against the front desk with fruity "welcome" drinks in our hands, with eyebrows raised so high it nearly dislocated our hairlines. The pleasant woman behind the computer realized that she had just given us the room of the devil, and quickly tried to rectify that situation by placing a well-meaning but completely useless zero in front of the number on the paper key sleeve. We were staying in room 0666 for an entire, sinful week of Jamaican excess. Fear not, for we did not let that room down. We partied. Hardy.

I actually developed some kind of acid reflux to the rum punch I decided was a good substitute for...well...any other beverage. CM got lost in the curtains that separated our room and the small balcony overlooking the gorgeous rooftop of the lower part of the hotel. She was forced to fight with those rascally curtains for the better part of 10 minutes before just giving up, dropping to the ground, and crawling underneath them to get back inside the room. AV managed to get a strange but completely appropriate sunburn in the form of a stripe (a Red Stripe) down her entire body on one side. We made our second home at the dance club inside the hotel. We met a Christian rock band that offered us illegal drugs. We also met a group of guys from St. Louis or something like that who all dared each other to wear Speedos, and whom we affectionately and permanently nicknamed "Team Banana Hammock." We ate enough jerk chicken to make the poultry population of the island cluck in fear. We ordered conch balls at dinner, despite not having the faintest clue what they were...it just seemed right. We left the hotel once during the entire week and that was to go on a booze cruise and slide down a waterfall (we managed the waterfall fine, but fell during the booze cruise due to rough seas and even rougher equilibrium.). Between our days of sunning and drinking and our nights of dancing and drinking, we had a few hours to kill. We did that with AV's video camera and either a hairbrush or bottle of sunblock we treated as a microphone. We interviewed each other, people milling about in the twilight hours with nothing better to do, and the staff who were just trying to clean the pool. The best part was that eventually everyone would grab the hairbrush out of our hands and speak directly into the camera. We were the trio from 666, and people recognized. Or at least they knew we were off our rockers just enough to be entertaining. Plus we smelled like fried chicken and rum, so we were nigh irresistible.

One night we had the sliding glass doors to the balcony open, and as a strong breeze swept into our room it made a most notable sound as it passed through the door leading into the hallway. I can only describe it as a howling sound, and if I was skittish I might even say "demonic sounding." But we were too brave, too drunk, or too hungover (or some combination thereof) to find anything but humor in it. The sound got louder and louder as the wind picked up, and why wouldn't our room howl? It seemed so fitting. Who knows, maybe it was actually the sound of our livers begging for reprieve.

Random Thought Round Up

I have not been able to hold an entire thought from start to finish for the past week. My To-Do list looks like someone started writing a flurry of well-intentioned sentences and was hastily and repeatedly removed from the vicinity of the list, whether by emergency or maybe just good old fashioned spontaneous combustion. I get a quarter of something done and then either lose my stamina and need to take a nap or get distracted by a shiny object. It has taken me three weeks to get my insurance switched from California to Arizona, and though I have finally made arrangements with my new agent, I have let the paperwork sit, undownloaded, in my email inbox for five days. All I have to do is print it and then fax it. But, see, that would require me to actually plug my computer into the printer, print it, sign it, and then drive the half a mile to the local Staples outlet and have it faxed, which requires me to get dressed and work up the gusto to make small talk with the person behind the counter. Then there's the waiting for the fax to go through, the confirmation, the ringing up of my fax purchase. Gah, I need to rest just thinking about all that stuff.

So, insurance is in limbo. I have to get my new driver's license and my car registered before the end of September (any bets on when that's going to be done? I'll take October of 2012), write thank you notes for my past baby shower, look forward to another round of notes for next weekend's shower, put together the crib, paint, wash the baby's clothes and blankets, get a job, somehow fit in a couple of actual showers between now and November, make dinners, drink lots of water (which is really taxing for some reason), and go to yoga everyday. I just don't know how I'll get it all done. I feel like I had more time and energy to get things done when I was fully employed.

I've been thinking a lot about employment lately. It's been approximately 10 and a half months since the last time I had to wake up in the morning and go to work. Sounds awesome, right? It's not. I mean, it's nice having an open schedule for as many naps as I can muster the energy to take, but it's not really all that intellectually challenging. I would like to be working. But see, having this big ol' baby belly kinda puts a kink in the ol' job hunt. No one is gong to hire me right now on account of the fact that I won't even be able to start working until 2012. I guess I'll have to save up for those faxes to the insurance agent.

