Mama Still Wears Gucci!

And With the Good...

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 03:39:00 +0000

So comes the bad.

James got a job. We found a house. We're moving. I couldn't be happier about these things. But now my excitement is put on the back burner as back into the reality of health issues, preemies, and autoimmune disorders I am thrust.

Once again Ella B. is showing marked symptoms of HS Purpura. Ugly purple mottled bruises are snaking their way up her tiny little legs and scaring me to death. Again.

So now the vigil begins. We watch for bruising along the spine. We watch for internal bleeding. We watch for dehydration. We try to figure out what infection has triggered this flare up. We pray it gets no worse than this.

We can do this. We can do this. We can do this. If I keep repeating it, it will start to feel true. We've weathered this storm before.

Back on Top

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 15:16:00 +0000

It's an amazing feeling to be able to breathe. I didn't quite realize just how shallow and panicked my breath has been for the last eight months with everything just piling on my chest like a physical weight. The weight continues to lift in small portions and each time I can breathe deeper, fuller. The air is sweet. It fills my lungs, finally, as this weight is lifted, and I am tempted to believe that this last better part of a year spent in such a drastic lifestyle change really hasn't been that bad. It's easy to think things like that when you can breathe.

Meet the newest Electronic Warfare Engineer at Edwards Air Force Base, my friends.

I'm sure he'll appreciate my picture choice.

So we're moving. To California. Soon. Right after Christmas, I think. James found a house while he was there last week, and so I have to trust it will meet my expectations. Inject silent scream. Actually, it looks very nice from the pictures, and I'm just so happy to have this particular weight off my chest now that I'd live in any manner of things. Not a tent, though. It would have to have four walls and a roof at least.

I've already gotten referrals to more than on pediatric orthopedic surgeon in Las Angeles (we'll live about an hour outside the city) and I'm on the hunt for a pediatrician and a preschool. Inject silent scream in reaction to holy shit my son is going to preschool in the fall. I am thrilled to be able to focus on these things without the weight of James being out of work crushing me to death.

There is, however, one tiny little drawback, but I think I can deal with it. Mr. Top Secret Security Clearance now answers every single question I ask him with "It's classified". Observe.

Me: Did you remember to get milk?

Him: It's classified.

Me: Did you get a movie?

Him: You're on a need to know basis and -

Me: Let me guess -

In Unison: I/You don't need to know.

Still, if that's my biggest immediate worry, I think we're on the way to being back on top.

Mean Mama Monday

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 03:48:00 +0000

Before you ask, the answer is "yes". If all my friends jumped off a cliff, I would too. Which is why I'm creating a blog thing-y, complete with a MckLinky, that I hope you will play along with. I'm practically the only blogger on the whole internet who doesn't have one, so. I might be kidding myself here, with how much I think you care about my feelings, but please participate. You know, so I don't have to find a cliff to leap off of.

So here's how it works. Mean Mama Mondays is a vehicle for you to divulge the times when you've either A.) totally effed it up with this whole "child rearing" thing, and/or B.) done something totally awesome (in your mind) that your kids totally hate, or would totally hate if they're too young to know you've done something totally embarrassing/mean/unthinkable. Read mine. I'm confident you'll catch on quick. Make sure you link up. Because I'll know if you don't.

And don't forget about the button. These things are no good without a button.

I have been taking shameless advantage of Joshua's piss poor negotiating skills. For example, when it's time to leave the library I'll say, "Josh, five more minutes and then it's time to put your coat on and go home!" And he'll cock his head and think about it for a minute and then go, "How about...two minutes? Not five minutes, Mommy, TWO minutes." And I totally let him think he's the one coming out on top.

Sometimes I blame things on Ella who, if you don't already know, is not quite eight months old. It's a little early to hold her responsible for things, but when I blame her for, say, spilling that cup of water on James' phone? I don't get in trouble. And she can't. Because she's a baby.

I let Joshua watch King of the Hill before he goes to bed. He calls it "Bobby and Boomhauer". It's shameful. He loves it. It's a cartoon; there are worse role models than Hank Hill. You can choose to like it or bite me.

So...get the idea? Good. Now DO IT. And if you're not a mom (perhaps you're a "dad" or a "woman without children") you can still do this. Just please don't screw up my alliteration, OK?

Mean Mama Monday. Everybody's doing it.

Stupid Fragging Aliens

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:25:00 +0000

I had this really clever little intro all worked up in my head about how it's so wonderful blah blah blah that it's Friday blah blah blah because I get to do Friday Fragments blah blah blah, but it's a little hard to type because my son was kidnapped by aliens last night and that kind of occupied my time.

I can still link to Mrs. 4444, though, and tell you to visit her for more...

So, yeah, my son was kidnapped by aliens and the aliens were kind enough to replace him with a prototype remarkably like the original. There's a few kinks to work out though, because I know that MY son would never to this to my computer during the FIVE MINUTES he was alone in the living room while I was making a bottle for Ella B.

The damage? Eleven missing or exploited keys, significant cosmetic damage, and a serious dent in my ability to type faster than three words a minute.

Dear Aliens,

I appreciate your need to study the human species, I do. But I would like my son back, please. I recommend someone that nobody would miss like Tony Danza, or someone that everyone would like to see just disappear like Rachel Ray, to take his place.

Best,
Josh's Mom

I went to Sam's Club today and the check out lady really wanted to kiss my fat ass. I know this because she raised her eyebrows and smirked when I only purchased Super Pretzels and a case of Nutty Bars.

I had a HUGE Diet Coke crisis last night. I realized that I only had one left and since the kids were already in bathed and ready for bed, I had to get my mother to watch them while I ran to the store. Because you don't even want to KNOW what happens if Mama runs out of Diet Coke.

