Tonight The Cake Lady and I were sitting on the couch, talking about, well, I can’t say it on the internet because I really don’t need those kinds of hits.  She paused for a moment.

CL:  Isn’t it SO nice that your husband is upstairs watching our boys?

What I love most about The Cake Lady?  Other than the fact that she was helping me put ribbon on the 9 million shirts I am taking to the DC International Wine and Food Festival this weekend?  Her naivete. 

K:  He’s not watching those kids.
CL:  But he is up there in that room with them.
K:  And the room is only 10 X 10.  Yet still, shockingly, he has no clue what is going on.
CL:  You are joking.  What is he doing up there?
K:  He has his earplugs in and he is listening to some ridiculousness that he purchased online.  Like Animal Farm. 

As a side note, I asked if he remembered that Animal Farm is like an 80 page book so that it was basically like buying an episode of Dora the Whora, but he said he didn’t realize that until AFTER he listened to all 27 minutes of it.

CL:  He’s listening to a book?
K:  And has NO idea what is going on.
CL:  In that small room?
K:  With the door closed.

Not three minutes later, we heard The Husband bounding down the stairs.

D:  Did you people leave in a nudist colony in California?
CL:  Oh, no.  Is he naked again?
D:  They both don’t have any pants on.  They were sitting on the end of the bed so all I could see was from the waist up.  Apparently they took their pants off.
K:  What did I tell you? 

The best part. They probably took their pants off 45 minutes before. For what reason? No one knows. Who wants to even go there?

(oh, and if you are still waiting for all your free stuff I’m supposed to send you from past contests (HI, MELISSA!!), I’m going to send out all that stuff on Friday. You kids are so nice for being so patient!)

I remember getting into the limo with The Husband after our wedding (okay, lifting The Husband’s legs into the limo) and thinking, “This was the BEST wedding I have EVER BEEN TO.”

Saturday night’s Mommy Needs a Cocktail Party?  It was so awesome, it just wasn’t right.  It was almost as fun as my wedding.

I showed up late because I was trying to find my car keys to give to The Husband.  I drove up the hill to the most gorgeous house with the most gorgeous view.  (I also saw a deer try to jump a fence and not clear the barbed wire, only to bounce back on the road.  That was odd).  We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.  We are in Petroville.

I stepped into a Mommy Needs a Cocktail heaven.  MNAC was everywhere.  Kimberly is a mommy who needs a cocktail. And who knows how to create a pink Wonderland.
MNAC was on a cake, for heaven’s sake (which should now be mandatory for all MNAC parties–it was so cool).  I threw my crap on the table (sorry, Pache) and then Melissa, of Capitol Chocolate Fountain/Post Office fame arrived.  Tell me how often you send out a cheeky twitter and a month later 2 chocolate fountains are on the counter at your very first Mommy Needs a Cocktail Party.  Melissa kept telling people that she was sure I thought she was a stalker.  Let me just say that if you have a stalker, having a stalker who owns 38 chocolate fountains and makes homemade pink marshmallows to dip in the chocolate at your MNACP is the only kind of stalker to have.  We embraced as if we had known each other forever and then she proceeded to set up what became the focal point of the party.  The chocolate was so good I almost stuck my head in it.  She sells it online.  Go and buy some. 

Seriously.

Then the house was packed.  There were women everywhere.  DC Metro Moms?  Jazzercisers?  You name it.  People had brought tons of food and wine and there were cocktails everywhere.  Someone cracked open the Arbor Mist and it got a little crazy.  I’m just saying.  Lots of people brought stuff to give away and we had a raffle too.  I talked to so many fun women.  I ate too many items dipped in chocolate.  It was only when I looked at the clock on the microwave and read “11:38″ that my heart about stopped.  Kimberly was trudging past me and I grabbed her arm.

K:  How did you think this would go?
Kimberly:  To be honest?  I thought people would get bored at around 9:30. 
K: ME TOO!!!