To top it all off, when I do have a complete thought in this little head of mine, it's been a morbid one. I really hope these  completely random and vivid thoughts of doom are a normal symptom of pregnancy, because I think it's a little too late for me to become a melancholy emo kid with black nails and white makeup. Plus hanging out at the cemetery in this kind of heat isn't good for the pastey skin that I'll need to pull off all that black clothing. I don't know why I've been imagining horrible things happening to me as of late, but these thoughts are vivid and fully fleshed out. I actually played out the scenario of what would happen yesterday if I died while at yoga. The lights were dim, people were focusing and breathing rhythmically...would they notice I wasn't? Who would call 911 when my heart just gave out on me? Would they make it to me in time? Would the baby survive? Would my yoga instructor have to ride in the ambulance with me? Would they have to give everyone in the class a refund for the day, or pay them a trauma stipend for having to sit there as I did the "Stiff as a Board" pose better than anyone ever? Why am I even thinking this stuff? On the way home from yoga, after not dying, I watched a car blow through a red light ahead of me. Then my brain was off and running on the tangent of my vehicular demise at every stop light between where I was and where I wanted to be. My poor car would be totaled. I would be dead. How tragic for everyone...because my car is really cute and it would be a shame to ruin it. God, I really hope this is just a phase due to all the crazy hormones.

If I die from carpal tunnel, I hope it's not because of this post. It would be a shameful legacy to leave. Shhh...do you hear that? Yep, it's a nap calling.

Talking Through Takeoff

Last week, I was on a jet plane from PHX to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the promise land," if movies are to be believed). RC and I flew Southwest airlines, because it's free or cheap thanks to RC's friend who works for the airline. Flying Southwest is an adventure in itself, due to the herd of cattle all clamoring and mooing as they try to get on the plane first to snap up those coveted aisle and window seats. I know there have been studies done by the airlines that found unassigned seating saves time in boarding, but really it just causes undue panic for most of the people waiting in line as they watch their chance of not being stuck in the middle dwindle. I, being "with child" or "knocked up" or "gestation-riffic," have been circumventing the system by boarding early with the families with small children. Hey, the Blueberry is small! Plus, I stick my stomach out, look miserable and uncomfortable, and RC holds my elbow to guide me to the ticket counter and down the jetway to ensure that no flight attendant would dare tell us we couldn't board early. We're no dummies.

So, after boarding early, sitting in the near back of the plane and all settled in for our three-plus-hour flight, a young guy sat in the middle seat directly behind me. I would not have paid him any attention, except that he struck up a conversation with the young guy next to him that I could not ignore. Awkward plane conversations are as intriguing to me as they are uncomfortable to listen to. This one was the worst. Not because they were making each other uncomfortable, but because they were making me uncomfortable due to their sheer idiocy. I wanted to turn around and beg them, plead with them, to shut up until they hit 28 or so for the sake of mankind. Because the senior in high school by the window and the guy in the middle who was a junior in college were making me rapidly lose my faith in the future of the world.

The dude, or DudeBro as I have nicknamed him, in the middle was giving the starry-eyed Wisconsin high school kid some advice on college. HS said he wants to go to the University of California at San Diego, and DudeBro agreed that was a good school. DudeBro looked at it himself, but didn't end up there (which I translate into: I like that college, but I didn't get in). DudeBro was also super stoked on UC Santa Barbara, so HS should check that out, too. In reality, both of those schools are awesome and really hard to get into, so DudeBro is not helping HS at all here. A kid from out of state is going to have a heck of a time getting in. But don't worry, DudeBro has other ideas for HS. DudeBro thinks that HS should check out the colleges in Arizona, because that's where DudeBro goes. He checked out ASU in Tempe and also a college in Tucson, but DudeBro informed HS that Tucson is like little Mexico. Way too many shady "foreigners." So, DudeBro decided to go to ASU. Arizona State University is the mecca for college kids who want to go to college while mostly just attempting to kill their livers. Party school. Completely. I'm sure there are quite a few students who go there and get a great education, but the majority of the student body is just trying to inebriate and invade the rest of the student body. So, DudeBro then tells HS, "I chose ASU because, dude, it's the top school according to Playboy. I mean, there are girls everywhere. It's siiiccckk. You should check it out." I'm not exaggerating. That is what he said, verbatim. I wanted to turn around and put noise-canceling headphones on HS, because his sweet Wisconsin demeanor was being threatened by thoughts of frat parties and girls and sunshine 365 days a year, and I know kids who grow up in the Midwest can't resist those things (mostly the sunshine part).

DudeBro kept talking. And everything he said involved the words "sick" and "stoked" and "totally" and "DUUUUUDDEE," and the complete confidence in which he said these things sent a shiver down my spine. He was a wise, all-knowing "frat and drunk chick" guru. I am still worried about the impact that this all had on little HS there in the window of 29A.