I had a Super Pretzel and a Nutty Bar for dinner tonight. I love being a grown up.

The fragments have to be cut sadly short because, well, the alien copy of my son destroyed my keyboard, and you'd be surprised how many "n", "m", and "c" characters you type in an average sentence. It's a good thing I don't really know what the other eight missing keys are for, else I'd really be in hot water.

I Hate to Tell You, But It's Over

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 04:27:00 +0000

Dear Dr. Phil,

I'm sorry, but I think we have to break up. It's just, well, you kind of drive me insane. I have given you chance after chance, mainly because I understand that stay at home moms are supposed to be glued to the screen when you and your mustache are talking.

Since I hate Oprah with unbridled and slightly irrational passion, I cannot abide soap operas and I need something to fold the laundry to, I've tried, really tried to make it work with you.

Unfortunately, though it pains me to say so, you're not living up to expectations. You don't agree, but you can't change what you don't acknowledge, Dr. Phil.

So it's over. I want to say "it's not you, it's me", but we both know that's not true. Don't worry, you'll find other - less picky - women who will be more willing to take in your jack assery with eyes wide and heads nodding. She just isn't going to be me.

I just had to put some verbs in my sentences vis a vis our relationship, Dr. Phil. You understand.

Best,
Not This Housewife, Not Anymore

Is it Just Me?

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 05:26:00 +0000

It has recently come to my attention that there are times when I really enjoy having others think for me. It saves me from having to make the tough choices like how to arrange the furniture or what to write about.

As to the furniture? David Bromstad, I'm looking at you.

For the blog cop out, everything falls to Hallie at Wonderful World of Wieners and her new creation, "Is it just me or...?"

Is it just me or...is David Bromstad smoking hot? (I'm still looking at you, David. Don't worry, not in a creepy way, just in a way that makes me want to stand outside your house with a boom box or carve your name into my arm.)

Is it just me or...does Jonathan Hillstrad REALLY need me to cook for him and his crew on the Time Bandit?

Is it just me or...does Jon Gosselin get the Douche of the Year award?

Is it just me or...was this the greatest blog post in the history of time?

The Art of the Dignified Exit

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 16:14:00 +0000

I went to a Chippendales show with my mother over the weekend. I'll just give you a moment to let that sink in.

Chippendales.

Me.

With my mother.

Considering my oft discussed prudish tendencies, fear of "body words" and general distaste for anything clothing is meant to cover, it's more than passing odd that I went. With my mother. But, and prepare yourselves for further shock here, when we went to Vegas for New Years a few years ago, my mama and I, we went to The Thunder From Down Under. Same thing as Chippendales but with real live authentic Australian men. So this was not my first rodeo. So to speak. I don't know if it was Vegas, I don't know if it was the nineteen dollar cocktails (of which I had a few - I miss having money. Sigh.) or what, but I was able to overcome my crippling sense of shame and enjoy the show. Quite enjoyed the show, actually. I appreciated the, um, athleticism? Of these burly Australians, which of course I would have done regardless of their state of dress. Cough.

I've never seen the Chippendales in Vegas. So I could be making a rush to judgement here. But these guys? The traveling troop they send to Cloquet, Minnesota population 4,012? Sucked. I mean sucked. They couldn't dance, a few of them couldn't have been a day over 18, and they were just...dumb. It's not like you can expect these things to be tasteful, but the vulgarity in this show was really over the top. I didn't appreciate the Douche Patrol parading around on the stage. Sorry. We left early, actually, and threw away twenty bucks into the slot machines. Much more entertaining, and no cause for burying my face in my turtleneck.

We were still there when the show let out, and the ladies room was flooded with scantily clad women applying six more pounds of make up because they thought, apparently, that maybe some of the "dancers" would see their garish faces and think, "Ooh, I'm taking Face Paint up to my room. That clown face is HOT". I made this comment to my mother, and apparently my voice carries. I started a girl fight. You haven't lived, my friends, until you are at a strip show with your mother and one of the drunk, haggard audience members attacks you for something she overheard. It was awesome.

Here's how it went down.

"You talkin' 'bout me, Fat Bitch?" She was like an inch from my face and I have this *thing* about germs if you haven't heard.

I plucked her sleeve to pull her away from me, dusted my hands off, and said, "I didn't realize you heard that. It was a private conversation."

"You jealous, Fat Bitch?"

"Of...?"

"They not takin' your fat ass home, that's fo SHO!"

"Ok, well that's true. But first let me let you in on a couple of secrets. One, you're white as a sheet. Don't talk like that. Two, I will take being a fat bitch over a skinny whore any day. If you'll excuse me."

So then she throws this gem at me whist I'm walking away, which I will admit, did get the best of me for a minute because, well, you'll see.

"You don't even RECO'NIZE it, but you just gave me a compliment!"

I halted my retreat in stunned silence. She liked being called a whore? I'm going to have to bring my insults into the 21st century apparently. But then she reco'nized what she said.

"The skinny part I mean! You know what I mean! I ain't no whore. You get your fat ass home ALONE and I'm going upstairs with one a'dose MEN!"

I hope I'm conveying the faux accent well. There's no way it wasn't feigned, we were at an Indian casino in MINNESOTA. Anyway.

It's really hard for me not to get the last word. I don't let things go easily. So rather than take my fat ass home as she suggested, I turned around, walked back up to her and said, "Let me tell you a little secret, sweetie. You clearly haven't picked up on this, but based on the fact that these men earn their living dancing around in neon thong panties with each other, I'm much more inclined to believe they're taking one another to their rooms. So it doesn't matter how skinny or...available you are. Sorry to burst your bubble."

