Joe Camel's big comeback starts today

Hey, good news everybody! Butter is good for you!

Seriously, in case you haven't heard - and I'm sure you haven't because you are a slave to The Machine and all - saturated fat is good for you. It keeps you from being sick and helps curb cravings. You should drink whole milk, not skim milk, because the fat in the milk keeps the lactose from spiking your blood sugar. Who knew? Well, I did. And now you do. You're welcome.

What's funny about this is that I just joked the other night that by the time Marlo is a teenager, they probably will have decided that cigarettes are good for you. We all had a hearty laugh over that one. But now I'm feeling 95% confident that it will actually happen. So I guess what I'm saying is, smoke 'em if you got 'em.

Random thoughts on random music superstars

For some inexplicable reason, and without my requesting it, my brain has recalled about 50% of that Garth Brooks song "The River." At least I think that's what it's called. I'm not sure because I am not and have never been a Garth Brooks fan, which makes the fact that this song is suddenly running through my head even more of a psychological anomaly. Ironic, I think, that a guy who wrote a song all about not giving up on your dreams would give up on the whole alter-ego concept because of a failure to lose enough weight to look like a rock star. Or maybe it was that his dream wasn't really to be a creepy weird goth dude.

Well, I think that's plenty about Garth Brooks. Seriously. On a related note, I'm not sure how Lady Gaga can claim that Born This Way isn't a complete rip-off of Express Yourself, seeing as how I get Express Yourself stuck in my head all day every time I hear the Gaga song. But maybe that's because I'm a cranky old lady and Lady Gaga was two when Madonna was in the cone boobs and pinstripes phase.

It's okay, Gaga, I ain't mad atcha. Express Yourself is maybe one of my favorite songs and videos of ever.  I liked Madonna a whole lot better before she decided it was better to look like a freak than an old lady. I'm kind of embarrassed to look at her these days.

Birthday party cheesecake jelly beans BOOM

Here is an insight into my personality:

I have been thinking about Marlo's first birthday party for, oh, probably six weeks now. I wouldn't go so far as to say planning, because that to me indicates there is some sort of notebook or checklist involved. I rarely if ever go that far with anything. I am more of what a nice person trying to build up my self esteem would call "free-spirited," or what a detractor might call "flaky." At any rate, I have been looking up cupcakes decorated to look like owls, trying to decide if I want an owl piñata, figuring out who is going to be offended by which additions to the guest list, et cetera, since she was like eight months old.

But. Then. Today I got an email from one distribution list or another with the subject line "43 Weeks: Plan the Best First Birthday!" and I totally balked. How outrageous that with nine weeks to go they want me thinking about her birthday party! How dare they put that pressure on me to make it The Best. What do these people want from mothers, anyway? Don't we do enough? Now we have to throw a party to demonstrate our undying love and affection and if we don't do it well enough, well then throw all that nurturing and, what's it called - the keeping the baby ALIVE - out the window?

Anyway. Just a peek inside the old noggin for ya.

Cell block six, or as I call it, "the living room"

Our home now has that cozy "jail cell" feeling we were trying for, what with the baby gates finally getting installed.

The classiest part is the plastic we had to zip-tie to the banister, what with it's mid-century foot between the spindles aesthetic. No wait, the classiest part is the cardboard box we wedged in the four inch gap between the floor and the bottom rail. The funniest part is the fact that the cats don't seem to understand the concept of clear plastic and keep trying to get through the banister.

The bestest part is how I can lock myself and the baby in the kitchen and lock the dog out, or vice versa. It's going to help me regain some of my much needed personal space, since it is at such a premium lately.

Case in point: Marlo spent fifteen minutes marching in place on my foot and pulling on my pant leg yesterday. She didn't want my attention, she was just playing. She likes to have a foot in constant contact with my body. Someday I will miss it, they tell me.

When Irish eyes are smilin'

Happy St. Patrick's Day! As someone who has now lived over 1500 days with a very rare, very Irish last name, I feel like I get to claim this holiday for my own.

And my baby! My baby is a little Irish lass, after all.

I got my hair dyed a very Irish sort of red yesterday to celebrate. Don't worry, I'm not a ginger. And we put some of that leak detecting dye in the toilets, so they are festively green after urine is introduced.

All that's left to do is drink some Guinness. Why there is no Bailey's in my coffee I can't account. Oh yeah, I'm not one of those total alcoholic-type stay at home moms.

Funny, I can specifically remember last St. Patrick's Day, and that Marlo was kicking me HARD all day. Funny that she used to live in my belly. She wouldn't fit so good now. She didn't fit so good then. I need to go see one of them Chinese doctors and get a couple inches added to my torso for the next one.

I'd hate to be the fat one

I'm trying to keep an open mind...but those Sister Wives creep me out.

Or maybe it's that a grown man named Kody creeps me out.

I don't think it's the polygamy, prima facie. I think it's them.

Developing story. More at 11.

The return of an old friend

I kind of hesitate to write about this out on the open internet (I wrote "interweb" the first time because I invented that term, but since everybody uses it now, I decided it is lame). I hesitate to write about it using even cute, cliched or clever euphemisms. I mean, after all, I have no idea who reads this blog. I probably have at least one stalker who reads it, and god knows he or she could be some crazy pervert who will totally get off on this information.

So let's put it this gentle way: I have received confirmation that I am indeed eligible for another pregnancy.