This was all within the first 15 minutes of the flight. I have never wished harder for the flight attendant to announce that portable electronic devices were acceptable for use. Please, let me turn on some music and drown out all the "gnarly" and "awesome" being uttered behind me. I kept looking at RC and I'm almost positive that the sound of our eyes rolling in our heads was audible, but yet still not enough to drown out all the, "Dude, we had a party and this sorority showed up and then we did keg stands and these two chicks made out.....garble garble garble." Of course, we hit turbulence, so no music, no movie, no escape. "Dude, college is soooooo much easier than high school. Like, don't even sweat it. You're doing way more work now than you will when you get to college." Oh, please Lord, I've been a good girl. Help me here. "I just do most of my work on the internet. It's simple. It's almost a joke how much work I don't have to do and I'm still getting kickass grades." I mean, okay God, I know I got pregnant out of wedlock, but really, in the grand scheme of life, do I deserve this punishment? My underwear is threatening to climb into my colon as I sit here. Isn't that enough? "It's always hot there and so girls on campus barely get dressed. It's like going to class at a bar the way the girls look." What sedatives are pregnancy approved, and who on this plane has some? "I had one class last semester that I barely showed up for and still aced it. My parents were so stoked on my grades and I just laughed cause I was drunk most of the time." Is the pressure in my head from the turbulence or is my brain exploding? If it's exploding, could I just maybe hear a constant tone or just pass out? Please?

Was I like this at 20 years old? Did my conversations make those around me convulse with the utter vapidness that passed my lips? I shutter, knowing that I probably was and probably did. But you know what? At least I didn't choose my college according to the sage words of a nudie mag...dude.

Million-Dollar Ideas

RC and I regularly have conversations that start off pretty normally but end up in tears of laughter and more fodder for our "Million-Dollar Idea" list. I don't know if it's a good thing that two people with the same warped sense of humor (and reality) are together unsupervised, but damn, it's fun. I thought it would behoove me to make a running list of our surefire moneymakers, and I'd hate to hoard all this awesomeness, so I'm sharing it with you.

Idea #1: Strip clubs. Sure, they may only make money a couple dollar bills at a time, but it's a start. Add in a $20 cover charge, $10 drinks, and ATM fees of $5 for every traceable bad decision you make with your debit card, and voila! Money! Okay, so strip clubs are not our original idea...they exist and have existed before our time. But ours has a twist: A strip club with a daycare built in so the dancers and patrons can leave their children to be tended to while getting a face-full of bits. It's called "Who's Your Daddy?" Good, right? I know. Don't be jealous you didn't think of it first. Then RC and I carried on the theme and built an imaginary strip club next door to "Who's Your Daddy?" for the older crowd called it "West Coast Floppers." Just so you know, we were completely sober when coming up with these. Delirious, yes, but completely sober.

Idea #2: Dollah-Billah Killah. This is all RC. He awoke from a mid-day nap the other day and the first thing he said to me was, "Is there a rap song that goes, 'Dollah, dollah billah. Dollah-billah killah?'" I blinked multiple times. I thought as hard as I could. And then I asked if he had, unbeknownst to me, suffered some sort of head trauma before his nap. The worst part of all this? Now neither of us can stop singing this imaginary song. I've heard some of the crap on the radio as of late, and I'm fairly certain we could at least break the top 10 with this hit. If either of us could rap, we'd be in business.

Idea #3: Satan's Anus. I know, I know, but hear me out on this one! See, RC and I were having a somewhat normal conversation about the weather. Arizona right now is ridiculously hot and has been in the range of 114 every day. So, I said something to the effect that it's "hotter than Satan's anus after a five-alarm chili cookoff," because I have a way with words...and I'm a classy lady. RC managed to not swerve off the road while laughing (thankfully) and then he coughed out that "Satan's Anus" sounded like a metal band. Then we were off and running. We spent the next 20 minutes writing fake Craig's List ads for drummers who were "anal about keeping the beat" and could "carry the rhythm in the dark caverns of Satan's Anus' rehearsal space." I mean, c'mon, we don't have cable so we have to amuse ourselves somehow. We're not yet sure how this is going to make us a million dollars, but who needs money when you have the musical artistry that is SA?

Idea #4: Your Kitchen. It's a restaurant chain inspired by those frozen yogurt places that make you do all the work. You know, the ones that have you put your own frozen dairy goodness in a styrofoam bowl and then add all the toppings you want (that little kids have already stuck their dirty little paws in previous to your arrival), and then weigh and pay for your gluttony. So, Your Kitchen would be just like that but a full-on restaurant...where you cook and serve your own food. There will always be one missing ingredient for everything on the menu, there will be incomplete sets of measuring cups and mismatched flatware, and only one clean pan to cook in. It'll feature a couple burnt-out light bulbs in the dining room and tables that show the wear and tear of that one time you tried to build a model airplane on it and got superglue stuck to the wood and the varnish wore off. We could make millions just on the savings of a wait staff and cooks!

Idea #5: Personal Stoppers. The rich use personal shoppers to help them spend their money, so our idea is to offer "Personal Stoppers." These are people who will help you erase proof of all those bad decisions you've made from the World Wide Web. Your Personal Stopper will scour the likes of Facebook, Twitter, random porn sites, and personal emails and texts to prevent photos or stories of you being a complete douche or total twit from making the rounds. Whether you've been snapped wearing underwear on your head at a party (not that any of use would ever do that. *ahem*) or if you've simply spouted off about your dickweed boss at a company function in which you were the only overly intoxicated, "can't remember a damn thing" idiot there, the Personal Stoppers will help you erase your bad decision making. If you're a high-risk case, we'll assign a personal babysitter to go out with you in public and shut your fool mouth before it gets to being foolish. We'll also intercept all drunk texts, Tweets, and Facebook statuses for a 24-hour hold until you sober the hell up. You're welcome.

