Motherhood Uncensored

5:30am

Oh yeah. You're hot, baby.

Just hold on a second. Let me lift my large perky even breasts out of my huge bra so you can stuff your face in them.

Angelina? Please. She's nothing compared to...

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. TAP.

The Huz: I just wanted to wake you up from a dead sleep to tell you that Drew might be hungry when he wakes up.

So he's not up yet?

The Huz: No.

Have you lost your fucking mind?

My Sentiments Exactly

"Grandma, NO MORE TALKING!"

I'm a Terrible Terrible Mother

My daughter decided to let my mother-in-law know that Santa had ignored her wishes for a Belle dress and Belle ponytail. Apparently I have not yet schooled her in the ways of keeping her mouth shut.

She only got enough toys to fully furnish our living room (if you like to sit on puppet theaters and ball tracks).

Of course, you my trusty blog readers are aware of my ambivalence about all that is princess, and so, instead of purchasing the much request Belle dress and Belle ponytail, I gave her a lovely crocheted crown (which she took off only to go poop on Christmas Day), a swirly silk skirt, an Ariel book light, and The Paper Bag Princess (Thanks for the recos, readers!).

And I left the majority of the princess purchasing to my in-laws, who clearly took care of that with two Disney princess books, two Disney princess "Dress 'em up in tiny rubber outfits and shoes the size of a bread crumb" sets, and a weird plush pig princess piggy bank that makes a fantastically unannoying and very quiet noise every time you put money in it.

But alas, no Belle dress or ponytail. That was my job. And I failed.

So, my mother-in-law asks my husband right in front of me "How could YOUR WIFE Santa do such a thing? When have you ever heard of a kid not getting what they asked for from YOUR WIFE Santa?" of course, trying to chalk the whole thing up to my daughter's fantastic memory. 

"Well, we're just terrible parents, aren't we?" I replied trying to sound both flip and sweet, you know, like a princess.

My husband glared at me.

"And any good princess knows that you don't wait for some man to buy you what you want. If she wants a Belle dress and a hairpiece, she can use her Christmas money to purchase it herself."

 

Princesses can always use the help of an accountant.

 

Just make sure they don't run off with your cash.

Fun & Games

I have momentarily escaped what has been a day of "13,000 Questions about Kristen's House That She Doesn't Know the Answer To." I find this game particularly fun when I'm just happy to have the energy to clean it enough so I can walk without getting rice puffs stuck between my toes and I don't wake up with toast crumbs stuck in my asscrack.

In my world, this house just landed in "My Town, GA" and we bought it.

That's it.

I do not know the height of my ceiling. Or the square footage in my dining room. Or how hard my new end tables are to dust and how my kitchen cabinets are going to be a bitch to clean.

They hold my shit better than a trash bag. Isn't that enough?

I was sort of hoping she'd focus on my ass. But it's shrunk. And so apparently the house is way more interesting.

*hrumph*

But look people. In my world, fun involves alcohol, sleep, and absolutely no mathematical equations unless those equations are helping me figure out how much I can drink or how much I can sleep. 

However, I know you're all dying to know how to play, so let me give you a sampling of how it goes (in case you're tired of your "Back Massager" and need some other form of pleasure).

Question 11,203:

MIL: So, what color are your shutters?

Kristen: Um. Burgundy. I'm really not quite sure.

MIL: I think they are Cordovan. Yep. That's it. Cordovan.

Question 13,789:

MIL: How high are your ceilings? 9 or 10 feet.

Kristen: *Stands up and reaches up* 9 feet

MIL: Hmmm. They look more like 10 to me.

So, today I've learned that I know nothing about my house or how to pick end tables.

Based on previous scores, I'm doing pretty damn well.

However, it is just barely the end of Day One.

Christmas 2007 in Numbers

1 lone gift for me which included...

2 pieces of workout clothes made from a material that basically makes you look like you're naked except you can see every single bit of cellulite

2 times my daughter asked why Santa did not bring her a "Belle dress and Belle ponytail." (Urgh).

