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    It’s not really a wedding reception until…

    May 8, 2006

    1.  Someone, in a drunken stupor, dances into the matron of honor and knocks her over–which results in the back of her size Zero dress splitting open.

    2.  You are lucky to be sitting next to the person who realizes for the first time that the song is saying “she thinks my tractor’s sexy.”

    3.  Someone who has clearly never had a singing lesson gets control of the karaoke microphone and sings along to “Dancing Queen.”

    4.  The DJ calls it “the Magaraina.”

    5.  You convince your mother to dance to “It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah, It’s Raining Men, Amen.”

    6.  You dig all the camerettes out of the bag to make sure that EVERY SINGLE POSSIBLE SHOT HAS BEEN TAKEN–and you take the last 60 pictures of the drunks that haven’t gone home and just can’t say no to “one-more-dance.”

    7.  People begin referring to you as “the Paparazzi.”

    8.  People stop to ask if you are “the photographer” because you are taking 10 to every 1 of his shots and you have to explain that you are just the bride’s best friend from ages 3-6, until her father made the family move far away.

    9.  You offer the mother-of-the-bride a cocktail in hopes that she’ll dance on a table.  She declines, of course.

    10.  You get to tell the kids of the bride’s older brother that their father used to take ticks off the dog and drown them in alcohol (I think it was the good scotch) and the kids are grossed out.

    11.  You take a perfect picture of the bride and her two brothers, and suddenly you realize that you are old.

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    There’s anarchy afoot

    May 5, 2006

    There is a God in heaven because the Boo finally got his fourth molar. After all the wailing and knashing of gums/teeth, we are finally done if only for a little while.

    But with the molars comes the ability to chew.  Sounds good, right? 

    E:  Crunch, crunch, crunch.
    K:  Where’s the baby?
    D:  I don’t know.  (translation– ‘I don’t care’)
    E:  Crunch, crunch.
    K:  No really.  Where is he?

    I walked around the couch to find the Boo munching on the dog’s food.  In the old days, he would just suck on it.  Now he can take it all the way.

    K:  Stop eating the dog food.  The dog food that the dog is too good to eat.
    E:  Crunch.
    K:  Open your mouth.
    E:  AAAAHHHHHH!

    With that, the dog walked by with the carcass of the roaster chicken we had last night.  The chicken that the baby could not be bothered with last night.  The chicken carcass that I had thrown in the trash.

    Can’t keep the boy out of the dog food and can’t keep the dog out of the people food.  GGGRRRRRR!

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    Startling Realization

    May 4, 2006

    While according to this article that says I am worth a $134,000 salary as a stay-at-home mom, apparently I spend less time doing housework than a working mother.

    For those of you that have been to my house, this is not a surprise.

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    “Drivin’ that train, High on cocaine”

    “Trouble ahead, Trouble behind, and you know that notion JUST crossed my mind.”

    The first sign that you should just go back to bed and call it a day is when you find yourself waking up singing “Casey Jones,” especially if you don’t even KNOW what it is like to take cocaine.  Or how to drive a train, for that matter.

    We are a lazy people.  I would just like to blame the entire American people for that, but I’m really just referring to everyone I know. 

    My friend B was notorious in the old days for being able to find ANYPLACE, and as quickly as possible.  If she were on Survivor Exile Island, she would be able find the Panamanian equivalent to Neiman Marcus in under 30 minutes.  But now she has Alice, the navigator, who does all her work. 
     
    When B was leaving our house the last time, I watched her hit the Home button on the navigation system in her car. 

    K:  What are you doing?
    B:  It’s in the car.  I use it.
    K:  While you are going 200 miles, it only requires taking SIX turns to pull into your driveway.
    B:  Yeah.
    K:  You are going HOME.  The place where your parents brought you home from the hospital.  The place were you have spent the better part, and I mean BETTER PART of your 30 + years on this earth.
    B:  I know.  Isn’t it terrible?

    I can only imagine how many right turns the thing would make her do before she realized she was going in the wrong direction. 

    For me, I used to be able to park my Grandma/PoPo Grand Marquis in a compact spot in a parking garage.  Now I couldn’t park a Cooper Mini in an RV spot.  I don’t know what happened.

    And for my husband, it is his ability to find things.  Or as I like to refer to it, his TOTAL, and MINDBLOWING INABILITY to find anything.  This morning I was lying in bed, singing “Casey Jones,” and pretending that if I kept my eyes closed, maybe the day wouldn’t happen.  I’ve been staying up to late working on Baby Brewing, trying to come up with clever new maternity t-shirts.  Derek yelled up the stairs.