Idea #6: Judas Treats. Originally, Judas Treats was the name of a bakery I dreamed of opening. We'd serve things like "Bread Zeppelin," "Bon-Bon Jovis," and have "ZZ Toppings" for your "Milli Vanilla" cupcakes. But starting a bakery, after I researched it for all of 15 minutes, is expensive. So I scrapped that idea. Then I thought I could start an ice cream sandwich shop with homemade cookies and ice cream. I wanted to call it "Alice Scooper" because I figured Judas Treats might alienate about half the population. But that's expensive, too. So instead, Judas Treats is now the name of this blog. If only I could figure out how to make a million dollars posting ridiculous things.

Hey, since you're reading this, um, you owe me a million, K?

Unprecedented Monday Turnabout

www.someecards.com

Have you ever had a day so bad, so miserable, so useless, that you're convinced there is absolutely no way that it will get better until the sun goes down and gets back up again (maybe a few times over)? Sure you have. But have you ever had a rotten day that, by the very tail end of it, gets suddenly pretty good all at once almost as if just to spite you? Those are rare, I know, but I had one of those yesterday.

I feel like Monday, August 29th, was taunting me. First of all, Monday. Ew. Of course, when you're not working, Mondays don't mean a whole lot, but I still have plenty of memories of those first days back in the office, knowing there isn't enough coffee and YouTube shenanigans to make the day okay. Secondly, I had to fast for a three-hour glucose test in the morning, meaning my last food intake was at 8 p.m. Sunday until well after noon on Monday. Double yuck. It's not that fasting is all that horrible when you're not doing it to right some injustice or, you know, get yourself out of a lifetime prison sentence (I'm looking at you Jeffs), but I just don't like it. I don't like how it applies to me and my stomach, and I'm definitely not one of those people who joyfully skips a meal. The worst part was I couldn't even drink a glass of water. I believe that plus a running soundtrack of "Two and a Half Men" is what my own personal hell is like.

No coffee, no food, no water, I went to my OB/GYN for the stupid glucose test. I had my blood drawn at 9 a.m. and then they gave me a bottle of sugar water to drink (think the syrup used for sno cones or slushies, except without the cold, refreshing ice to water it down). It's like drinking straight from the box of soda syrup at a fast food restaurant before it gets mixed with the carbonation. I've always been a fan of sugar (used to eat it straight up out of the jar in my youth), but oh my, after hours of no water or food, drinking a bottle of that fruit-punch glucose was not refreshing. At all. It made my teeth rattle and my whole body convulse. But, I'm a big girl, so I drank it down quickly and then began the waiting game.

I had one hour to spend before they took my blood again, and in that hour I had a whole array of feelings: sickness, dizziness, nausea, chills, seeing those little floating white spots at the corners of my eyes, wanting to stab the lady next to me who kept sipping her bottle of water, hatred for everyone and everything, sleepiness, a slight rage that was hampered by utter lack of energy, etc. It very well may have been the longest hour of my life (and I say that having seen "Hobo with a Shotgun"). Finally, it was 10:16 am and my blood was ready for harvesting. We did that song and dance again at 11:15 and then for the last time at 12:15.

Finally I had been sufficiently poked and drained of my will to live (and now I feel like I have a better understanding of what those girls who live at the Playboy Mansion feel like). The only thing that could make things look up was lunch. Lots of lunch. But I couldn't eat much due to my complete lethargy. What a cruel joke, am I right? I ate as much as I could and I drove, listlessly, back home to sleep off my food and sugar coma.

I had a nap, a long one, but it wasn't very restful. It was one of those in which you feel like something's amiss, though you don't know what. I had turned my phone to silent, because hell hath no fury like a hungry sleepy me who gets awoken prematurely. When I did awake, somewhere around 4 p.m., I had missed some phone calls and texts, and they all told me bad news. Not a great way to wake up. I grumped my way through the afternoon, made dinner, ate, and then trudged off to yoga. I didn't really want to go to yoga, but I made myself for the sake of my mood and the benefit of the others in the house (who don't want to deal with a hungry, sleepy, sugar-infused sad sack such as I was yesterday). I stretched at yoga, still seeing those damn white spots in the corners of my eyes. I meditated, though I had a really hard time focusing, and then left feeling a little better but still not great.

I got home around 8:30 p.m., grateful that the day was almost over. This Monday could go suck an egg for all I cared. I mean, let's just get this thing done with and move on. And that's when things suddenly, and astonishingly, got really good. What the hell is that all about, Monday? I swear, you're just trying to prove me wrong when I'm having a good time having a miserable time. Pbblllltththththt.