So the show sucked, I got into a pissing match with a drunk and slutty (yet skinny! I'll give her that!) twenty something, and I didn't win a dime in the casino. But I walked away from my fight in the bathroom chins held high in victory. I'd call that success.

I Won. I am the WINNER.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 15:05:00 +0000

OK. I'm totally seriously. This was the best contest ever in the history of contests. Just ask Tracey at Just Another Review Blog. She's the one who hosted the contest, so she would know. And plus then you can visit her at her regular haunt, Just Another Mommy Blog, because I told you to. And I'm the winner, which means I am the superior human. So you have to do what I say. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. But before you do ANY of that, feast your eyes on the prize.

I won the spring collection of these gorgeous baby clothes by Jeanine Johnson.

I'm really glad I have the spring line instead of anything for winter, because it's going to be awhile before they fit Ella B.

At seven and a half months old, she now weighs nearly twelve pounds, measures a full twenty three and a half inches long (measured to her long leg - twenty three inches exactly to her short leg. Courtesy the hip dysplasia...K - getting off track. Longest parenthetical segue ever) and she wears a size "newborn" or "0-3 months" though a lot of the "0-3" things still fit her pretty loosely.

So while she looks perfectly normal to me, whenever I see another baby her age (or younger) that's twice her size or clothing that should fit her this age I realize that, well? I realize that my baby is perfectly normal and everyone else's is a mutant.

But they WILL fit her sometime, hopefully by spring.

And even if we have to wait a little longer than that until she can wear this (with these ADORABLE pink Polo shoes I already had)...

Well, that will probably be just fine because we could very well find ourselves soon in warmer climes...

Stay tuned.

Fraggenheimer

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 14:34:00 +0000

Finally, it's time to phone it in here at Mama Still Wears Gucci and post some little snippets of awesome that couldn't find their way into my long, rambling, sometimes incoherent regular posts. The fact that these are always my most popular days in the blogosphere should tell me something, but if there's one thing I learned from all those years studying for a political science degree, it's how to ignore reality. So I'm not going to let it bother me that you only like me in little tiny snippets. I'm going to bury my head in the sand. Now then. It's time for some sweet linkage to Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time for more...

I shit you not, the last three Fridays in a row when I've done the link to Mrs. 4444's blog, I've first typed out Half PASSED Kissin' Time, looked at it for a few seconds, felt something was wrong, been unable to figure it out, shrugged and moved on, and then eventually realized I'm an idiot. Today was not an exception.

As I type this, I'm watching Sesame Street with my son. I think if I had to choose a muppet to marry, it would definitely be the Count. He's titled (I've always considered myself a de facto member of the nobility), he's probably rich because he dresses pretty well, he can sing, and he wears a cape. On reflection, however, I'm not so sure the Count would want to marry me. I mean, he's forty, rich and never married, and he wears a cape. Might be a little light in the loafers.

So my second choice would have to be Telly, because he's fuzzy, so he'd probably be very warm and my feet get cold a lot. Plus, he loves triangles and he's very particular about things. This tells me he's got a touch of the OCD, and so we'd get along famously.

I've watched entirely too much Sesame Street.

I'm pretty pleased with what the pediatric orthopedic surgeon said about Ella B. Well, kinda. It leaves me with some hope that maybe things won't be that difficult to manage. Apparently when babies are born, their hip joints are cartilage rather than bone, and that cartilage hardens into bone somewhere between four and five months old. Ella is seven and a half months old and she's still all cartilage. It's odd that her development in that area is behind even her adjusted age, but not all that concerning. What it means, actually, is that her hip dysplasia might be easier to treat. As her hip joints begin to harden into bone, we may be able to put her in a brace (rather than surgery and a body cast) for a few weeks to direct everything into its proper place. We don't know yet; like so many medical issues with her it's all a game of wait and see. Still, any sentence ending in "might not need surgery and a body cast after all" is alright with me. I'm putting that worry on the shelf for another month until we go back to the doctor to take more X-rays and have more ultrasounds to check her development progression.

I don't really want to say much yet, because it's not totally extra super promise promise pinky swear for sure, but I think we're moving. Because I think James finally has a job. He leaves Wednesday for a four day "getting to know you" deal at the place where I'm 98% sure he'll be working within a few weeks. They haven't made him an offer yet, but I have to believe that's coming. They're not going to spend all that time and money to bring him out there for four days to say, "Gotcha! Enjoy your continued unemployment!" So I'm going to withhold further details until we know for sure, but the light at the end of the tunnel is getting much brighter. Please don't let that light just be a train coming...

I've been baking and candy making like a madwoman the last few weeks. So if I have your address and I like you, you're probably getting something edible for Christmas. It'll be fresh though. Well, for most of you it will be fresh. There might be a few people I'm obligated to send gifts to who are getting the crap I screwed up last week. Ha! Enjoy your crap in a box!

Ahem. Excuse me. I'll never get the Count to marry me with unladylike behavior like that. Assuming he's on the market.

Mouth. Stupid, Stupid Mouth.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:38:00 +0000

I had one of those moments in the library with Joshua the other day. You know the ones. The ones where you wish you could conjure a pot of boiling hot lava to jump into? The ones where if someone close to you would only be so obliging as to place a gun to your head, you'd happily pull the trigger? The ones where you wish you were small enough to be able to just start playing with something and pass yourself off as one of the toddlers? Yeah. I had one of those.

Josh was playing with the train set with this boy who was about his age. This boy's mother was giving me the stink eye for sanitizing the toys with Lysol wipes before I let Joshua play, but I ignored her. If someone saved my child's life, whether it was by spiriting him out of the path of an oncoming vehicle or killing microscopic beasts intent on using him as a host for breeding their evil little armies, I'd thank that person. She chose a different path. I can deal.

