There are also a few facts of life that aren’t subjective.  They’re cut and dry.  Black and white.  Undeniable.  Here, let me reveal them to you.

1) Only wizards know how to fold fitted sheets.  Wizards and Lola.  Fine.  Wizards and Lola and, like, five people on YouTube.  The rest of us roll it into a 700 thread count ball of shame and call it a day.

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2) When having menu angst while dining with others, worry not.  It doesn’t matter WHAT you order, because you’ll undoubtedly regret it and wish you ordered whatever your dining partners ordered.  “Oh my daaaang the sea bass looks so gooood, why on earth did I go with the mahi mahi!?”

3) Adele will win all the music awards forever, and the cast of Glee will perform all of her songs.  *jazz hands!*

4) The day you wake up so terribly ill that you roam through the pharmacy aisles in Target unshowered, in oversized sweatpants, and your hair looking like you shoved a ginsu knife in an electric socket while standing in ankle deep water will be the same day you run into your old boyfriend’s mom.  And she will tell you (like Facebook didn’t tell you first) that he just married a gorgeous Russian model.  And then you will wipe your nose on your sleeve.

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5) Your mirror is your friend, but your camera lies.

6) Any attempts to cook eggs over medium will end with a plate of scrambled eggs and a disgruntled scrambled egg eater.  You’ll be able to bench press Justin Bieber before you successfully flip an egg.  (I even have one of those ridiculously expensive All Clad pans that I’ll one day sell in order to sell my daughters to college.  I’ve gone through fancy spatulas.  Doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t work.)  Egg flipping and fitted sheet folding should be left to the wizards.

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7) When starting the evening out with perfectly applied eyeliner and mascara, please note that you will look like a sad, sad raccoon by the time midnight rolls around.  As such, make sure to Instagram your hotness before 9:00 pm. Pin It

Add your own, please.  Bonus points for cartoons.  Double bonus points if you send a wizard to my house to cook me eggs and fold some sheets and blow out my hair.  :)

And I smile a big, bright smile and toss my head Vidal Sassoon-style, nary a hair out of place, and say, “Great!”  And then my children line up behind me single-file, or maybe in flying V formation if I’ve recently watched the Mighty Ducks trilogy, and we make our way around the grocery store.

In actuality, I always want to be honest without whining so I say something like, “Pretty good.  Jack’s recovering well.  I wouldn’t kick a few more hours of sleep out of bed, but that’s probably my only complaint.”  And my hair’s a crazy mess as I say that – thanks, humidity.

But truthfully, when I’m overtired and overwhelmed, I depart from the adjective with which I’ve so aggressively branded myself – nicegirlthatwritesnotestoyou – and I get a little cranky.  Not vicious or mean, but… cranky.

I’m generally peaceful and even-keeled, but Jack can easily tell when I’m on edge.

“What do you mean you didn’t throw the fitted sheets in the dryer?  No, we can’t sleep on top of flat sheets.  What are we – ANIMALS?!  That junk rides up and all of a sudden we’re sleeping on a bare mattress.  Are you insane??”

I am less patient with obnoxious people.  People who criticize how I’ve named my children or dressed them or braided their hair.  (YEAH, I DO A SIDE PART, GET OFF ME.)  The same people who dislike my children’s names so much they’ve decided to purposefully botch them altogether.

“Her name is Mirabel.  We often call her Minnie.  You may call her either.  But not Mary-belle or Maribella, because those aren’t her names, Carol.”

“My name’s Debbie.”

“To my point, Debbie.”

See?  Not mean, but a little spicy.  In other circumstances, I’d just like, I don’t know… grin and bear it and pat Debbie on the head and ask her if she keeps hard candies in her huge ass Dooney + Burke bag.

Jack is convinced that any crankiness is formulaic.  “You need a nap.  And a sandwich.”  Like a child.  When I’m tired and hungry, I lose my mind.  At least my remedy’s inexpensive.  Right?  Nap.  Sandwich.  Totally happy and I’m no longer losing my mind over fitted sheets or opinionated older ladies.