3 people with colds (and one valianting attempting to fight it off with screwdrivers *ahem*)

4 times I've caught myself wishing that my friends and family were here with me

5 minutes of sleet that clearly made my daughter's day

8 quarts of water to brine our turkey (we're nuts, this I know)

10 "No Drew No" yelps per minute from my daughter attempting to play peacefully with her new toys

19 Hours and counting until the in-laws come to visit

Have a wonderful holiday. Now get the fuck off the computer and go drink some 'nog. I'll have plenty of fodder arriving tomorrow morning.

Phew! I Was Worried That I Wasn't Going to Win Any Mothering Awards This Year

But then I gave my daughter two Zicams for her cold which I thought was totally unrelated to her chills and the overall "blahs" which could be none other than the "oh shit not at Christmas so help me God" flu.

When really, it was just the Zicams.

Sometimes I think my parenting brilliance is unmatched.

Santa Got Runover By a Southerner Driving a Pick-Up While Talking on His Cellphone

It has become very clear to me that people should not drive while talking on their cell phones. Except me, of course. And moms of the same persuasion. Because moms can process two screaming kids, driving a car, and shoving some sort of weird flattened sandwich and carrot sticks in their mouth all while chatting with a friend about their day.

Okay, so maybe that's not the safest thing to do. But at least I realize it, unlike at least four drivers we passed today who were driving in the left lane at least 10 miles under the speed limit all yapping away on their phones.

Are people not familiar with "hands-free?" Maybe they think a blue tooth is sign that you have some kind of disease down here.

"Wut. You got a balew tooth? Aw shiyit man. That's bayad."

Honestly, I have no problem with people talking to their 6,000 friends on their cell phones in their cars. And I love a good opportunity to use my horn. Plus, I get that people move a little slower down here. There's no reason to rush, right? Enjoy your deep conversation on a busy 12 lane highway in heavy traffic.

But just do us all a favor and do it in the RIGHT FUCKING LANE. 

For My Tens of Male Readers

This one is just for you...

Here's what you missed this week:

My in-laws play Santa on crack

My daughter the artist and t-shirt designer

Bonding over our lady bits

Guilty as Discharge

Since we're all "mano a mano" with each other about our whoo-hoos, I figured it would be okay for me to complain about yet another "thanks for having two children suckah" gift that seems to keep on giving.

It first came to me the day before I went into labor with my son and I was convinced that I was leaking amniotic fluid. I mean, clearly it had to be amniotic fluid because I don't generally just randomly pee on myself (at least without knowing).

And there was no way in hell it was what I like to call "natural lubricant."

*ahem*

But alas, silly old me didn't realize that when you get pregnant a few times and then pop out a kid (or two), your hormones just go into whacked out mode and you tend to overproduce the stuff.

Yes. We are all singlehandedly funding the college educations of Always workers' kids, those bastards.

Of course you could never have an over supply of the stuff when you actually need it. Like when some midwifery student is trying to find your cervix and instead you swear is fondling your pancreas. Or after 14 straight minutes of foreplay. Because we all know that's a lifetime for most of our spousal units. And yet, you're still dryer than a mouthful of sand.

It's like those mother-in-law hairs. The ones that have no earthly business on your upper thighs or above your lip but just happen to show up there unannounced and they'd be more than welcome on the the top of your head where you're rapidly losing them and could actually use them but no they're on your thighs and under your nose so you pluck them and they just won't fucking GO AWAY.

Yeah. Those ones.

But no. It happens when you're in Target in the dressing room with two kids trying on some Mossimo Supply shirt that's marked XXL yet still doesn't fit you and all of a sudden you think you just peed yourself. 

So thanks to the every other day gift of wetness, every other pair of underpants becomes period or "please don't let me die caught in these things" underpants. And you get why double ply toilet paper is the bomb diggity. And you have no idea exactly when you're ovulating. Unless you're ovulating every other day of the month.

I'm just curious exactly what parenthood does to the male jingle jangles. Because my poor girl is tired and most certainly does not need anymore attention. 

The Obligatory Pre-Christmas Here's Some Links and Free Stuff Post

Congrats Becsbunch and Brenna J. You are the winners according to random.org. Please email me your addresses!