Uh, no.  Because this party was a Mommy’s Night Out first and foremost, with kick ass stuff to buy.  It helped that Kimberly is the most amazing hostess ever.  And we had two chocolate fountains, for heaven’s sake. We raised $100 from sales to go to Vicky’s Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  I sold “Underpaid Kept Woman” shirts, a creation of the original Underpaid Kept Woman herself, Susie Sunshine.  I sold “Mommy Needs a Latte” shirts and “Mommy Needs Chocolate” shirts and “Mommy Needs a Margarita” shirts.  I sold “Mommy Needs a Cocktail” Martini Toast tanks in cocktail shakers, just like the ones the celebrities got back at the Boom Boom Baby Room.   Hostess gift structuring went out the window because this party so exceeded anything I had ever imagined.  Kimberly ended up with practically one of every style (plus the Mommy Needs a Vacation tote for the hostess-only).  It was off the hook.  It was so much fun.

But the best part about it?  Everyone had carpooled.  Everyone was responsible.  I think everyone had a good time.  We talked about dreams and goals and travel and jobs.  We didn’t talk about kids and husbands.  It was refreshing.  Reinvigorating. 

It was just a really good time.  Wanna see how good? 

You should totally have a Mommy Needs a Cocktail Party.  Think about it.

So we are downstairs sitting on the couches, drinking the coffee I made from the beans The Cake Lady brought. 

CL:  The boys are being to quiet.  We should check on them.
K: They’re FINE.

The fact that I am such a moron amazes me too.

CL:  Seriously.
K:  Listen.  We have nothing upstairs.  Not even nothing dangerous.  Just nothing. 
CL:  But we haven’t HEARD them.

The Baby was asleep but I decided to check on The Boy and His Lovah so his mother would feel better. I did the low crawl up the stairs and listened at the bedroom door.  They were going on and on and on and on about nothing.  I have no idea where they get it.  We went back downstairs to go on and on and on about nothing. 

K:  I told you. 
CL:  I know you did, but I don’t trust them.

10 minutes later they came down the stairs.  Without their shoes.  Which, might I add, is something I NEVER would have noticed.

CL:  Where are your shoes?
Harrison:  I left them upstairs.
K:  I’ll get them. 

I raced up the stairs and threw open the door.  My sinuses could not have cleared faster if I had stepped into the Roman baths. I raced back down the stairs.

K: Where is it?
The Boy: I don’t know, Mom.
K: Where is the bottle of Vick’s Baby Rub?
The Boy: Mom, what are you talking about?
Harrison: We don’t have it.

I snatched him up because he was closer and shoved his feet into his mother’s face.

CL: Yep. Where is the bottle?
Harrison: We didn’t do it, Mom.
K: Where did you put it on?
CL: Just tell us and it will be okay. We just need to know that you didn’t eat it.

Not exactly. It won’t be okay. I don’t care if you ate it. I just want to be sure that when I step into the bathroom, I won’t lose both feet from underneath me.

K: Yeah, what she said. Where did you put it?
Harrison: Just our feet.
CL: Good. Why did you put it on your feet?
The Boy: That’s where it goes.

Nana. We have Nana to thank for that one.

And the bottle is still MIA.

If your bored, you can also find me over at PBS waxing unpoetic about my former dating life and Pride and Prejudice. Leave a comment so I look popular. You don’t even have to tell me I look pretty…

The Virginia Wine Expo in Richmond was so incredibly off the hook, I can’t tell you. Sure I didn’t bring enough kids clothes (who knew) and Pache wanted to poke my eyes out every single time I sold something from the display (“If you keep selling the funny stuff from the DISPLAY, you won’t have any funny shirts LEFT!”) Which was utterly and completely true. But how can you deny a 7 month pregnant woman stuck with 5 drunks a little humor in the form of a designated driver shirt? Come on now. Girlfriend needs a little humor other than being stuck with the chick who yelled, “YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE AN AWESOME SHIRT? I’M HAVING TIGER WOODS BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Unless, of course, you are his wife. Oh, come on. It’s not even funny. But she said it right before she fell into the divider and almost took down a row of booths. That? Yeah, THAT was funny.

And the guy who came over and said, “Mommy needs a glass of wine? I don’t get it.”
You know, “Mommy Needs a Glass of Wine.”
“Nope. Don’t get it.”

Apparently he lives under a rock. And has no sisters with kids. Or female friends with kids. Or female coworkers with kids. Or neighbors with kids. Or has ever been to a Costco during suggestive-selling/taste-testing Saturday morning. Or has ever been to a mall. Or a post office. Or a grocery store. Dude has GOT to live in Clarendon.