What do you do when you’re in supercranked mode?  Besides watch Charlie Conway triple deke the heck out of the Hawks in the first Mighty Ducks movie.

DUCKS FLY TOGETHER!

The other side of the office held the creatives.  The graphic designers, the video developers, the art directors.  They had no dress code.  They wore berets and Hawaiian shirts and pleated khaki shorts which are a catastrophe in their own right.  Their offices were cluttered and ridiculous and they smoked pot on the weekends.

I was told that sort of work environment made them think better.  More creatively.

I remembered that when I started blogging the latter part of 2010.  I took my laptop to a local diner and was working back and forth between a blog post and a small writing assignment.  Laptop out, milkshake ordered.  I was hoping that a change of scenery would be the creative shift my brain needed to write brilliance to ensure that I was hired again.

I signed onto Facebook (duh), and I started talking to my friend Tim.  Looked at chatbox.  Looked at milkshake.  Looked at notebook.

“Tim, have you ever considered being an anthropomorphized milkshake?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be?”
“Yes.

And that’s how Milkshake Tim was born.  He featured heavily in blog posts for awhile.  Readers harbored amorous feelings for Milkshake Tim.  Milkshake Tim guest posted.  Milkshake Tim was offered a record deal.  Those beret wearing pot smokers knew what they were doing, apparently.

It's no one's birthday, but I would like some cake.

And then I decided that Milkshake Tim was starting to get really annoying, and I threatened to kill him off in a devastating diner floor accident.

Milkshake Tim lives several states away.  A few months ago, he stopped by for dinner.  We ate, and then he and Jack played their guitars while I passed out on the couch.  Before he left, Tim pushed me in the face and said, “WHERE IS MILKSHAKE TIM?”

And a male reader wrote, “Where has Milkshake Tim been?  His mere presence made me feel less ashamed of being a guy who publicly ‘likes’ a Facebook fan page entitled ‘NiceGirlNotes.’”

In an effort to bring more testosterone to my blog, I’m going to let Milkshake Tim say hi soon.  He wants to guest post.  In the meanwhile, he’s been attempting to terrorize me via text.

Thankfully, when it comes to anthropomorphized milkshakes and annoying people, I can hold my own.  *brushes shoulders off*

LOLOL.  Uhhh… anyway.  I not-so-secretly want him to marry one of my friends and move to Connecticut so he and Jack can play guitar and he can provide me blog fodder when I need it and his wife can make me bacon.  I’m assuming she cooks bacon.  Anyway, to my man-readers, there you go.  A shot of testosterone is coming on a website that has entirely too much pink on it.

I like restaurants because someone else gets to make me food and someone else cleans up after me.  Which seems like a little thing, but when you’d rather scrub down toilets than wield a saute pan, it’s huge.

I can yell things like, “Can I get an ETA on that scone?”  Just kidding, I would never actually talk to a server like that.  Mainly because I spent much of my youth waiting tables and I know what disgruntled and abused servers are capable of doing, and also because I don’t begin sentences with “Can I get.”  And I’m nice to people.  Let’s hug.

Lately I started “working” at other locations… like Whole Foods.  I love Whole Foods because, even though they’re pricey, they have a ton of options for my allergen-ridden family.  Yes, my food bill is exponentially higher than it used to be, but it’s cheaper than hospital visits.  *eyes stack of hospital bills with utter disdain*

So I set up camp at a table at Whole Foods, plug everything in, grab some tasty food and a tasty beverage, and get to work.  I fire up Pandora and put my earbuds in and start tippy-typing away.  I recently signed up for my first 5k ever, and my Pandora station defaulted to the songs that I like to run (and wheeze) to… which happens to be a pretty awesome gangsta rap/hip hop station.

I haven’t changed it.  I’ve found my groove.  I’m writing.  And then – and I’m sure you totally know what I’m about to say to you, because if this hasn’t ever happened to you in real life, well… consider yourself four-leaf-clover lucky – my earbuds decided to start an uprising against me.  My elbow knocked into them and the earbuds flew right out of the jack.