Throughout the course of their play this other child would talk to his mom, would call her things like, "Mommy", "Mama", or "Mom". Then her husband, who was picking out books, came back and sat down. It was at this point that the child called this second person "Mom". In my defense, this woman was probably a linebacker for the Detroit Lions. She was six feet tall and two-fifty, two hundred seventy five pounds. Her hair was shorter than my husband's. It was not my fault for making the mistake. I'm only human. I take responsibility, though, for my big, fat, stupid mouth.

Joshua looks at me and says, "Wait a minute! That's not his mommy, THAT'S his mommy". And he points. Despite my greatest efforts, my child insists on pointing. Still working on quashing that particular brand of rudeness. Still thinking the first woman, who was no Dainty Daisy herself (just saying), was married to a WWF guy with a stage name like "Thunder Death" I say, "Yes, honey, both his mommy and daddy are here. Isn't that nice?"

I just suck at life, don't I?

The stink eye was back and it was decidedly more potent. Now what? Do I apologize for thinking she was a man? But she went to great lengths to look so masculine - they both did really - so was I paying them a compliment? No. Probably not a compliment.

I chose the "smile weakly and shrug" option and then tried to engage them in conversation about things like their kids, what they do for a living, you know, things that would prove I don't keep a white sheet and swastika in my trunk.

But my son, God bless my sweet sweet little boy, won't shut the hell up. "Mommy! That she is NOT his mommy! Why he say that?"

Cue lava pool.

"Joshua, that is his mommy."

Please can we leave it at that, I already annoyed them with my sanitizing and gender confusion, please don't make me explain the nuances of a homosexual parenting situation to my two year old in the public library. Please.

"No, Mommy, look! His mommy is THAT one. This is a different lady."

The stink eye looks like it could, at any moment, evolve into a serious case of fist in face, and I am completely unprepared. I don't want to explain relationships, any relationships, to my toddler. He's on a need to know basis. He needs to know nothing at this point.

So I say, "Joshua, some families are different than our family. Not all families have a mommy and a daddy like we do. There are all different kinds of families. This is just another kind of family."

Please shut up son, please shut up. I love you, but shut up now.

He dropped it, thank goodness, but it made me realize I'm a little out of my element here. I want to instill in my children our values, our sense of right and wrong, and I want them to be loving, accepting, and nonjudgmental. Conversely, I don't want them to know about sex, relationships, the names of body parts, or the fact that certain body parts even exist, much less that they're used for, um activities, until they're say, sixty or so.

Shit. This parenting crap is hard. It's not all SUVs and designer strollers like that guy said.

Bumper Stickers and Strong Stands

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:00:00 +0000

Anyone who clings to the historically untrue - and thoroughly immoral - doctrine that 'violence never solves anything' I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always pad for it with their lives and freedoms.

-Robert A. Heinlen

It's Veteran's Day. I'm embarrassed to admit that this day hasn't always had much meaning to me. It essentially meant the inconvenience of banks being closed and seeing some old men in the parade wearing their garrison caps with weakened bodies and oft repeated stories of old memories and fallen comrades.

But then I became the wife of a soldier in combat. The wife of a mere three weeks before her soldier went to Iraq. One of the nastiest, scariest, most dangerous part of Iraq. The entire deployment, from the pre-deployment training, time in theater, and post deployment time in the U.S. but still separated from family lasted nearly two years.

I feel differently about Veteran's Day now. Veterans aren't just old men anymore. Veterans are no longer an abstract concept to me, no longer just people who are good, that matter, but just not to me. I get it now. I get the sacrifice. I get the necessity. I get the fear. The worry. The bargaining with God. I get the pride. I get the patriotism.

I have walked in shoes that few people have. I have run a gamut of emotions that defies the imagination. Yet everything I felt while James was gone, everything I went through was nothing, nothing compared to his daily reality. His reality of facing death on a daily basis. Voluntarily. His reality of seeing the carnage, seeing the indescribable evil of the regime of Saddam Hussein. His reality of worrying about me, home alone, knowing I'm worried for him. His reality of seeing men in his unit being served with divorce papers while in country because their wives couldn't take it. His reality of men going home draped in the flag instead of sitting on an airplane. The reality that it could have just as easily been him.

It was a life changing two years. It is something I wouldn't change, wouldn't give back. Ultimately it's something I'm thankful for. Thankful because I get it now. I don't take much for granted anymore.

I saw a bumper sticker today. It said something like, "If you can read this, thank a teacher. And because it's in English, thank a veteran."

That about sums it up. Thank a veteran. Be someone who gets it.

Pipe Dream?

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:37:00 +0000

Dear Johnathan Hillstrand,

Captain, take me away.

Yrs,

Maybe They'll Offer Me a Job

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 04:12:00 +0000

Dear Zantac Marketing Think Tank,

Your slogan pisses me off every time I hear it. Can you seriously have missed this? Do you sit in a room and play with helium balloons all day? Do you play a little game of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours"? Whatever it is you do, assuming you're even awake while you're at the office, it can't involve much brain power. Creativity was not in the job description, eh?

Because every time, every single time your commercial comes on and the voice over guy says, "Heartburn? Attack it. Zantac." I scream at my television and resist the urge to bludgeon it with the nearest blunt object. I resist only because it's not my TV's fault you're all too damn dumb to come up with "Heartburn? ZANTAC IT."

Did you get it? See how I did that? Attack and Zantac? How they sound the same? They kind of make one word? It creates a little PLAY ON THE NAME OF THE PRODUCT YOU'RE PEDDLING? Fools.