Okay, so I have a couple of cool things to mention and give away and there's just no other way for me to post about them.

How's that for full disclosure?

But rest assured that there's none of this "wow what a really cool iron" kind of crap. Santa does not bring good blogging moms irons.

First off, have you tried the Starbucks Mud Pies? Don't blame me if they send you to Coffee Ice Cream Bar rehab because holy shit.

Yum.

May they please read my blog and send me a year's supply.

Moving on.

So for dad (or both of you, really), snatch up this cool deal: Get a FREE 80-hour TiVo® Series2™ Dual Tuner DVR (a $249 value) when you sign up for a TiVo service plan for only $12.95 per month, or choose one to three years and save even more!  TiVo will donate $25 to support the National Council of Women's Organizations (YWCA, Planned Parenthood, etc.) for each individual who takes advantage of the offer.

So, you're getting a TiVo plus service AND you're helping a really great organization that could use the cash. Click here for more info.

I've never actually used a TiVo, but I'm betting it will save me from staying up really late to watch my favorite shows. And then I can watch my Bravo shows on replay whenever I want. Oh wait, they already play them 14 times a week anyway.

If you're cheap, screw the TiVo and buy a Mominatrix shirt. There. How's that? 

And for your princess loving daughter, check out FLOR. Now, I had never heard of FLOR, but I apparently am the only one on this universe who has not heard of them. But they create brilliant and simple to "assemble" carpet tiles so you can change up your house without having to do the whole wall to wall thing.

So new this year are their Disney carpets which I had to snatch up and give away to you readers since we have definitely commiserated a few times this year about our ambivalence about the whole Disney princess thing. So, if you want to win a Princess Disney carpet (I've got two to giveaway to two random readers at a $100 value each!), you need to drop me an email with the following information:

a) The names of both of my kids

b) The Disney princess you are most like and why. (heh)

*Make sure you put FLOR in the subject header please*

If you don't know the names of my kids then you should be able to find them by easily perusing my archives (or The Mom Trap) and if you've been reading my blog, then you should know them without doing that. All this does is ensure (at one level or another) that my actual readers will have a good chance at winning. Prize hungry passers by are always welcome, but you know, you gotta work.

Nuff said.

You've got until Midnight PST to win! Only USA and Canada -- see my About page for my "rules." Oh, and check out DesignMom on my radio show tonight. WOO!

You Might Want to Sit Down When You Read This. The Cuteness is Incredibly Overwhelming.

So, we're sort of doing a handmade Christmas around here. So if your blog name rhymes with "The Blue Hurl" or "Bomb Son o' Gun" or "Brothermoosehouse" don't read this post. Okay so I didn't make them. Deb made them from my daughter's art. (Um, hi, Deb totally rocks). So basically I had nothing to do with them except provide some really fantastic DNA to make this adorable child. 

Edited to add at Deb's prompting: I did come up with the idea for it (so I did actually do something other than have sex with my husband and push this wonderful being out).

C'mon. That kitty cat makes me want to throw myself on the ground (that's a good thing).

Limited Edition Christmas Trees (hellloooo red ball on top slays me as does the pose that I have no idea how she came up with it but I'm just trying not to think about it).

They're cute on little boys too.

I've given most of them away, but I do have a few extras in a few limited sizes. I asked Quinlan what she would do with the money if I sold any of them and she said "buy stuff." I was sort of hoping to hear "donate it to help the women of Darfur" but not so much.

And if kid art ain't your thang, I can guarantee that Deb has something totally awesome that will still arrive before Christmas.

What Part of "We Have Bought All Their Presents Please Don't Send 6000 Plastic Toys" Is So Hard to Understand?

It's got to be the holidays since I'm not living with my in-laws anymore and yet it sort of feels like I am thanks to the two gigantic boxes full of presents we received from them yesterday.

And this was after we begged and pleaded, in the nicest and probably not nicest way possible, to please not send anything but a few gifts at most.

With them, you've got to be creative:

"Our kids are reaaaaaaaaaaaally allergic to plastic and they could die." (Partially true if they send Aquadots, but even the toy recalls don't phase them).