I was a little glad to, um,  get the news, actually. The only alternative diagnosis was that I was going bat shit crazy. I forgot what it was like to be a member of the fertile population, what with the mood swings. The anxiety. The stuffing of the mouth with as much sugar as possible. The adverse reaction to alcohol (see last weekend's hangover). The difficulty concentrating. The vague feelings of discomfort - slash - possible imminent death. I only started to connect the dots yesterday afternoon, and then lo and behold - by bedtime it all made perfect sense.

So what's the first thing a previously believed to be bat shit crazy woman who now knows she's just fertile again does? Why, naturally, check the online due date calculator to find out when the baby would be born if she went ahead and got knocked up again, of course!

December 17th. If you were wondering.

An Open Letter to Japan

Dear Japan,

I drafted a post about your awful mess, and how it is affecting my personal philosophy, but I think it might be a little soon and a little raw for me to say anything that might sound glib. So I'm shelving it for a few days.

Needless to say, as stupid as that is to say before saying something, I am rooting for you, Japan. The image of the person on the rooftop, waving the two pink umbrellas at the rescue helicopter is to me the perfect representation of everything I love about you. I plan on bringing some money to your economy someday in the future, once you get all cleaned up and feel ready for visitors. And perhaps invent some sort of tsunami-prevention wall device. If anybody can do it, it's you. Look at what you did for toilets, after all!

So much for not sounding glib. But really. If I ever prayed for anything other than my own interests, I would be praying for you.

I'm sorry. I guess I just can't help myself. I do love you. My world would be a much worse place without all that you bring to the table. Especially Pocky sticks. And your game shows.

Fondly,

Tori

Cookie Monster got a raw deal

Feeding Marlo is a lot more complicated and less fun than I thought it would be. It's been an eye opening experience, for sure. All of a sudden I realize how weird it is to eat a bunch of crap food! How do we expect to live without nutrients in our diets?

I mean, I think I eat better than most of America. I don't, for instance, consider french fries to be a vegetable. But then again, my coffee is loaded with vanilla syrup. There are both Oreo cookies and M&Ms in my cupboard. But also Swiss Chard in the crisper. My bread is sourdough but my rice is brown. I have two fast food restaurants I eat from occasionally, but never McDonald's. You get the idea.

Actually, speaking of McDonald's, do you know I had my first McDonald's cheeseburger when I was 22 years old? That's something my parents did right. I don't think my parents ever took me there, I think the only time I had it as a child was at other kids' birthday parties. I remember going to Burger King once. We did go by Wendy's after school a fair amount for a Frosty, but it was still a treat, not dinner. Every once in a while, my mom would get a craving for fried chicken and we'd go to KFC. Point being, fast food was always a sometimes food.

But then, my parents also let me and my sister eat cookies for breakfast on weekends. Which is why I'm not freaking out too much about letting Marlo have sugar. I know plenty of kids who aren't allowed any sugar and they suck. Kidding! I mean, I don't see a huge difference in behavior, weight, fitness or intelligence between the kids I know who are allowed sugar and those who are not.

For now, I'm still sweatin' it. I am reading quaint and outdated passages in Super Baby Food advising that I will be able to find organic milk for my baby at the natural foods store. I am trying to cram as many vegetables as possible into the applesauce that is her true preference. But I'm telling you, I have a new understanding of those women who breastfeed their eight year-olds.

for your consideration, mom of the year committee

Let me tell you how darn inconvenient it is to have a baby who can move, y'all! Just this morning I sat down with my coffee and barely got to read any of my email before she went and pulled Husband's laptop right off the side table (where he had left it well within her reach, I might add).

Oopsies.

Then she went careening off to the vicinity of the stairs. There's no gate there yet. We're a little behind on the whole "babyproofing" thing. We were going to go get a gate yesterday, but Husband was all mad at me for being hungover and my punishment was that I was not allowed to go to Babies R Us. Or rather, he was at full annoyance capacity already and couldn't take Babies R Us on top of everything else.

I would like to state for the record that the worst of my hangover crimes was that I curled up on the couch and watched three episodes of Top Chef AFTER feeding the baby breakfast and making a quiche for ours. And serving my husband his coffee. But whatever. I'm not bitter about it or anything.

The gate is the last piece of the puzzle, and then I think the living room will be relatively safe. I've already got the foamy stuff on the hearth, plug covers and all that jazz. I did just remember that there is a low drawer full of matches that I should probably go ahead and empty. But other than that, once I have the gate I should be able to get back to ignoring my baby like I did when she sat in one place all the time. And that's really the point, isn't it?

It's like a subscription that auto-renews

I have something to say that might have you questioning my sanity. But I'm going to say it anyway and then try and explain myself out of it.

I just now realized that Marlo is going to be more than a year old someday. Like I just realized she is going to turn 13 months. And then 14 months. And then 15 months. You get the idea. Despite the fact that we've been discussing 529 accounts and talking about how old we want Marlo to be when she gets a sibling, I just now managed to think of her as a more-than-one-year-old.

Not really the first time this has happened, either. I had no concept of her ever being older than six months old, back in the days where she was just a pooping, spitting-up blob. Babies who were six months old sat up and played and crawled and made word sounds. Funny that I didn't think she was a blob back then. But now that she's a cruising, crawling, social butterfly of a little menace, I realize how totally boring she was. By comparison! Not at the time.

The Menace in action

So I guess what I'm saying is that I get the abstract concept that Marlo is going to grow up and be a real person...but the concrete reality hits me in the face incrementally. I am going to have a toddler in less than three months. Holy Christ. Didn't I just have that baby? 

And no, this navel gazing was not one of my great post ideas. You're welcome.