I found a box from Amazon.com on my doorstep. Well, actually, RC found it and brought it in earlier, but I paid no mind to it. I hadn't ordered anything, so for all I knew it was the hospital that I owe money to sending me another bill in a really creative way. But when I got home from yoga, I decided, "Hey, let's just put the final nail in the coffin of Monday and carry on." So, I opened that surprise box. Usually unsolicited things on my doorstep (as long as they're not trying to sell me some service or deity that I don't want or need) are welcome, but it was just a bad day and I had a bad attitude. But when I opened that box, I was overjoyed to see blue wrapping paper. My sweet, awesome, dear, lovely friend Erin had sent the Blueberry his very first gifts! Awww. So cute. There was a Sleepy Sheep that makes ocean and rain sounds for some lovely white noise (and I totally used that thing when I went to bed last night. I am not above sleeping with a stuffed animal.) And then a little sleep outfit for the Blueberry when he decides to quit kicking my liver from the inside and make his earthly debut.

The gifts put a genuine, real-deal smile on my face. At that point, I felt brave enough to open an envelope from the hospital that was on the kitchen counter. It had come earlier in the day, and I felt like if I didn't open it, it wouldn't exist. With a Sleepy Sheep firmly in the crook of my elbow, I opened that stupid bill. They had sent me a few in a row, all claiming that I owed them more than $400 for an ER visit in June that I had already paid $250 for. I opened the latest installment of "Here's the inflated number of dollars we decided you owe us" and...oh...there was....no...that can't be right....they're messing with me.... They had "adjusted" my balance by $382.57 and my new balance is now $36.59. I read it four times, just to be sure I wasn't still in some sort of Sheepy/Sugar coma. I blinked a few times and still saw $36.59. I've wasted more money than that on two drinks in West Hollywood! I turned to RC, raising my arms victoriously, and demanded a hug. Somehow, I found myself in the midst of the "Best Monday night ever." Well, maybe not the best, but certainly a hell of a lot better than the damn day started. To celebrate, I had toast at 10:30 p.m. followed by some water. It was delicious.

Miracle Beach

When I was 15 years old, I read "A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens. I already knew I wanted to be a writer at that time, but that book changed me. It was the first set of written words bound together that made me cry--to feel real, tangible, drippy emotions. I have loved that book, and Dickens, since then.

A year or two before delving into that book, I met a girl named Erin.

Recently I found some photos from the first time I got to spend time with her, and by the sheer amount of photos I uncovered of her, I remembered something long forgotten: From Day 1, she was the person I emulated. I met her when her uncle married my cousin, and immediately I liked her. Not because she was beautiful (she was and still is), not because she had the best clothes (I coveted her flowered dress that night), and not because she had better hair than anyone I'd ever met (all serious considerations for a 13-year old girl), but because she was just so very much herself.

Erin and I became friends immediately. I was extremely excited about this fact because I thought she was the greatest thing since...well, ever...and I figured the fact alone she wanted to be my friend meant that I was worth something. In my formative years I didn't have much self esteem, as it goes with a lot of young girls. I was certainly the least financially sound member of my school age group of friends. I couldn't do all the things they did, or join all the clubs, or have the expensive hobbies. I don't know if they noticed much, but I sure as hell did. I carried that chip of being the wellfare girl. I got free lunch. I couldn't buy the newest ski jackets, or buy a season pass for the ski season, or buy trendy jeans. (I could be the funny one, though. That was free.) Erin, throughout our entire friendship, never once made me doubt my self worth. She never made me feel bad about who I was or where I came from, even at a time when I felt bad about it constantly. Somehow, she never made me feel "less than." Not even a little bit. And when you're a teenage girl in a group of other teenage girls, all vying for attention and boyfriends and being "better" than someone, that's quite a feat.

After high school, as it goes with so many friendships, Erin and I weren't as close as we were when we got to see each other every day. She went to college. I went to college. She went to more college at the college I went to college at, but after I had graduated, so we missed being in the same location. I moved, she moved, etc. Life gets in the way. But it never failed that when I did reconnect with her, it was like we didn't miss a day. Like we were hanging outside our lockers all over again. I love that about us. She is so brilliant, so accomplished, so outstanding, and to this day I feel like that proud 13-year-old girl who gets to call her my friend.

Erin's first novel was published this month. It came out August 4th, and as I anxiously counted down the days to when her book would be available, I watched my bank account dwindle to nothing. Not like, 'oh, I only have $200 in the bank.' Seriously nothing. No dollars. Zero. I couldn't buy her book, and I felt that shame...that 13-year-old, free-lunch-eating, no-cool-clothes-having shame. This whole unemployment plus pregnancy thing is making my financial situation pathetic, and I felt horrible that I couldn't buy her novel the day it came out, to read it and declare triumphantly that I finished it that first week. I know she wouldn't care. But I do. For all the years and the times she has made me proud to be her friend, I felt like I was letting her down.

Finally last week I had some cash flowing into my account, and the first damn thing I did was order "Miracle Beach" by Erin Celello. I received the book Saturday afternoon. I started reading it around 5:30 p.m., and I finished it at midnight. Finished it. All in one sitting. And you know what happened for the second time in my life? I cried like a baby. Not because she's my friend, not because she achieved this amazing goal of getting her first novel published, but because her words honestly made me cry.