"We spent too much on our house so we can't afford batteries." (There's a tiny ounce of truth to that. Okay not really, but it's not a bad one).

"They just want to see you. They don't really care about presents." (A true statement actually, but they just don't really get that).

But really, we tried our darndest. And we thought we had won them over when they just sent us a check. But that was apparently just an appetizer.

I'm not complaining about generosity because these presents don't come from that lovely deep and generous place. 

I'm complaining about what has been three solid years of some of the loudest, scariest, and most annoying toys that one could purchase. I'm also talking about for the 3000th time just blatantly ignoring our desires and requests, not only for less toys, but also for them to check out some safer suggestions I offered them.

Plus, it's the first Christmas in our new home and it's first time we've actually been able to play "Santa" to our own kids without the in-laws bringing home the entire Value City clearance toy section, which is perfectly acceptable in most cases, just not for me.

The thing is, you just can't put anything nicely. And even when you do, they still don't listen.

Hence the fucking personalized matchbooks at our wedding.

Part of me thinks they believe I'm a heartless bitch who is pained by decorating for the holidays and buying my children any presents so they must make up for the fact by overdoing it.

The other part thinks that material things are the only way they know how to get positive attention and so they buy buy buy to get love.  

Don't get me wrong. I know they're grandparents, people. And as a compromise, I'd just open a few of them up and save the others for future occasions because I'm under the mindset that children do not need to receive an entire toy aisle's worth of toys at Christmastime.

But they're visiting. And so they'll have to open them when they get here. So my in-laws can bask in all their fantastic toy purchasing glory because you know it takes huge talent and skills to buy toys a kid will like.

So is there anyway for me to get out this?

And So This is Christmas... Cards

*Updated with Quinlan's Artwork. Thanks TNG!

Upon arriving home from what had to be a record long week, my husband asked me about the picture I used for our Christmas card. And since he hadn't seen them, it meant only one thing.

He had talked to my in-laws.

Now as you might have guessed, I'm not so much for the "dress 'em up in velvet and hoist them both into a white sleigh with a fake snow background" type picture girl. I'd much rather send a picture of them both screaming their bloody lungs out or running naked through our house.

If that's not Christmas cheer, I'm not sure what is.

But as you probably figured, my in-laws are the total velvet and sleigh types, complete with perfectly matching outfits that were painfully searched for at Boscovs or other such places.

And so when I sent out a beautiful card featuring art by my daughter and a cute sticker picture of them in their halloween costumes well I just about committed a Christmas crime.

Except they won't ever tell me. Nor will they say how cute and original my cards were. They'll just send some backhanded, passive aggressive message to me through my husband that no self-loving mother would EVER send a Christmas card with their kids in anything but their Christmas best.

That they just so happened to purchase (at least for my daughter -- I fended off the polyester and velvet for my son's sake).

So next year, thanks to an idea from Liz in response to this post, I'm going green and will be sending an e-card with pictures and offering a $1 donation to my favorite charity in each person's name (on our mailing list).

No actual paper card? Now that should reaaaaaaallly send them over the edge.

 

So, internets, what picture did you send with your Christmas cards?

 

Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

"Get off of me you wicked thing!"

The Topside[r] of Disaster

When exactly did we start taking our fashion cues from boat enthusiasts? I suppose if we all lived in Water World it would make sense. But then I would just live in a pair of flippers, because quite frankly I think they are actually more attractive than the new popular shoe of choice.

Sperry Topsiders.

Have you seen this madness?

I noticed them on a few errant teenage girls, but just chalked it up to the South (like every other questionable fashion blunder choice I encounter around here) and went on my way. But when I recently visited every 14-year-old's favorite shop "Journeys" (thanks to my three-year-old who couldn't take her eyes off the pink Vans) and saw the shelves stacked with them, my worst fear was confirmed.

They are "in." Or wait, is it "back in?"

Either way, it's pretty fucking scary.

Far be it from me to judge what has got to be extremely comfortable footwear. I mean, if almost every single 65 year old man in my family owns a pair and my heinously unfashionable dad lived in them, they've got to be light on the tootsies -- especially for quickly maneuvering from the bow to the stern of your yacht.