Hate,

Soylent Awesome

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:04:00 +0000

Fade in.

The year? 2009.

Planet? Earth.

Location? The kids' bathroom.

The question on everyone's mind? What is Soylent Awesome?

AH! Soylent Awesome is MOM AND JOSHUA!

Fade out.

Fragalicious

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 07:00:00 +0000

I've been sitting here for awhile trying to whip up something really clever to introduce what you must realize is another edition of Friday Fragments hosted by Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin Time. Here's what I have so far.

Clever Intro Number One - The Question.
Why is it that I look so forward to Friday? It probably isn't because it signals the beginning of the weekend because weekends are essentially meaningless to me, a stay at home mom of two children who are too young to go to school. This can be interpreted two ways. 1.) Every day is a weekend because we are free do whatever it is we want, or B.) There is no such thing as a weekend because moms don't get time off; we don't have wages, labor laws, or union delegates. What is a weekend again?

I think I went really off track there.

Clever Intro Number Two - The Hook
So there I was, walking along the sidewalk, diaper bag and car seat complete with baby in one hand, toddler straggling along barely holding onto the other when this scraggly looking man approached us and said...

Ooh, a cliffhanger.

Clever Intro Number Three - The Anecdote
Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who liked to wear Gucci and compulsively make lists. The day she found Friday Fragments was, quite possibly, the best damn day of her life. Well, behind the day she got married, gave birth a couple times, and discovered the combination of fried chicken and maple syrup.

Well, we can phone it in with that I guess.

Um, I'm a little worried and I can't really talk about it yet because it might be nothing but it also might be something but I don't know if the nothing is something yet or if it's still nothing but if it turns into something, or rather already is something and I have that confirmed I will talk about it but if it turns out to be nothing than I will perhaps share anyway if you really beg and plead and then we can all laugh about it and say "well good thing that something turned out to be nothing otherwise something would have really hit the fan" and if something really is something we can deal with the fallout together which really wouldn't be all that bad and might actually be kind of neat but still would be a pretty worrisome kind of something.

I'm going to call the Guinness Book of World Records to have the previous declared the longest nonsensical run-on sentence in the history of time.

Am I the only one who believes that cats are the embodiment of evil here on Earth? I think it is only rational to acknowledge that felines are the furry, four legged minions of Satan. They serve no discernible purpose. They send ~~everyone on the planet who dares oppose them~~ me into anaphylactic shock when contact is made, and I'm pretty sure they eat babies. How can anyone love something that eats babies? Show me a cat lover and I'll show you someone who supports the actual eating of babies.

Yup, I've got it all together. Have not lost one bit of my mind, thank you.

I'm still doing my stupid yoga. I still think it's asinine, but it does work. I don't buy into all the "Ohm" bull shit, but the unnatural ways they make you contort your body do begin to make it look a little more like you should be allowed in public without a warning label and a little less like Jaba the Hut. Java the Hut? Jaba? Java? To-may-to? To-mah-to? I've never seen Star Wars. I really don't get the reference, but I think he's some sort of fat guy or something. Maybe I should have researched that a little before just including it willy-nilly.

I've also never seen Seinfeld, The Simpsons, or Friends. I don't know if I'm missing anything, but I am a pretty high functioning individual even without knowledge of this "sitcom" stuff. I think the whole humor thing is a fad anyway. I'm sure it'll pass.

And? Scene.

The Bah-est of Humbug

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 03:07:00 +0000

When preventable tragedies happen people always wonder why. When an otherwise normal seeming person dresses himself all up in camouflage, finds himself some high ground, and fires an automatic weapon randomly into a crowd of bystanders people always scratch their heads and go, Huh. Well, that probably shouldn't have happened. What went wrong?

I'm about ninety per cent sure I have the answer.

People go out of their minds and do things they'd never otherwise do because of - drum roll please - Christmas music.

Let's be honest here, have you ever walked into a store during the Christmas season, heard "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" for the eightieth time and not wanted to commit mass murder/suicide? No, you haven't. Maybe you haven't acted on the impulse, but I would bet what little money I have left on the fact that you've weighed the pros and cons.

But NOW it's worse. NOW the assault on our ears begins irrationally early, like a few days after the Fourth of July. Come ON. I am finding it increasingly difficult to get into the "holiday spirit" when I am now expected to maintain it for six to eight months out of the year.

It is two days after Halloween as everyone who has a pulse should know, and so I do not think it is unreasonable to expect a little hiatus from the cheap lawn decorations and festive sweatshirts from Grandma. But I have watched no fewer than three of my neighbors hefting their fat asses up on their ladders to attach little strings of lights to their roofs and arrange little Santa and Christmas tree decals on their front windows.

Oh, she's anti-Christmas.

Nah. I'm just anti idiot who can't keep his pants on and wait for the actual holiday season to start. I love Christmas. I love having a tree, I love the lights, I love everything about it. I'd just like to love it in an abstract, distant kind of way until about, oh, say December 15. Then we're golden.

Because today when I walked into the grocery store and heard "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" my only deterrent from drastic measures was that I am way to prissy and beautiful to survive in prison.

Everybody Knows It.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 04:38:00 +0000

It's like I can't tell which is which.

Since I have little of import to say, I thought I'd just remind everyone that Jon Gosselin is, in fact, a douche bag.

That is all.

Ode to Tracey, or, Pick Me! Pick Me!

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 16:51:00 +0000

This is the best giveaway ever. Srsly. It's so awesome that I hesitate to tell you about it because I want as little competition as possible. I want. To win.

Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog has been one of my favorites for a long time. Her writing is entertaining, real and honest. If you haven't read her blog yet, do so immediately. Please and thank you.

