one line means NO


It doesn't matter at all that I already knew the answer was no; it makes no difference whatsoever that I have a full military installment complete with camouflage suits and nonoxynol-9 laced grenades and barbed-wire fences and little interest at all in the Geneva Convention stationed at my cervix. It's guerrilla warfare they're waging, keeping my borders safe. No sir-ee; you watch me sit for over a week with chemotherapy nausea, and you will watch me totally convince myself that I am pregnant.

I have a routine for this sort of thing:
  • Suspect that I am pregnant

  • Sit for a few weeks in complete denial (while throwing up and watching my boobs apply for their own time zones)

  • Get a test at closest market in the middle of the night

  • Take test in closest bathroom (I took 1of3's in the bathroom of a Ruby Tuesday's; home was just too far {a whole MILE away} to wait)

  • Confirm suspicions

  • Smoke a pack of cigarettes right then and there

  • Quit smoking, but pretend to keep smoking to remove any suspicions from home

  • Freak the fuck out for several days/weeks/months

  • Tell Josh right about the time I'm starting to show

This time I thought I'd do it a little differently. I told Josh I was worried, to which he said, "Hmmm", and I made him go buy me a test. That's more fun than sending them off for tampons, I tell ya. And, of course, I'm not.

And I'm out $15 bucks.

And, of course, I am totally convinced that I have a tapeworm or something. Seriously, I never get nauseous.

And surprisingly enough, even though I know it would be the single dumbest thing I may ever have done in my life, I am slightly disappointed. Why, I will never know. I just am.

Do you want to play a game?

Tonight I made shrimp wrapped in bacon for dinner. Actually, I made basmati rice for dinner, because I'm honestly too nauseous still to even think about eating anything else, but then I got to thinking that basmati rice doesn't actually constitute a whole meal and that I'd better have something with it and, oooooh, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend....

We had to call it quits when I moved back to Denver last summer, and let me tell you buster, I ached for him. He spun me around something crazy. He used to just sit there on the kitchen counter and look at me with that look, that "you know you want to....go ahead. Use me" look.

Meee. Oooow.

Well, we have rekindled our old flame and things are as spicy as ever. Perhaps a bit more. Absence, you know, it makes the heart fonder.

Wanna see him? I don't actually have a picture but I hear he's been done some print work lately. Hold on, I'll google him....

Here's a link. Yummy, eh?

Anyway, back to dinner. Basmati rice, not a dinner, something with it, annnnnd then I looked over at MC (we'll call him MC) and he seemed to want in on the action, so I tossed him a lemon, 3/4 of a stick of cream cheese, some garlic, a little Worcester sauce and some Cajun seasoning. And he whipped up a dip that would stop you in your tracks. And so, naturally, of course, it goes without saying, we absolutely had to have shrimp wrapped in bacon with it.

This, of course, means that I had shrimp and my kids had leftovers. They wouldn't even think about touching it.

I tell you this so that I can tell you this: You know how I'm always yammering on about what a good cook I am and how my sweet, angelic children will eat anything I give them? Well, you have no way of knowing if I'm totally full of shit or not, do yah? For all you know, I could be putting Lean Cuisine's on china. And so I decided that maybe I should back this up with something; I thought it might be fun, one day a week, to post the recipe (or at least the gist) of something I've made for dinner during the week and then maybe we could play a little "Did they eat it" game. We could call it "Rate the Hate".

Whatdya think?

Just stuff

I am still sick. I woke up a few days ago and didn't feel exactly like this anymore, and so I thought I was on the mend. And, in fact, I do think I am one my way to Wellsville. I finally swept my floors, although I almost bought a Roomba; yes, they were so bad I contemplated robotic intervention. I got the laundry done. I even made the 3 hour round trip drive to the bank (see, I am way too cheap a bastard to pay some dumb ass bank $50 to wire money into my account when I live all of 30 minutes from the American border. I'll do it myself, thank you very much). I was doing ok. Yes, my nose is still packed full of stuff the same color as this blog page, but what can I say? I like things to match. Yes, my tum has been upset all week, but I figured that had something to do with the packed nose and the post-nasal drip and a fairly strong gag reflex. But last night, oooooh last night, it all came crashing down. About 10:15 or so my stomach told me to take a flying leap and turned over several times. Now, I never, ever throw up. I have a stomach of steel plated steel. I can clean up puke, I can watch people bite the heads off praying mantises (which are an endangered species, people, and it's totally illegal to do it, but if you did, I could watch it just fine*). I only puke when I'm drunk and when I'm pregnant. Funny, one usually leads directly to the other and the both make me hack. Coincidence?