So, Erin, again I am in awe of you. You are now in the company of Mr. Charles Dickens on the very short list of authors who made me feel real, drippy, tangible emotions. I have two novel-writing heroes now.

Oh, and those of you who aren't Erin, you need to buy her book.
http://www.amazon.com/Miracle-Beach-Erin-Celello/dp/0451233824/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1314070413&sr=8-1

Maternity Test No Longer Pending

I like words. My blog is full of them. But every now and then you probably don't want to read a 1,500-word missive on whatever crap I'm thinking of at the time. I feel your pain. And I'm here to make you happy.

My two new favorite photos are of my son (whoa...that's weird to type) who will be born sometime before the end of 2011. He better be, anyway, because I miss taking a full, deep breath and I miss my clothes. And I miss being able to eat junk food without guilt. This kid and his healthy food cravings are really starting to irk my dormant potato chip habits. Seriously. I mean, how many organic strawberries can one girl eat? I'm currently finding that out.

When I first found out I was pregnant, I joked with RC that I wanted a maternity test because he's a professional racer and, as I concluded, Lord only knows who the mother of this kid is. He's gone racing and riding and I don't know what. This kid could be anyone's, really. About a month and a half ago, we went to have a full 3D ultrasound (totally trippy, by the way) and we got to see the little one's face. The good news is he's pretty darn cute.

He ever-so-slightly resembles RC, so no worries there. But there was still that nagging question of the maternity of this child. Who could it be? Well, when we got the second photo, all questions were answered:

That's my boy! Let's see, one cute picture and then one of him flipping us off in utero. Yep, definitely mine.

By the way, he's grounded the minute he's born.

And I'm Still Unemployed? Amazing!

I have been unemployed since the end of October 2010. For those of you who aren't good at math, that's about 10 months. For those of you who are good at math, it's been 318 days. I have sent my resume to countless companies, I've hit up old friends and colleagues, I've groveled, I've whined, and yet I'm still unemployed. So, this week I got sick of sending out the stuffy, serious version of my resume. I don't think it represents me very well. For the past week, I've been sending my new and improved resume  every day...and this is it. Yep, still unemployed, but now at least I feel like prospective employers will get a better idea of who I am.

CC

Objective

To be employed (duh). Here's where I'm supposed to string together a bunch of abstract words that make me sound like the greatest and smartest employee on Earth. But you'd be remiss if you didn't, for a split second, think, 'Hey, wait, if she's the greatest and smartest, why doesn't she have a job?' Well, that's quite observant of you. I just moved to the Phoenix area and I know no one. My past jobs have all been 'word of mouth' hires, so I didn't have to type out all the great things about me—I just let other people tell my bosses how awesome I am. I can tell you that I'm bright and enjoy being proud of my work, which leads me to work diligently. My former bosses have all attested they came to rely on my work ethic and dazzling personality and couldn't imagine doing a job without me. Obviously, they found a way, but they're not necessarily happy about it.

Experience

Race Media and PR Coordinator for American Suzuki Motor Corp.

Acorn Woods Communications

2009-2010

Wrote press releases and press packets for each of Suzuki's professional race endeavors, including Motocross, Supercross, ATV Motocross, GNCC Motorcycle and ATV, and Superbike on a weekly basis. Managed all social media for racing projects, including Facebook, Twitter, and SuzukiCycles.com. Created and edited video content, ran contests, and garnered a large fan base for Suzuki Racing on all social media fronts. Provided on-site support and facilitation of media interviews with racers as well as fan meet-and-greet sessions and other promotional appearances. Traveled 26 weekends January through October, making my rental car status "Frequent renter who hates Chevy Aveos…so let's give her one with windows you have to manually roll up and down. Every. Time." Suzuki won multiple championships during my tenure, but hasn't won another title since I left. Coincidence?

Managing Editor, Quad Off-Road Magazine

Transworld Media

2005-2009

I was hired and relocated to create a brand-new magazine venture for Transworld Media and Time Inc. From the initial concept to the printing of the very first issue in July of 2005, I was instrumental in the feel, look, and content of the magazine. Edited every article and department in the magazine to ensure correct information about vehicles, grammatical structure, magazine format and spelling. Wrote monthly departments and articles, from technical know-how to adventure stories (I crashed and almost didn't make it out of Baja Mexico once. True story.). Worked late hours on tight deadlines and didn't stop until the job was done and done well. Wrote headlines, captions, cover lines, rewrote stories by less-than-adept contributors. Handled all payment of contractors, answered reader emails, put together prize packages for contests, updated the web site (some of which can still be found now on outdoorlife.com), brainstormed adventure and feature stories for future issues, styled photo shoots, assisted photographers, edited layout of the magazine in InDesign to help the art director get each story to fit properly in the allotted space, slept infrequently, loved almost every minute of it (except for the aforementioned crashing in Mexico).