    D:  Where’s the bread?
    K:  What bread?  (knowing exactly what bread he was looking for but hoping that asking him would assist him in his ability to identify the object of his desire)
    D:  The Martin’s potato bread.
    K:  It’s on the butcher block table.
    D:  No, it’s not.
    K:  Oh, yes it is.  Right on top.
    D:  I can’t find it.

    Are you eyes shut?  Are you even in the kitchen?  The man could not find shoes if they were on his feet.  This is a new thing for him.  He used to be really good at, say, taking care of himself.  I began to think motherly thoughts.  “If I have to come down there, you are going to get it.  And I mean that, mister.”

    I stomped out of the bedroom with thoughts of murder.  Actually life-taking. Stomp, stomp, stomp down the stairs and around the corner.

    I could have found the bread with my eyes closed.  Right on TOP of the mess on the butcher block table, where I told him it was.  I slammed it down on the counter, effectively making panini bread.

    HELP! 

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    Great Expectations

    May 3, 2006

    I have discovered, yet again, that I am a half-assed parent.  Nana was here recently and she mentioned that the Boo is quite the little talker.  I told her that he didn’t speak.


    OK, so he says “THIS” and “THAT” and maybe a little “DAD” once in a while, but he doesn’t communicate.  Who was she kidding?



    She started a list.  And wonder of wonders, the kid speaks.  Who would have thought?  She made a list of all his words and a list of words we should practice. 

    I then spent the better part of last week with my sister, who was the proud aunt who witnessed the first word out of his mouth months ago–“school.”  Don’t ask.  He was born into a family of freaks.  My sister spent the entire week talking to the Boo and apparently speaking his language.  He carried full-on conversations.  I didn’t understand what the hell he was saying and my sister played interpreter. 

    So I decided to actually start listening to him.  Last night I was holding him before he fell asleep.

    E:  ‘is.  ‘is. 


    I gave him a kiss.  He turned his head to the other side.

    E:  ‘is.  ‘is.

    I gave him another kiss.

    Then this morning I told him that his eggs were hot. 

    E:  HOT! 

    And he started to blow on his food.

    Dude, I have to totally start paying attention to my child.  I think he can speak. 

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    Which is worse?

    May 1, 2006

    a)  taking a toddler to DC Coast, or
    b)  wearing jeans to DC Coast?

    I couldn’t find anyone to watch the Boo Boo Kitty today so I ended up schlepping him to my lunch date with my friend Dave.  Dave owed me a lunch because I convinced him to play hardball on salary with his new employer and the suckers bought it–giving Dave a sizeable raise that will promptly go to his child’s $35,000 college education next year.

    As I cruised into the restaurant 15 minutes late, I was greeted with thinly-veiled looks of abject horror.  Who brings a baby to a lovely restaurant for lunch?

    If I was Britney, they wouldn’t have looked at me that way.  Or Gwynth.  Or Katie/I mean Kate Holmes.  OK, maybe they would have looked at me like I was crazy if I was Katie/I mean Kate Holmes.  The Boo was asleep in his $14 stroller, but this did not stop the hostess from asking if I would like to put the stroller away.  I had a Diane Keaton/Baby Boom moment when I wondered if I could “Check” the baby in at the coat room.  

    K:  No, no, no.  He’ll be FINE.  Just wheel him under the table and he’ll never know what’s going on.

    But I went WAY out on a limb and asked if I could take the baby AND the stroller to my seat.  

    H:  Well you are seated upstairs.

    Hostess clearly did not have children, so it is unfair to blame her or mock her for not realizing that a stay-at-home mother who is no longer generating a paycheck will walk through FIRE to have free crab cakes as an appetizer and the pasta special with pancetta, mushrooms and red onions in a spicy tomato sauce, and that a set of stairs is small potatoes–a veritable bump in the road when it comes to obstacles.  So I shlepped the baby stroller right up those stairs.

    It was only then that I realized that maybe people weren’t looking at me because I was carrying a baby in a baby stroller up the stairs of a fine dining establishment but maybe it was because I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  Everyone else was wearly suits.  

    Suckers.

    My jeans might have cost $900.  Would that have made it acceptable?  So they really only cost me $29.99 (a fact that has been bugging me since I bought them because I don’t have $29.99 to spend on jeans–my husband brought it to my attention, however, that it was money well spent since I have worn them 6 days a week for the past 3 months).

    The kid was extremely well behaved, and didn’t create much of a ruckus (except for the snot bubbles–who takes a sick kid to DC Coast for lunch?).  It’s amazing how giving a kid a knife will keep him busy.  

    Before you freak out, it was a DULL knife.  It’s not like I was gonna let him run with it.  

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