Exactly what young 16-somethings are looking for in a shoe.

But clearly if we're all looking to AARP instead of Bazaar for style hints, then why not go for shiny cordovan loafers with tassels? I mean those are at least barely attractive and somewhat flattering on old greasy men. But topsiders, docksiders or "boat shoes," as my dad called them, have absolutely no aesthetic appeal whatsoever.

None. Nada. 

But wait you say, what about pink? or better purple? Oh right, because a purple shapeless leather boat shoe with annoying leather laces that never stay tied is soooo much better. I might as well just go buy a pair of purple crocs. At least those were not popularized by the senior citizens of America.

An no offense to the great-grandparents of this world, but what's next? Reading glasses? Applique sweaters? Depends?

The next thing we know, these damn shoes will be back in style and our kids will be begging us to drag them out of the deep recesses of our closets.

Not that anyone I know *cough* owned a pair.   

The Hard Stuff Has Only Just Begun

I admit to whole heartedly believing that the haze of poop, drool, and what I'm chalking up to two-years of teething might be the hardest thing I've ever had to endure. In fact, aside from the amazing and frequent moments of pure and utter joy that I wish I could freeze in time forever, I'm often surprised that people do it again.

But the challenges of babydom are truly no match for what essentially was "just keep them alive and off your fancy carpet" to "oh shit they can talk back now and open the front door on their own" parenting.

It hit me one night during a morbid obsession of trying to figure out what would happen if for some reason my daughter found me injured and I couldn't call for help. And then I realized that perhaps I've been living with my head stuck up my whiny, hemorrhoid infested ass that just can't keep up with my almost running 10-month-old when really the hard stuff has only just begun.

So not to send myself into a complete and total panic that would involve me waking her up and teaching her everything on my newly constructed massively long list of everything she needs to know, I instead talked to a friend and put a highly recommended book on my reading list for the new year.

And then I searched the blogs, although I suppose teaching your kid your phone number and explaining how it's okay to say "no" to an adult are not the most interesting blog topics. But boy could I use some hilarious posts about how silly parents think a cranky baby is soooooooooooo hard until they realize their cranky baby is now a little cranky person who doesn't know where the hell she lives and how to wipe her ass.

Oh wait. That's me.

I am trying to teach her our phone number, to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle" in fact, to which she corrects me with the correct words. And we did have the private parts conversation, to which she told me that everyone can wipe her "bum-bum."

Perhaps we'll need a bit of work.

And I'll be honing the fine art of presenting this material (along with her father) in a way that gets her attention but doesn't scare the living shit out of her. Considering that I have the finesse of a large bull, that will probably be the hardest part of all.   

Too bad they don't teach you that in the birthing class.

If you've got suggestions, resources, assvice, or an extensive panic-inducing list of what your kid knows, feel free to share!

I'm the Mom to One of Those Kids

It has become quite apparent to me that I'm not only that mom, but I'm that mom to one of those kids. You know. The mom who says "no" exactly 17 times to a child that obviously does not yet understand the meaning of the word "no" but still believes he'll get it at least before she gets to 20.

I'd like to think it's because he speaks fluent Chinese and French, and therefore has had little time to master simple English.

But no, he's just one of those kids.

I'm certainly not one to label or single out children based on their behavior, but if I saw my little paper-eating terror disguised as a cute smiley baby I'd run.

Trying to put a diaper on him is like trying to put a diaper on a slippery hog, except no one would ever be dumb enough to attempt to put a diaper on a slippery hog. And trying to dress him in anything that involves more than one snap is just pure unadulterated hell, however I bet in hell, there are none of those high pitched glass-shattering "You're killing me softly with those 5,000 snaps" screeches.

He's figured out how to open the toilet bowl so that he can swish his hand in pee, toilet water, and wet toilet paper, and then slam the top down on his fingers about four times. He enjoys pulling hair, preferably both mine and my daughter's at the same time while laughing increasingly louder the more we scream. And don't dare take any dangerous items that might not necessarily be considered dangerous but when he throws, eats, spikes, or hammers them they become lethal weapons from his tight grasp or he will scream for very long and tiring minutes.