Associate Editor, ATV Sport and ATV Magazine

Ehlert Publishing

2003-2005

My first professional job out of college that mixed my previous experience as a parts and accessories salesperson at a motorcycle and ATV dealership with my writing and editing prowess. I wrote and edited stories for four different magazines, conducted interviews, reviewed products and new machines, helped design the web site, shot photos for my own stories, and covered ATV races all around the country.

Education

Northern Michigan University

Master's Degree                                                Creative Writing/Journalism/Editing

Skills

·      InDesign           

·      iMovie           

·      Photoshop           

·      Creating Social Media Initiatives

·      Web

·      Facebook

·      Twitter           

·      YouTube

·      Creativity

·      Writing Entertaining Copy           

·      Editing           

·      Flying By the Seat of My Pants           

           

           

                                   

Mud Pie with a Side of Gluttony

By request, I am posting the recipe I sent to Nikki a month ago (with a few tweaks for fun). She thinks I should share it with the world, and who am I to argue? 

So, here's how I do my mud pie:

Buy an Oreo pie crust from the store.

Then go to the dangerous and full-of-temptation ice cream section and get a pint of coffee-flavored ice cream. Just one. Don't look at the new Ben and Jerry's selections. No good will come of it.

Okay, coffee ice cream has been collected. Does your basket look empty? It does. Go ahead and cure that by stuffing a jar or hot fudge in there, maybe some slivered almonds, and if you're really frisky, some carmel sauce, too. Did I mention Cool Whip? I didn't, but I should've. Get some.

Now go home and put all the ingredients on the kitchen counter and stand there with a big soup spoon. Eat it all before anyone knows that good stuff is in the house. I'd say sit at the kitchen table and eat it, but you don't deserve to sit down due to your utter lack of self control.

Tomorrow, with guilt and a sugar buzz to beat hell, slink back to the store and buy all that shit again. Pray that you don't get the same cashier as you had yesterday. If you do, look ashamed and hope she believes it.

Okay, once you've collected the goods AGAIN, don't eat it all tonight when you get home. PROMISE ME YOU WON'T EAT IT ALL! Now, you need the ice cream to soften up. Leave it on the counter for a while. MY GOD, STEP AWAY FROM THE SOUP SPOONS. You don't want the ice cream to get soupy, but it needs to be pliable. Act like knowing the meaning of "pliable" can erase the guilt of eating all that junk last night.

Once the ice cream has softened, spoon it into the pie crust. The ratio is three scoops into the pie crust tin, one in your face....you glutton. Once you've filled the crust with ice cream, you can, if you so choose, sprinkle it with almonds. Put that bitch back in the freezer to harden. Leave it there. No, don't go look at it. It's going to take a while to harden up, probably overnight. Just quit thinking about it.

The next day, if it's still in the freezer, congratulations, you're not a complete jerk. You may now slice up the pie. I hope for your sake you have told other people about this pie in the freezer to keep you honest...and fitting into your pants. Put a slice on a plate. Put the hot fudge in the microwave and make it hot (it's in the name, so it's meant to be). Pour hot fudge on that slice. DON'T POUR IT ON THE WHOLE PIE. JEEZ, YOU HAVE NO DIGNITY, DO YOU? Now you may pour caramel on your slice. Then comes the Cool Whip. Make it look like a sugar coma on a plate just waiting to happen. I won't judge you. Except I totally will. And I am.

Enjoy it. Lick the plate clean, you Fatty McFatterson.

Dear....

Dear Old Man Sitting in the Coffee Shop Holding His Cell Phone to His Ear,

You do know that your phone is switched to speakerphone, don't you? You don't have to hold it up to your ear like that. I am 60 feet away and can understand everything that woman is saying. Either switch it off speakerphone, or have a more interesting conversation. Please.

Thanks,
The rest of the patrons at the Barnes and Noble cafe



Dear Phoenix,

How about you work on looking like the part of Arizona that I drove through yesterday? You know, mountains and trees and beautiful scenery. That would be great. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.

Regards,
Midwesterner who loves the color green



Dear Bank of America Account Notifications,

Yes, I do realize I have a low balance. Every time I spend $5 you rub it in that it's getting lower. Just because I have a low account balance doesn't give you the right to lower my self esteem every 4-6 hours. Let's just agree that my wealth accumulation will be below an acceptable level for a while, okay?

Thanks,
Buying one cup of coffee isn't going to overdraw my account. I hope.



Dear Blueberry,

I know quarters are getting cramped, but let's be clear on one thing: My liver, ribs and kidneys were there first. They'll make room for you, but you don't have to be so pushy. Good thing I already know you're cute, otherwise this behavior would be labeled "questionable" at best.

Sincerely,
Owner of said organs



Dear Politicians,

I have a novel idea. It's called common sense. Can we ditch all this party line crap and do something decent on the first try without all the posturing and B.S.? You just wasted a whole bunch of time to do something that's not that difficult. I'm looking at all of you, so don't start pointing fingers.