Then there was the guy who said a) I had too many baby shirts and b) I needed a picture of a wine bottle opener and the words “I pull out.”  I tried to explain to him that since I sold maternity shirts, clearly the “pulling out” wasn’t effective.

My favorite has to be the girls who gushed on and on about the baby shirts to their boyfriends. It didn’t go over well. Actual conversation:

“Why are you talking about funny baby clothes? You don’t have a baby. We don’t have a baby. We aren’t married. We have only been dating for a month. Keep moving.”

About 10 times with only minor changes in wording.

I could NOT have done this without Pache on Saturday. We couldn’t sell the shirts fast enough. And then Rebecca was so cool that she offered to help me out on Sunday. It wasn’t as busy and it is a bit of a bummer being unable to drink at a wine fest because you are working, but it was still cool. Rebecca and I talked for hours and laughed so hard our sides hurt.  We ate a cheddar cheese ball.  It’s alway nice to hook up with fellow smart asses.

Next stop?  Think Pink.  Local and wanna come to Girls Night Out?  Email me and I’ll forward on the evite.

In two weeks, the Washington D.C. International Wine and Food Festival.  Come on by.  Or if you are local and want to help out at the booth, let me know.  I can always use an extra set of hands….

Today you turned 3.  All week we told you that you would turn 3 on FRIDAY.  I woke up this morning to 90% of your body touching mine.  Were you able to figure out how to get the last 10% there, I’m sure you would do it.  I played musical beds all night and when the music stopped, I was back in my bed.  Somehow you were there too.  I was glad because I wanted to be the very first person to wish you a “Happy Birthday.” 

You flopped around the bed like a fish out of water.  I finally opened an eye to see you staring at me.

K:  It’s your birthday today, Eat.  Happy Birthday!!
E:  Today is my birthday?  It’s Friday?
K:  Today is your birthday.  Happy Birthday, Buddy.
E:  Happy Birthday to you too, Mom. 
K:  It’s just YOUR birthday today.
E:  Well if it’s my birthday, we had better go.
K:  Where are we going?
E:  To eat BIRTHDAY CAKE FOR BECK-ESS.

Of course we are going to eat birthday cake for breakfast.  What else would we eat for breakfast?

You are such a piece of work.  You came downstairs to find your brand new Spiderman pajamas.  You promptly put them over your pajamas and haven’t been out of them today.  You added your duck slippers and an outfit was born.  Sure it got a few comments at Five Guys today, including the “see you later, Spiderman” which you promptly responded with, “SpiderBOY.  I am SpiderBOY.” 

We are living in a whole new world over here.  Long gone are the days of mispronounced words.  You only use “beck-ess” and “uwinders” for my benefit.  Just the other day I heard you ask your father for “underwear.”  Why you continue to coddle me is unknown, but greatly appreciated.  When the last “canks” becomes “thanks,” I imagine that a piece of my heart will break off.  Just a tiny piece.

You have gotten even more clever.  I can now almost see the wheels turning in your brain as you think through whatever your next activity of evil will be.  Your brother stands at attention, just waiting for your instruction.  You are very thorough in all your explanations.  Frankly I would get bored with all the minutia but your brother just waits for the go-ahead. 

You make me laugh all day long.  At least I can contain it.  Your father?  He just belts out laughing.  Today I walked into the kitchen to find the rest of Nate’s cake, licked clean.  As in licked clean.  Not one bit of frosting remaining.  On a two layer cake.  It was right down to it’s naked chocolate self.  There was a steak knife sticking out of the center.  You rushed to defend yourself in a manner that would have made Johnnie Cochran proud.  I mean, you had frosting in your hair.  And still you managed to prove that the knife was TOO SMALL FOR YOUR HAND.  You removed the knife to show me how it couldn’t have possibly been YOU that put it there in the first place. 

You have a heart of gold.  The other day when your brother was crying in bed, you began to sing to him from your bed.  You went through the entire alphabet song and kept telling your brother that he was going to be okay.  If the Baby cries in the car, you reach out and hold his hand.  And no one had better be fooled.  That Baby?  He’s YOUR baby.  Just last week you almost got into a smackdown with your cousin Lucy because SHE called The Baby “My Baby.”  You were mortified.  You rushed right over to me for my judicial authority to override her attempted adverse possession. 