In the middle of a very crowded place for all people to see and judge you harshly.

I suppose if I had birthed one of those kids my first go round, I wouldn't be so surprised. But my daughter knew that paper was not for snacking but rather for drawing total and complete faces at 18 months old. And she'd much prefer learning the function of electrical sockets as well as how to spell them rather than sticking her finger in one.

But now I'm that mom running around after that kid. You've seen them, right?

Oh wait. Strike that. You've seen the fuzzy resemblance of a mom running after her children at playdates. Their ass never hits so much of a seat before they're running to rescue all small children, animals, and hell, toys from the tight fists of their child, all the while spouting apologies and excuses that are barely audible because they're mixed with "stop that, don't do that, put that down." They enter the room and immediately scan it for any possible device, toy, weapon, or non-edible (but extremely tasty) item before letting their child loose. After introducing themselves they do the pre-emptive "he's just very active and loves to be around people" speech which really means "hold onto anything of value sister because my kid is going to knock it to hell and back before you can say 'spinach dip anyone?'"

And even then the kid still ends up with carpet fuzz, a piece of a Pottery Barn Kids catalog, and some kid's hair in his mouth. All of which the mother has to scoop out while her child screams like an angry baboon much to the displeasure of the other moms who are happily discussing their new chocolate chip recipe.

And being that mom to one of those kids now entails protecting your older child and all of her belongings. And your house now looks like you've just been robbed because you can't even keep a ball of foam on your shelves because well, he'd eat that too. In fact, it wouldn't be so bad if you were robbed because then that would leave about fourteen less things for your kid to try to climb, eat, and run into.

On the plus side, your ass never looked better. Too bad you don't get to stand still for anyone to actually see it.

You Never Forget Your First Girl

"Look Mommy! You look just like that lady!"

My Vagina is Bigger Than Yours

I revisit the big vagina question today.

And guess what? YouTube reinstated our video and apologized. So when is Facebook going to get with the program?

Psssst. More free shit!

Be Careful What You Wish For

*I interrupt this post to send you here. The Environmental Working Group just released a study that notes high levels of BPA in almost all formulas. Forget worrying about plastic bottles. This is the real issue at hand!*

I reluctantly stopped to get gas before jumping on the freeway yesterday. I've learned quickly thanks to one long afternoon with two small children and only one teething cracker and a juice box in the Atlanta traffic that you must gas up prior to going anywhere, even if it's two miles home.

Screw snow storms. I need a survival kit for my ride home from the grocery store.

My only option to gas up between home to the highway is the "questionable persons" gas station, conveniently situated by two "Hot Sexy Naked Girlz" strip joints, meaning that on each occasion that I've stopped (I'm not kidding), I've seen some shady dudes pull up to a screeching halt while a scarily skinny and scantily clad dressed woman hops out, and runs across the street (or really, 6 lane road). That's pretty damn hard in a pair of clear plastic fuck-me platforms.

Clarification: It LOOKS pretty damn hard. I mean, I never ran across the street in my clear plastic fuck-me platforms, thank you very much.

Anyway, so I'm pumping gas, tapping my foot because as you know, that generally makes the gas come out quicker, and up pulls a truck behind my car with two thirty-something dudes, one shouting to me as he hopped out of his car pointing at my Mississippi tags.

"Hey baby! Are you from Mississippi? I never meet anyone from Mississippi around here. Because I'm from Mississippi! God I miss it? Don't you miss it? Hey, you here alone? Cause you know..."

Thanks for making me feel relevant, Mississippi, if only for one brief and very skeevy moment.

--

Free shit alert.

My [diva] Cup Runneth Over

I admit that after spending damn near close to what I think a new vagina might cost me on a variety of tampons and other personal purse accessories last week, I was almost looking forward to trying the Diva Cup.

Maybe it was because I too wanted to be a member of this secret society of divas, where together we could proclaim in solidarity "I've got a cup up my whacker. Word to your menstruatin' mamas" and engage in our secret society handshake.

Or really a fold and shove, vigorous handwashing, and then handshake.