Suck it up,
A former tax payer



Dear Hips,

You think yoga is tough? You're in for a rude awakening at the end of the November. Let's work on being more flexible, shall we?

Much appreciated,
Soon-to-be mommy

"Peace, Strength, and Happiness" or "Becoming a Dirty Hippie"

I know, I know...this is not the next part of the first blog. But you'll forgive me. Why? Because...well, you have terrible taste in friends. You should work on that.

I am slowly becoming a full-fledged hippie, and I just want you to be aware. I feel like I should say, "My name is CC and I haven't used soap on my face for 412 days." And then you say "hi" back to me while wondering, first of all, why don't I use soap, and second of all, um, gross, how do you wash your face?

You sure are nosey.

Anyway, I really don't wash my face with soap (I use a mixture of castor oil and olive oil). I don't wash my hair with shampoo anymore (I use baking soda and water, and sometimes apple cider vinegar and water). I don't take medication (it could be argued that I should). I buy organic food when possible (I will soon owe my soul to Trader Joe's). And the crowning jewel on top of my hippie crown, that would most likely be made of hemp and, like, some old wise hippie's dreadlocks, is that I have just started taking Dahn Yoga classes. What's that? Well, it's the most hippiest of all the crap I do. And that's saying something.

Being located in the valley of the sun, where it's hotter than hell (really, I checked, it's hotter here) and there are more people over the age of 65 than there are at every single Golden Corral Buffet across the country combined, my Dahn Yoga class is full of wonderful gray-haired ladies, and a few men. Now, there are a couple other people who aren't geriatric, but not many. I walked into the first class, and as I nodded hello to the lady (whose name I would later learn as Gayle) who was seated on a folding chair with both of her canes positioned at her feet, somehow I knew I was in the right place. I am an old soul, and unfortunately, I have the body to match. Achy? Yep. As flexible as a concrete wall? That's me! Bad back, lame hips, random pains that cannot be explained? Oh yeah.

Dahn Yoga is from Korea and it uses stretching and focused breathing on your chakras. (Not Chaka Kahn. But it would be awesome if she was in my class.) Despite the lack of R&B legends, the fact that meditation and focused stretching is the name of the game, the blue hairs love it. Me included. There's no downward facing dog and left-leaning hooting owl (that's a yoga position, right?), and it's very relaxed and peaceful. Since I'm new here, and I have a whole new life about to unfold in front of me, I've been struggling with figuring out who I'm going to become in the coming months. I get to start over, but that's not as exciting as it may seem. My little Blueberry is due at end of November, I have a man in my life who comes with all sorts of awesome stuff, including his two children and 16-pound pup. I have no job. I have no money. So, I've been searching for something...and the worst part is I haven't been able to figure out what that is up until this point. So I stumbled into a Dahn Yoga class on Saturday morning, and they were doing some weird stuff: Punching their lower abdomen (I refrained from that exercise, seeing as I don't need the Blueberry to be any more damaged than the Clawson DNA will already allow for). Saying phrases in Korean. Shaking their bodies around. I had the choice to either be an amused spectator, or join in and just let it all go. I did a little of the former, and then gave into the latter.

As class progressed, the stretching seemed mild, but I could feel it working. I could feel the blood pumping through my veins. I felt all tingly from the increased circulation. And then we got to the meditation part. I got lost completely in it, and man, I did not want to stop. But of course it had to end. After class, we hugged people next to us and then all sat in a circle and drank tea and talked about the session. Seriously, this happened. While at first I was expecting the camera crew to come out from behind the back curtain and announce that the mockumentary would be finished by Sundance next year, I realized that all these people just quieted their mind for more than an hour and they all looked happy and relaxed. Apparently I did too, because when I got home RC noticed that I looked...different. (Eloquent? Why yes, he is.) I felt more peaceful on Saturday for the entire day than I have in, well, as long as I can remember.

I went to class again on Monday. Directly afterward I went to the OB/GYN for my monthly checkup. The doctor asked me what I had done, because she said I was the most calm pregnant woman she's ever seen. Even the Blueberry's heartbeat was a little slower this time around. I told her I was trying out a new yoga class. She asked if I could sit in the lobby all day and help all her patients chill out, and then told me to keep going to class. I mean, I didn't even bitch at anyone while I was driving home...and that's something special. I love to yell at people who don't drive well. But, I just didn't care to let it bother me. See that? That's all that peace and love those damn hippies have been spouting off about all this time.

I'm going to keep going to class. I'll let you know when I change my name to WaterLilly Sunshine.

By the way, I wrote this while a 3-year-old insisted that I: 1. open the sliding glass door so she could play in the sandbox in 108-degree weather (which lasted all of 34 seconds), 2. peel an orange for her, 3. peel two more oranges for her, 4. get her a banana after a two-minute conversation in which she promised me she would eat dinner in an hour despite eating all this damn fruit, 5. dumping markers all over the floor and then coloring a balloon with said markers. So if there are spelling errors or just plain old mistakes, please forgive me. I'll edit it later...after I meditate.