Now, if you're interested in the giveaway, and by "interested" I mean, "if you enter and happen to win you will turn the prize over to me because after all Ella B. has been through this year she deserves a new wardrobe" you need to visit Tracey at her other blog which is aptly named Just Another Review Blog. The rules for entry are all there, and should you win, you need only contact me so I can give you my address and you can forward the prize to me. Because, well, I said.

Also, if you're really in the mood to read some great stuff, check out Tracey's third blog which is called Just Another Homeschool Blog. See how she does that? So clever.

So check out this giveaway. It's like the sweetest one of all time. I really super extra duper wanna win. Mmkay?

Uh Oh.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:29:00 +0000

I'm late. Depending on how you look at it, those are the two scariest or the two happiest words in the English language. I'm late. For some that sentence is cause for joy, for some it is cause for panic. I'm late. I'm panicked. What does it mean? How is this going to change my life? How is my husband going to feel? I don't know what to do besides, well, panic. When it occurred to me today just how late I am, I spent several minutes curled up in the fetal position, shivering and trying not to cry. How did this happen? I'm always so careful! I'm really wringing my hands over this. I'm late.

I HATE posting my Friday Fragments late. Sheesh! What did you guys THINK I meant?

Visit Mrs. 4444 for more installments of Friday Fragments. Probably ones that were posted in a much more timely manner than mine were today.

I'm cautiously optimistic that James is going to get this job we've both been lusting after. He's reached the final step in the interview process which is an on site interview and negotiation of terms. I am convinced they're just bringing him out there to present an offer, and the only way he won't get the job is if he shows up drunk, sleeps with the HR guy's wife, and then burns down the building. So once everything is final I'll begin house hunting in earnest, though if I'm being honest with you, I've already been doing a lot of looking online.

Both Ella B. and I have appointments with surgeons next week. I am at the point where I have to consider drastic measures for my tumah. Ella B. is having her consult with the pediatric orthopedic surgeon to determine the best course of treatment for her congenital hip dysplasia. I have decided that we've had ENOUGH MEDICAL MALADIES ALREADY.

My DVR has joined my List of Things That Need to Die. I record my shows so I can watch them in the peace that comes only when children are sound asleep, but the thrice damned DVR cuts them off like three minutes before they end. Normally this isn't a big deal, but when I'm trying to watch The Office and there's that final little joke at the end? The stupid recording always ends right before they get to the punch line. It's probably the best part of the show.

Ha! I'm late. Oh, I kill me.

Wait a Minute. Republicans Can't Do Yoga.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 14:19:00 +0000

Joshua always compares everything to a banana, which he pronounces "gabana". For example, he'll look at an object, we'll say a sock for the sake of this example, and say, "Wait a minute! That's not a gabana, that's a sock!" He does this with pretty much everything he looks at, touches, or thinks about. I've given up trying to figure out why or where the behavior came from. I'm just enjoying how cute it is. He does it the other way around to, like, "Wait a minute! That's not daddy's car, that's a gabana!" And he's right. It is a gabana. It's so not daddy's car.

Right now there are also certain mispronunciations of words that I'm not correcting because the way he says them are so stinking cute and I can't bear to part with them yet. Call me a bad preparer for school, a remiss parent, or whatever you will, but I'm going to let him say "gabana" instead of "banana" and "tee bays" instead of "PJs" for as long as he wants to. I say tee bays too, because well, the cuteness. I melt. You haven't heard cute until you've heard my Joshua say, "Wait a minute, Mommy! That's not a gabana, that's my tee bays!"

Which, roundaboutedly brings me to my point. Wait a minute! Roundaboutedly is not a gabana! It's not even a word! What is wrong with her? My sister talked me into doing yoga. I swear to you my first response was, "Wait a minute! I'm a republican; republicans can't do yoga!" But I am learning to branch out in my life so I agreed to try it once. Not in front of anybody, for Heaven's sake, just in the privacy of my living room while the doors are locked, the shades are drawn, the kids are napping, and James is not expected home for hours.

I follow along with the yoga show on FitTV, and those skinny women with no make up and fingers that are eight miles long sure do make it look easy. And it was the first time, since I mainly spent the half hour laughing at the asinine way they talk. They speak in this stupid half whisper that's supposed to be relaxing I guess. Then they say things like, "Feel the cleansing light sooth your spirit as we come back to center, welcoming the breath, embracing our bodies and ending in prayer pose with our hands to our hearts."

Puh-lease.

But the next day I was determined to really get through the half hour show without laughing at them or imagining kicking them over while they're in deep "Ohm" and then laughing hysterically. I learned something about yoga. It's extremely difficult. Who would have thought? I used to be a gymnast, before I got married, had two kids and gained sixty five pounds, and I was confident I hadn't lost my strength and flexibility. I'm not sure why. I haven't flitted around in a gym for over ten years, and that stuff doesn't exactly stay with you.

I'm a week into my yoga. I'm doing it five days a week and taking the weekends off. My sister said she's dropped a pants size (what? From an eight to a six? ~~the bitch~~) and she's been doing it about a month. So we'll see. It's difficult, but I can definitely get behind something that doesn't make me pant myself into an asthma attack, make me do these ~~horrible convulsions~~ dance moves, or just generally wish for death. ~~That's what she said.~~

So if you're driving by my house in the afternoon and I've inadvertently neglected to close my draperies all the way, rest assured that's not a hippie, that's a republican doing yoga.