I wanted to sing the tampon freedom song of Divas Across the World (thanks to Clare from Alaska on their website for this anthem):

Because of this Diva I don,
I am no longer a slave to the 'pon
It fills me with glee,
To know that I'm free,
And saving this world we live on.

I go through my day with ease,
There is no string there to tease,
It catches it all,
Before it does fall,
I now live without boundaries.

So now when I go to the John,
There's nothing for me to check on!
And it is so great,
To know that my fate,
Is not in a Kotex nap'kon.

Diva must have come from the gods,
I think they have the best odds,
To have made something great,
That seems so innate,
And all who know share applause!

And I want to wear my fucking Diva pin like all the other divas out there.

But then I saw the actual cup that I would have to stick up my vah-hoo-hoo, along with the directions that involved me folding it strategically and then "not putting it up too far because it might get stuck but it probably won't but if it does don't panic just push down on your stomach muscles [huh?] and then call our toll-free 1800 number [because you know you want to talk to some random operator about a cup stuck up your vagina]," I didn't have the balls to actually try it.

Or is it vulvas? or labia majoras?

See. I don't even know my own body parts. I cannot be trusted to shove a silicone cup correctly into my vagina.

So, I did what any real sorority sister drunk diva out there would do (so not to totally lose my diva pin privileges), and I gave the diva cup the real test.

 

So for alcohol, the Diva Cup gets a thumbs up.

Plus, if you can follow the lengthy directions and actually insert the Diva Cup in it's rightful place, it's sort of like a personal flask (at least the other 23 days out of the month).

(There are an enormous outpouring of positive reviews of The Diva Cup and if you're one with your vagina in an "insert a silicone cup that catches your blood" sort of way, then this might be the invention for you).

[The Great Breast Fest Montage is back up and running. Please view, post, vote, and favorite!]

A 5-day Binge on one Hell of a Hormonal Cocktail

I can generally keep my anxiety issues in check, but the lack of sleep, parenting alone, and attack ambush visit from my period have sent them slightly over the edge.

Okay. Let me try that again.

...have sent me clear off the deep end.

Let's just say I went from hearing a weird noise, to sleeping with the phone in my hand, to trying to remember where I hid the box cutter for protection, to writing letters to my kids for them to open at their weddings just in case I didn't make it.

So I didn't actually write the letters down. But I composed a couple in my head. 

Far fetched, I know, but it's how my mind works when I'm hopped up on hormones and all the other crap that's been going on.

No one told me how terrible your twice post-partum periods can get. I've had headaches and hot flashes all week (which I turned into menopause and a brain tumor). I, like a couple of my fellow bloggers, am still losing my hair and it's starting to bother me. And four boxes of various tampons later, I still can't find a fucking tampon that will fit my poor vagina or a pantyliner (God I hate that word) that actually does what it's supposed to do.

But on the bright side, my Diva Cup review is forthcoming. And it will be worth viewing. I promise.

*Thanks for all your comments last night. I didn't realize it would incite a near Saturday night blog riot. The issue for me is not totally about trust, but what I think is him fostering inappropriate behavior from this person. It would be one thing if he was a single dude and she was a divorcee' with kids and it was 1998. But it's 2007, and there's a woman and two children in his life. And quite frankly (because this is how I am), I don't like the way it makes me look -- like the wife with a husband who gets stupid ass text messages from some chick and has long conversations with her. Personally, I think she needs to get a life and I think he needs to tell her so. And then he needs to buy me some nice shit and give me the day "off."

The end.

Would it Bother You?

If your husband had a divorced female friend (never dated) who you have never met, that he talks to regularly on the phone and text, even though she once, last year, drunk dialed him and left a voice mail that I heard to the effect of "I miss you so much, I wish we could talk more, I miss how our friendship was..." (um, PS, he's married now!) and you were pissed, but he still talked to her, and she left him a cheezy "Happy Thanksgiving, Don't eat too much turkey and get a tummy [yes tummy] ache" text.

If your husband is home for the weekend and it feels almost exactly like you're home by yourself with the kids (like you are all week), except there are decidedly more dishes to do and you got to sleep in until 7:30am (but then he went back to bed until 10:30am) and you got a free kidless hour in Marshalls on a Saturday afternoon.