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    Mommy Needs a Glass of Wine and a Valium Party

    March 31, 2008

    Friday night Kimberly picked me up for the Wild Wine Party that was at Sarah’s house. It took The Boy of all two seconds to smell a rat.

    TB: Where are you going, Mom?
    K: I’m going to a meeting, buddy. I’ll see you later.
    Kimberly: DAMN. That’s a good one. I just told my kids I was going to a Mommy Party.
    TB: Mom, are you going to a Mommy Party.
    K: Technically, yes. But really it’s a meeting (glaring at Kimberly).
    TB: I wanna go with you to the Mommy Party. But it’s just for moms?

    Because everything in my house is a discussion. Fastforward to 2 minutes later in the car when I started to bring up the directions to Sarah’s house on my I-Phone. Crap. I remembered a conversation I had with Sarah about the location of her house. Four doors down from my ex-boyfriend. The jilted one. The mean, jilted one. The creepy, mean, jilted one.

    Kimberly: We’re driving by.

    That’s why I love this woman.

    Moments later we are driving down the street. Except I can’t remember the address. And frankly, all the houses were looking the same. On the second driveby, I’m positive that wherever he is in that house, he knows I’m driving by. Even though we haven’t spoken in 5 years.

    So we head to Sarah’s house, right around the corner, and we consume lovely wine courtesy of Rony. Kimberly took a picture of all three of my chins and now we aren’t on speaking terms. The entire world would have photoshopped at least one, if not two chins out, but no. If it makes you feel any better, I have gone 2 days without beer and I’m down to two chins.

    Then I’m talking to Susan and she points out her sunburn to me. I ask her where she went to get it, bitch, and she says “radiation.” And laughs her ass off. Who’s the bitch now, bitch? She then suggests that we ALL go over to the ex’s house and heckle him from the front yard. Sarah mentions that she knows who he is and she has seen my dog that I never actually had in my possession. I ask how he looked. It was weird.

    We then decide, because it is at the END of the wine tasting and now we have tried 7 or 11 wines, that we should do a drive by. We rule out the Petroville Land Cruiser with the blacked out windows because, well, that’s how you get your ass shot in suburbia. Jessica decides that a nice minivan is the way to go. Luckily we have more minivans to choose from than a Chevy lot on Labor Day weekend. We get into the minivan and I tell Leticia that she needs to cover Susan’s body with her own because if Susan has survived cancer and a double mastectomy only to be shot by my ex, well then won’t we all feel bad? Jess mentions that she practically killed Susan on the way over with her driving so we pause to think about how horrible it would be if ANY of us got Susan killed.

    Susan? Laughing her ass off.

    This happens to be the first time that Stimey has gotten the memo about possible firearms. She lives in Montgomery County (a.k.a. MO CO), also known as the People’s Republic of Montgomery County. She’s trying to graciously figure out a way to head back into the house but now the undercover posse is ready to roll.

    Except if you drive down the street in a minivan with the door open, all the lights stay on and you get the hum of the “ding, ding, ding.” Stealth, we spit on you.

    I jumped out of the van at the appointed house and ran up to the lamp post I had put in and suddenly the motion detector light that I had installed lit up. Had I known that I was going to be committing a possible misdemeanor at this VERY MOMENT 10 years past installation, I may not have done such a good job.

    The girls are heckling me from the car and I start to get a little closer. I whispered, hoping the dog would hear me…”Beau, it’s Mommy. Come to Mommy.”

    I didn’t really. That’s what Sarah said I should have said as I was peeing in my pants in the front yard of my crazy ex-boyfriend’s house with the sound of the ‘ding, ding, ding’ of the open minivan door and the cackling of my friends. I freaked out, ran back to the minivan, envisioning a Little Miss Sunshine moment of jumping in the moving van. Except Jess is a mom and she was driving the minivan so we had to close the door, properly do our seatbelts, ect., before she started to move. We drove away, screaming out the windows, “she married up, her husband is SO much cuter than you.”