Well, F.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 03:08:00 +0000

I am living in such a tsunami of chaos. I don't know if I'm coming or going. I haven't been sleeping, I haven't been eating, I'm sick again. I've lost fourteen pounds, which is good. I'm sure to gain it back when my life stops sucking so much, which isn't good. I can't remember where I put things. Today I went to the grocery store, forgot my list, went back home to get my list because I can't afford to just wing it anymore, went back to the grocery store with my list but without my purse, swore a lot. Went back home, got my purse, held on to my list and went back to the store. When I got there I had to really focus on the words I had written because they were just swimming around on the page. When I deciphered them, I had to talk myself through remembering the difference between garlic and onions. I'm so damn tired.

When I got home with a random compilation of things, some of which were actually on my list, I decided I really wanted some homemade tomato soup. I chopped up all the onion and garlic I needed. I only cut myself once. I put everything in the pan to simmer in some chicken stock and went to cut my tomatoes to roast before they went into the soup. They were apples. Fucking apples instead of tomatoes. I got the garlic an onion dilemma figured out, but I confused my apples and tomatoes. Nobody wants to eat apple and onion soup. I probably would have had a complete mental breakdown if I had to go to the store a fourth time, so I threw in some carrots and some noodles and called it chicken noodle soup sans chicken. It sucked, but it was food. I even ate a little bit of it. Yay me.

After my little broth experiment for dinner I decided it was time to clean out closets. I can fit into a lot more of my things now. I'm still a long way away from the sixes and eights I've been stubbornly clinging to since well before Josh was born. I threw them out tonight. I also boxed up my entire wardrobe of work clothing, it's only been like five years since I've actually worked, to take to the Goodwill or, gulp, the consignment place. I'm pretty prepared to take an ass whipping on that crap. "You said you paid $900 for these Jimmy Choo's? OK, well, I'll give you, say, fifteen bucks?" I can't WAIT. It's going to feel so GOOD.

I want some tomatoes, I want some sleep, and I want my life back, please. I feel like a damn lunatic.

Every Light in the House is On

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 02:12:00 +0000

James is gone for the weekend at drill with the National Guard, the kids are in bed, I'm finally relaxing with a much needed ~~bottle~~ glass of wine, and I have a confession to make.

Last night I slept with the lights on.

There. I said it.

I'm not afraid of the dark at all. I am, however, afraid of the myriad ~~monsters, murderers, and rapists~~ unpleasant things that come out of the dark to strike the unsuspecting female who sleeps in the pitch darkness. Especially when I'm home alone in a new house in a new city and I've just watched three episodes of I Survived and 48 Hours, Hard Evidence right before going to bed.

It's not that I think the light itself will save me. In reality, if I ever do experience a home invasion, my little hall light will only allow me to see death coming. Plus, in this house, the gun cabinet is built into the hallway between the bedrooms, and in order to get to it I'd have to run past the crazed mad man intent on having his vile way with me and then taking my life, into the kitchen to find the key, back through the boobie traps he's probably set in preparation for just this very flight, struggle with getting the cabinet open, and then quickly learn how to load, undo the safety (pretty sure I'm not even saying that right) and point and shoot all without waking up my children. Obviously I should just wear a T-shirt to bed that says, I Suck at This, Kill Me First. Anyway, having a light on isn't going to help me.

What runs through my mind though, is that I don't want to be one of the idiots on the true crime murder mystery shows that is, through their asinine actions, just begging to be killed. Really, who's the jackass who run upstairs to the third floor and then whines about not being able to escape? I'm not saying that person deserves to be killed horrifically, but neither can I rule it out. So as I'm laying in bed running through what I might say to this person who broke into my house to steal me and my valuables, because my big mouth is clearly my only shot, I think that whatever I do, I need to make sure it isn't something that's going to get me on one of those shows (postmortem, naturally) about which Bill Kurtis says, "The last thing she did before being blugeoned to death by the man the media dubbed the 'Gucci Mama Killer' was run past the intruder, fumble around in the kitchen for some sort of key, then run straight through the tripwire set by the killer where she was then hung upside down by her ankles and tortured with her grandmother's best silver." I mean, I don't give it a lot of thought or anything, but I really don't want to be on one of those shows.

Actually, the reasons I wouldn't want to be featured on television for being a murder victim are two fold. One, I really don't think I want to be murdered. Two, I still haven't lost the baby weight, and I just know my husband would find the fattest, ass-y-est, most unflattering picture imaginable and that's what they'd flash on the screen nineteen times. Then people would think I was crappy at self defense and fat and they wouldn't even feel sorry for me.

So I leave the light on because then perhaps the killer will just decide to let me sleep, because a grown woman with children who is ~~afraid of the dark~~ extra cautious when her husband is out of town is just too pathetic to be killed. And then Bill Kurtis will never be able to say, "If only she never got up to turn off that light..."

I Have Seen it All and I Have Seen too Much

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 06:00:00 +0000

It seems in my middle-of-the-night-wish-I-could-sleep-but-I-can't-and-it's-pissing-me-off-I-guess-I'll-play-Bejeweled-or-something random internet searches that I have found the feces....

that result when shame...

eats way too much...

sheer stupidity.

Fragments That Fall on Friday

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:00:00 +0000

I don't really have a clever intro. I'm not really feeling very clever. I'm going to do the Friday Fragments thing again because I like it. I want to. It's a fun way to just write and not worry much over what's on the page. I'm going to link to Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time because those are the rules and I am a stickler. But I'm probably going to just "frag" about one topic. It probably won't be funny. Don't know yet; haven't really even thought about what I'm going to say. Just gonna let it all hang out. Maybe there will be some gaiety. Guess I'll just dive right in then.