Anyway, I was not drunk and since I picked up one of these beauties**,



I know I most certainly am not playing host to any short people. But for some strange reason, right about 10:15 last night, I had to throw up. My kids have never actually seen me throw up before, and 2of3 sorta freaked out. Yes, honey, even moms throw up sometimes. And when they do, well, let's just say that Mr. Creosote ain't got nothing on me.

There's no point here. I thought I was better; I clearly am not. And now I'm totally afraid to eat. I'd rather listen to 7 hours of Kathy Griffin than throw up once.

On another note, I am thinking it might be time to change my email address. Unlike my incredible traveling blog here, I have had to same email address since the dawn of man. Which is fine, except that my email is the first 4 letter of my name and my boys names. Which is also fine, except it might be time to accept that I now have a third child and maybe start including her in some things, like my tattoos, or my jewelry, or my email address. And hell, the boys have their own email accounts now. Maybe I should just have one in my very own name? Maybe???

Maybe I'm not quite ready for that just yet. So I'll leave it up to you, dear readers. Do I get my own, shiny new email address or do I bank on the fact that I've got 3 good years before this kid can read and 7 or so before she gives a dingo's kidneys about email?

*Turns out, they're not. Bite away, dudes.

**Good lord, someone needs to post the chastity belt scene from Robin Hood, Men in Tights onto Youtube. They're ruining my blog vision!

Dear 3of3,

You suck.

Is there a particular reason you refuse to take a nap for me? Now, I know you'll nap for your daddy; no problems there at all. But your daddy isn't ever here and I am here all the damn time and you clearly hate me and will not take a nap and to that I say, "Dude, you suck."

Of course you'll nap for your daddy. Daddy doesn't run errands. Daddy plays Wii with you and is going to buy you a pony. Momma, however, has two birthday parties in the next 48 hours to shop for and, as you can tell from the last post, momma thought today was Wednesday when it is, in fact, quite solidly Thursday and will remain so for the whole rest of the day today. Momma missed a whole day and that means that we are running a little late for your nap, since your amazing, wonderful, superhero father left his wallet 30 miles from home last night and switched bank accounts and forgot to add me to the new one and that leaves us as a family unit with little choice but to drive daddy into work to get his wallet so we can buy presents for the entire band of neighborhood children, who all seem to have been born in the same 24 hour time span (God damn it I hope we don't live in the middle of some whacked-out cult), eating up a good hour-and-fifteen-minute chunk of our day, putting us home from the mall exactly 2 hours behind your preferred nap time, at least as your daddy sees it.

The thing here kid is that you napping for him and not me makes daddy a very smug man indeed, and gives him something to gloat about over the phone whilst I pull my hair out sobbing because a one-year-old has driven to the brink. See, honey, Momma is the domestic goddess, the sultan of suburbia, the baron of boo-boo-kissing and the to-bed-putter. Daddy looks hot in a tux. Those are our roles, darling, and you are screwing it all up.

So honey, it's time to take a nap for momma. Yesterday we tried nap after nap after nap and you ended up staying awake the whole day and screaming at me for a little more than 5 1/2 hours straight. My head hurts. Today you are going to scream at yourself until you go to sleep. Period*. Yes, you look very pretty in your new dress and oh my, those shoes are fabulous, but the lady at the Gap gave me a look I've never seen on an adult face before and I think that means your behavior could use some tweaking. Nap tweaking.

*Between you and me, kid, give it 30 minutes and I'll cave. I always do.

We'll call this one, "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta"

I think it's fairly obvious that Mr. Lady doesn't like pictures of Mr. Lady. Well, today, in the interest of stepping out of my own comfort zone, I would like to begin a new installment over here at my little blogedy-blog. Every Wednesday, no matter how much is pains me, I am going to post a picture of myself. Let's start with this one.....

I started with this one because, well, it's hilarious. It was also taken 17 years ago, almost to the day. That's my dad, my step mom, my brothers and my sisters. Please note the very very hot pants my brother is wearing. Interesting fact: my step mother is 29 years old in this picture. With four step children. Three of which are in their teens. Well into their teens. That poor, poor girl.


And if you so much as think about saying anything about my hair, I'll hurt you. I swear, I will.