This isn't real life.

Of course, my depiction of my earbuds is grossly inaccurate.  There is no such thing as earbuds without ungodly knots and tangles in them.  That would be an urban legend.  Like an empty tube of Chapstick.  Doesn’t exist.

Anyway, so the earbuds come out right as Pandora turns to a compilation album called “Crunk Hits” and suddenly Unk’s Walk it Out is playing.  Walk it Out is blasting out of my laptop in the midst of the ultra-serene “I’m just stopping by to grab a Coconut Water before my yoga-lates hybrid class” vibe that is all things Whole Foods.  Naturally I hopped on the table and started breaking it down, beckoning fellow WF shoppers to join me.

suburban mom swagger

“Come on, everybody!  [Points to the pizza bar] West Side, walk it out!  [Points to the registers] South Side, walk it out!  [Points to Produce] East Side, walk it out!  [Points to Dairy] North Side, walk it out!”

And it was crazy, because everyone sort of stared at me for a second and then totally joined in.  Tentatively at first, but – you know – groupthink and all, people started slowly making their way to the front of the store.  Then dancing and shaking it to the Crunk Hits album right next to me!  The whole store was walking it out, and the guy behind the sushi bar showed us all how to crip walk.  It was bananas!

Just kidding.  None of that happened.  Unk was blasting, and I frantically TAP-TAP-TAPPED on the volume control button, sweating, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Woops!  LOL!  I see you’re eating chocolate covered goji berries.  [nervous laugh]  You know for the longest time, I was saying uh-kai berries instead of ah-sigh-ee berries?  Right, cause acai has that “c” which you would assume is a hard c but it’s really a soft c.  Crazy, huh?

Hey, want to split a scone?  :)

You know that the people at Time Magazine are totally doing the stir-the-pot dance over the amount of traffic and sales they received after last week’s provocative article on extended breastfeeding.  Since then, I’ve seen many blog posts and articles about breastfeeding.  Because I, too, can be prone to following the crowd (see: Uggs.  Whatever, they’re ugly and warm and I live in New England), I decided that I would also write about breastfeeding.  Here I go.

I have more pressing matters to attend to than to concern myself with how someone feeds her child.  (Spoiler alert, that was as serious as this post gets.)  I currently breastfeed Minnie, and when I do, I’m stuck in a seated position for a solid twenty minutes.  Tethered to my couch.  Maneuvering my laptop isn’t quite so easy, so I play with my phone instead.

More accurately, I annoy as many people as I possibly can via text message.  And I surf Pinterest and Facebook.  And I respond to emails.  But mostly, I text.  Like this.

I don’t like wildlife, but I’d never actually kill a turtle.  Calm down, PETA.  Also, TMNT forever.

As English is not her first language, Lola sometimes asks me for the proper pronunciation of a word or a meaning of an idiom.  I’m happy to help.

Jack had surgery, but because we have, like, a million children – including one who breastfeeds – I stayed home with them and his dad took him.

I hesitate to say that I’ve been going to the gym lately, because I have no idea if this little habit will continue beyond next week, BUT.  I’ve been going to the gym lately.  Also, please note… apparently all the super hot, hard-bodied, young people work out at around 6:00pm.  I noticed this yesterday as I rolled up in my oversized t-shirt and running shorts and apparently stepped into a Nike ad in a Sports Illustrated issue.  I’ve never felt so old at the gym… and, I’m not that old.  Also, I overheard the girl on the treadmill next to me say that Alexa’s prom dress was hideous.  Bummer, Alexa.

I hope you enjoyed my breastfeeding manifesto.  If you have a cell phone and are up at 2:00am, you are not safe.  Be prepared for texts of terrible jokes and lolcats images.  What do you do while you feed your infant?  Besides text me, of course.

♪ ♫ Heroes in a half shell, Turtle Power. ♪ ♫

I really like this post.  Made me sniff sniff a little bit.