Even though yesterday's post was, if may toot my own horn, brilliantly hilarious, I'm not feeling like very much sweetness and light. I'm having difficulty shrugging off this burden that I'm angry has been handed me to carry. I can feel physically the weight of this stress that is building and building and I just want to raise my fists and scream Enough! But I don't, because I am The Mother. And The Mother keeps everything together even when everything is crumbling around her. My mama taught me that.

I may have, ahem, taken my ire out with much vigor and vim on the hapless little CPN who works for the orthopedic surgeon Ella B. was referred to. The thing is, my pediatrician set it up so the surgeon's office would call me to schedule a consult, an ultrasound for Ella, line out specific treatment options, and then schedule the procedure. I waited for a couple hours like a nice, patient lady but they didn't call. So, I called them. First, they couldn't find the chart. Then they wanted me to wait until December even though the pediatrician told her to set up an immediate appointment. Then, in order to accommodate the pressing nature of the case, they wanted me to do the initial consult with another surgeon in the practice who doesn't specialize in pediatric orthopedic surgery. This surgeon was not willing to do the ultrasound without personally verifying one was needed even though one was ordered by the pediatrician. It was at this point that I moved to Plan B. Plan B pretty much consisted of this particular office SHOVING IT.

I found a doctor I think will be really excellent. His main practice is at the Mayo Clinic, but he does have privileges at the Children's Hospital here, so we won't be traveling. I had my pediatrician contact his office before I did to make sure they understood the urgency here. Maybe urgency is the wrong word medically, but I feel really fucking urgent. Anyway, he was very accommodating. He will be in town on November 5, and while that's over a week away, he did really shuffle his schedule to get us in, he's specialized in pediatric orthopedics for thirty five years, and he has gray hair and a beard. I make it a point to trust doctors with gray hair and salt and pepper beards. It's a whole thing. I can't really explain it.

I'm trying to be optimistic here. I'm trying to be glad that we caught this early; we're treating it when she's so young that she won't remember it. We're treating it before she's mobile. I'm trying to remember to thank God that we have her here at all, and that she's healthy enough to be treated. I'm trying to count it a blessing that the congenital hip dysplasia and the HS Purpura (an autoimmune disorder) are the only tangible repercussions of her prematurity. Well, that we know of. But still, how awesome is that? How miraculous is the fact that she defied so many odds without batting an eyelash? How amazing is it that she was the smallest baby ever born at this hospital that didn't spend a minute in the NICU? I am thankful and I am blessed. That doesn't mean it isn't hard. It is. But she's totally worth it.

Tasteful? Treasures? Like a Tupperware Party?

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:50:00 +0000

I never thought I'd share this story. I have, after all, a reputation I'd like to maintain. But Justine has inspired me. On her newly made over page of fabulous, Stupid is as Sister Does, Justine reviewed a, um, product. Maybe I should have channeled my inner Puritan and skipped this one over because, well the words alone are enough to make me blush and stammer, but I thought I'd allow a little bit of the naugh-tay in. Just for a minute. Just to see how it felt. I made it through relatively unscathed, and I do recommend reading the post, especially if you don't have a phobia about the human body like I do. If I could gasp and sputter my way through it, I think normal, less tightly wound people will really get a kick out of it. So to speak.

Anyway.

Reading this review caused all the repressed memories to come flooding back. Those of you who know me know I'm, well, a prude. I don't like to "touch others" or "show affection". I can't "name all the parts of the human body" or "say the s-e-x word out loud". I don't "wear shorts" or "take a shower without locking the door even when I'm alone in the house". I also have a (probably naive) assumption that others are generally the same. So when one of my mother's friends invited me to a "Tasteful Treasures" party, I never dreamed. Never imagined. Never could have thought in a million years that it was a, gasp, tupperware party except 86 the tupperware and substitute the sex toys. Holy. Shit.

You have not known shame, my dear friends, until you have sat on a couch next to your mother and listened to description after description of vibrators and anal beads while sampling Pina Colada lube from the tip of your finger. You have never really wanted the earth to swallow you whole until you have sat on that same couch next to your mother and watched a DVD tutorial on the proper usage of the vibrators and Pina Colada lube. And you have never truly wished for death, literal instantaneous death, until one of the vibrators is passed around and your mother turns it on, jabs it into your back and says, "We should buy one to share! Like, not for it's real purpose, obviously, but because it's actually a really good back massager."

Kill.

Me.

Now.

After being bombarded with very inventive crippling causes of shame for over an hour, we all had to go into a room with the lady to make our private purchases. And if you don't buy something you're a total jack ass, because everyone knows you have to make a purchase at a tupperware party. Even if there's no actual tupperware in sight and you've totally been hoodwinked into participating in the most horrifying experience of your life. But then when you do buy something, you have to walk back out of that room with your "discreet" brown paper bag that's stapled shut so everyone else in the room can be awed by the mystery of it all.

One by one I watched these women go into that room and walk brazenly back out with their little stapled bags. I began to hyperventilate a little bit as my turn approached. What the hell was I possibly going to buy? I'm not a deviant! Well, if you ignore the fact that I was at a sex toy party with my mother.

I was vastly relieved to learn that Tasteful Treasures has its own line of scented candles. What I learned after the purchase to my great dismay, was that the candles are larger than the, um, "toys" so the lady gave me this giant bag to put them in. Everyone else left that room with little delicate sandwich sized bags. I came out dragging this gigantic thing you could have fit a Volkswagen in and everyone looked at me like, Oh mmhmm. It's always the prudes you have to watch out for. Sick.

I am absolutely convinced I was invited for everyone's amusement. And now I have this overwhelming feeling of wanting to die again. This is why I really appreciate the brain's ability to repress unwanted memories. I'd like to have this particular slate wiped so clean it would be as if it never existed.

Stupid Is As Sister Does: Eden Fantasys Product Review