    Those DC Metro Moms? Those girls sure do know how to party. And Sarah? I would hang out with her in the hood any old time.

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    The Ten Year Nap

    March 28, 2008

    Every once in a while, someone will send me an email to review a book. I have to confess. I don’t read anymore. I was starting to wonder if I even remembered HOW to read. But when I got an email from Marjorie at MotherTalk about The Ten Year Nap, by Meg Wolitzer, I’ll admit I was intrigued.

    Amy and her friends went to good colleges and began careers as lawyers, film producers, bankers, and artists. But after they got married and had babies, they decided for a variety of reasons to stay home, temporarily, to raise them. Now, ten years later, at age 40, with their children older and no longer in need of their constant presence, and without professions through which to define themselves, the four friends wonder how they got there–in lives so different from the ones they were brought up to expect–and why they have chosen to stay so long.

    Brilliantly written, I found myself reading passages out loud to The Husband.

    Life with a baby was a primitive and powerful as life with a lover. You could never really tell where one body ended and another began; the lines were drawn as crudely as if they had been rendered by a child. When Shelly had nursed Joanne’s baby, they’d entered some strange territory of thought. They didn’t understand it, exactly, but they knew it was as bad as if Joanne had returned to the table and found another woman giving a @#$ * to Joanne’s husband.

    (word intentionally omitted to avoid 900 spam comments)

    Beyond the brilliant writing, I found myself having difficulty relating to the four upper middle class women who didn’t really find their identities until they all went back to jobs. After analyzing it to death, I realized that the real reason I couldn’t relate was a “stage of life” problem. They all got married in their mid-twenties. They had one child at 30 (except for the woman who had twins) and they never had any more kids. They were bored.

    Where I did relate was how they found it difficult to explain who they were to anyone who was not a stay-at-home mom.

    Just last week, as was describing my latest hairbrained scheme to a total stranger, the conversation of my law degree somehow arose.

    “You are licensed and now you make tee shirts? You. Make. Tee. Shirts. And you are a lawyer.”

    He laughed. I laughed too. Maybe I laughed because I never practiced law and didn’t identify myself as a lawyer (until I’m stuck in CLE classes every September). In retrospect I thought that maybe I didn’t think it was funny. Because it gets a little tiring having to explain that I never intended to practice law. That I just graduated 4 years ago. That I was using it as a resume builder for a worthless job I no longer have. That it is tiring that I feel like I HAVE to explain.

    What did I love about the book? The moment of realization for the stay at home mom about the working mom during a discussion on raising boys.

    “I obsess a lot about all of this too,” Amy said quietly, “and it becomes an exercise in self-flagellation.” Then she added, “In case you were wondering, that’s what I do with myself all day.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “Self-flagellation.” When Penny just looked at her, still not understanding, Amy mumbled, “Just a joke. About what women like me do all day. You know, the ones who don’t work.”

    “Ah.”

    Conclusively now, she knew that Penny Ramsey didn’t wonder about what women like Amy did all day without a job to go to. Maybe the idea of the supposed tension between working and nonworking mothers had been put out in the world just to cause divisiveness. Happiness didn’t seem to be determined primarily by whether or not you worked.

    Refreshing. Cause I am SO over the SAHM/WM drama. Over it. I have made my bed, I’m lying in it and I get to live with the consequences of my choices. Your choices? Yours.

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    Mommy Needs a Glass of Wine. Or Chocolate. Whatever.

    March 24, 2008

    Chocolate for parties

    Bad things happen when you hang out with the Chocolate Fountain Fairy Godmother (hereinafter referred to as the CFFG).  She has these hairbrained IDEAS and then you find yourself at the shop, making Mommy Needs a Glass of Wine chocolate bars and Mommy Needs Chocolate chocolate bars and Mommy Needs a Cocktail chocolate bars.  And did I mention the girl?  The martini girl?  She is TOO CUTE for words.  At a whopping 3 oz. of chocolate, you just want to lie down and die after eating her.  These little numbers.  Better.  It is too crazy.  Then you look at the clock and you realize you have 20 minutes to get home and it is gonna take you at least 25 minutes.  And her latest get-rich-quick-scheme?  I don’t even want to tell you.  I’ll tell you what.  If I end up on Oprah for that hairbrained scheme instead of the MNAC party scheme….I’ll be just fine with it. 