You and your father?  Well, what can I say?  He really is your most favorite person in the world.  It has only been in the last month when you were sick that you chose me to take care of you.  Every other time you have been sick since you could speak, you have always asked for your dad.  Every night he climbs into that tiny bathtub with his two boys and plays in the bubbles with you.  Then it’s his job to put you to bed.  Many a night I can hear you talking his ear off even after the lights are out.  Until recently, when you woke up in the middle of the night and he was gone, you would cry out until he came.  Now you just cry “I want my mom and dad” as you wander down the hall and climb up in between us.   You then spend the rest of the night pressed up against me or curled around my head like a cat.  You have always been warm blooded so the first thing you do is kick the covers down.  Your father and I then spend the rest of the night trying to stay warm. 

You have found a new friend/cohort/lovah in Harrison who lives across the street.  The two of you have begun to act in tandem and now all four parents are worried.  We just busted you two for hoarding candy in the play room.  You both started talking at once and I feared for our future as parents.  It was like talking to two med mal attorneys.  I couldn’t even see straight when the explanations were done.   You are both three.  We are so screwed.

Your new word is “why?”  I’ll admit that after I give the proper answer 12 times, I then say “because I said so.”  It’s wrong.  But you are CRAZY with the questions.  I thought about counting your “why’s” one day, but I would be insane by 8:30.  You just want to know everything and understand everything and be a part of everything.  You actually panic if you think you are missing something.  I have absolutely no idea where you get this.

Buddy, you bring so much joy and action and a spirit of graciousness to this family.  Tonight you wanted to be sure that Harrison had his very own cake and candle to blow out when you blew out yours.  I teared up a little.  You are three and you just want everyone to be as lucky and as happy as you are.  You warm my heart and you warm my soul, Ethan Lewis.  And even when you drive me out of my mind, you are still my most precious, special boy.  What’s better than a boy who says “I love you more too, Mom?”

I <3 you, Ethan.  And that’s with all of mine. 

Yesterday the power was out for 10 hours. It went out at 5:35. I know this because the Almighty Maribel shows up at around that time. No sleep for the faint of heart.

Except there is only so much you can do without the power. Especially if your well is hooked up to the power. Damn it. When I finally got out of bed, the kitchen was spotless. I called The Husband.

K: Yo. Didn’t you tell Maribel about the water?

I could use my phone because I have an actual phone with a cord. They said these would go out along with VHS, but I’m no fool over here.

D: I TRIED. I thought she understood.
K: Oh, she understood after she drained the 50 gallon tank. And I think it’s ironic that I have to RIDE THE BOY’S ass to get him to flush but I’ve heard the damn toilet 3 times this morning. You gotta love it.

Thirty minutes later the phone rang.

K: Good morning, Cake Lady.
D: Well, I know your husband is preparing for the end of the world so I was wondering if your generator was hooked up to–
K: The oven? Nope. But by golly my chickens will stay frozen.
D: I guess I’ll be driving across town to bake my cakes.

Had we turned the generator on my chickens would have been frozen. Not exactly sure why that never happened.

So there we were in the dark and Maribel wants to do something. Anything. She had enough light to clean the grout with a toothbrush and she was fresh out of obsessive-compulsive cleaning tasks. I decided to do inventory.

If you are my accountant, pretend it’s January 1. Or, if we are pretending, let’s make it December 31 after close of business.

So I’m down in the basement bringing stuff up for Maribel to sort because it’s not like we can sort sizes by light of the cloudy sky in the corner sliver window. I’m alternating between taking shirts upstairs and eating Nate’s birthday cake that I have retrieved from the fridge on my one-time-opening-the-door-per-power-outage. It’s just that the Cake Lady’s buttercream frosting is just so damn good. I’m downstairs and as I grab a bunch of shirts in the dark, I feel something on my hand. Not wanting to get mocha frosting all over the shirts, I shoved my fingers into my mouth.

Except the frosting didn’t taste like anything. There was a lot of it and it had the same consistency, but no flavor. I walked across the basement. One, two, three, four steps. And it hit me. I ran around feeling for paper towels and began to spit out the contents of my mouth.

It’s not that the tan ink tastes bad. It just can’t be good for you.