    But back to these chocolate bars.  You can buy them wherever you find Mommy Needs a Cocktail (looking at your house, SATGS!!! and hell, you people in Richmond at the Bizarre Bazaar the week after next).  AND…..if you have a MNAC party (or any variation thereof–for all you non-drinkers having the chocolate parties!!).  I know.  I KNOW!!!  Sky, you said to make Mama proud.  I can’t do any better than this….

    On a lighter note, my children are insane.  Remember when I said they were working together and using their collective powers for evil?  Oh, it’s getting worse.  The Baby’s skill level in walking is directly proportional to the amount of trouble the two of them get into these days.  Someone got the crazy idea to get the Cheerio’s down from the top of the cabinet in the dining room.  I don’t know why they were there, but needless to say, they are now all over the living room floor.  It seems that after The Boy took his handful, he graciously gave the rest of the COSTCO-SIZED bag to his brother.  His brother proceeded to take large handfuls out and put them in the seat of his highchair.  Apparently saving them for later.  Then he got bored with putting his hand in the bag (what with it being so exhausting) and he just began to shake the 50 oz. bag until the Cheerios got enough velocity going to fly out the top of the bag.  His father?  Thought it was brilliant.  While not his first (or second or even 10th choice), the dog appears somewhat grateful.  Sadly, I was on the couch watching the entire thing.  Yelling “NO SIR” with my outside voice but lacking the energy/conviction to, would it be “punish” him for his dastardly behavior?  All while he is laughing maniacally.  That one is smart.  Keep mom up all night and she’ll be too tired to rip that huge ass bag of Cheerios out of your hand while you send them cascading over furniture. 

    Oh, and Tony brought home some Jersey eclairs.  I have to roll to bed now.  Thank you very much. 

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    Thank God I didn’t have to explain why I hate Facebook

    March 23, 2008

    We are in the kitchen yacking about nothin’, and I asked The Cake Lady if she saw my twitter from last night.

    The crowd went silent.

    Pop Pop:  Um, I haven’t seen your twitter.

    You know how you are part of a conversation and you can start to see the conversation go south before your very eyes?

    “Twitter?  Do we have to talk about this?”
    “I thought twittering was something you did in the bathroom and was your own personal business.”
    “You girls are so embarrassing.  All this twittering talk.”
    “Show me your twitter.”

    It is Easter, for heaven’s sake.  He is risen, he is risen indeed. 

    This is what I get for twittering church.  But after my twitter explanation, we were on Godaddy buying a URL for the once professional surfer Pop Pop.  OldMalibuSurfer.com.  It’s not up yet, but I think we may have him blogging (and selling t-shirts) in no time.  Apparently Pop Pop was pretty dreamy back in the day.  At least that’s Bebe’s story. 

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    Of course, Internet, I could be 8 months pregnant and not tell anyone

    March 20, 2008

    God love you, Marelle, for calling me today and asking if I was the pregnant person in the photograph.  Because after our 900 phone calls over the last 8 months, you think I would have told you if I were with child.  Because I am so good at keeping secrets.  HELLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I don’t THINK SO.  Were it to ever happen again, you all would be the first to know.  Then I could actually find out how frequently The Husband reads my blog.  It could be MONTHS before he found out.  I might have THE BABY before he ever read my blog.  And how cute is the hostess swag for Mommy Needs a Cocktail Parties?  Huh????  Gotta have a party to get this cute little combo….Mommy Needs a Cocktail Party swag    Still trying to decide if this is hostess swag or if I should sell these.  What do you think?  Mommy Needs a Cocktail

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    Raising your chances that at least SOMEONE will feel the baby kick

    March 19, 2008

    Miss Elizabeth being mauled by 50 kids

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