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A few years ago, I took a trip to the Dominican Republic  as part of a volunteer program.  With four other healthcare professionals, I spent 10 days working in a hospital in the small city of San Francisco de Marquois.  The hospital had two sections: one side for the rich and one for the poor.  We never stepped foot in the rich side.  All we were told was that the circumstances were better.  We worked in the maternity ward, which consisted of a few rooms, each with metal cots, without sheets.  You were given one sheet upon arrival and that was all you got, unless you brought your own.  If you broke your water, you lay in a wet sheet.  There was a room for postpartum women, though they didn’t stay long- not more than a night.  A room for teenagers.  A room for laboring women.  And if you made enough noise (your stage of labor didn’t matter, just how loud you were), they moved you into the “active” labor room, another room with cots and a delivery table.  The birth certificate office was down the hall from the maternity ward.  You could also get your daughter’s ears pierced at that office.

delivery table... no sheets, just a cloth that hangs into a trashcan

This part of the hospital had no running water, but it did have electricity.  And in the active labor room, there was air conditioning!  This is where you could find most of the residents, who -  in general – ignored patients.  There seemed to be no one supervising them.  The nurses did all the work (including delivering the babies).  On my first day I was with a woman who was having her ninth child.  She had been told to push and was trying hard, though it seemed to be taking some time.  For a 9^th time around, the baby should practically slide out.  I quickly did an exam and found she was only 7cm (despite having been told to push).  A little midwife magic and I massaged her cervix to almost fully.  She pushed out the baby moments later just as the electricity went out.

delivered her ninth baby in the dark

She delivered on the cot, because the delivery table was in use.  Women are usually put on that table because it’s cleaner- one cloth under her bottom that draped into a trashcan, so all the mess is easily taken care of.  In a way, it’s very smart for a hospital with no running water.  On another day, I was with a teenager who had her baby on that table at 34 weeks.  The infant was placed in her arms, and I brought the baby to the “NICU” – a room with three incubators.  34 weeks is about as early as could survive there (for comparison, in the US some babies can live as early as 23-24 weeks).

I spent another day with a woman named Maria.  She had been laboring all day with little progress.  I spent all day, rocking her hips, giving counter-pressure, making soft comforting noises in a language I barely spoke.  I used all the midwifery ticks I had to help her labor progress.  In our world, I would have given her a little pitocin and she could have progressed normally.  But pitocin is scarce here, and few get it, so at the end of the day, the physician who was overseeing that day opted for a c-section.  Because even if he decided to give her some of the scarce pitocin, he would have to be there longer, and with a c-section, he could be home in an hour.

I went with Maria for her surgery.  They asked me to put on their scrubs for the operating room, which would seem reasonable.  I was dressed in scrubs from my own hospital and when I entered their scrub room and picked out a pair, I found ants everywhere!  In some ways it didn’t surprise me.  In all the patients’ rooms you could usually find a line of ants snaking up the wall somewhere, but I guess I thought the OR environment would be different.  The c-sections there were very fast.  The quicker they were, the less potential for bleeding.  They were done in half the time as the ones I had seen in my hospital.  At one point they even lost electricity briefly, but they continued on by the light coming through a window.

The program I went with had done a lot fundraising, in an effort to bring a bathroom with running water to the maternity floor.  They negotiated with the hospital, that if they built one, the hospital would provide running water.  The project was completed when I was there and the bathroom was stunning!  Nicer than mine.  But still no running water, so it was essentially useless.  Funds had run out.

The hospital provided food, but nothing to drink.  Patients sometimes got IVs, but if they were thirsty, they had to rely on their family.  Families could visit two times a day and that’s when patients got their drinks for the day.

As a treat I had brought a Polaroid camera to the hospital.  I had come prepared, though it had been hard to find the supplies.  My sister had the camera, but very few places had film (and it was expensive).  But I brought what I could and took photos of mothers with their babies to give to them – possibly the only photo they’ll have of their child.  My two packs of film ran out pretty quickly.

Ultimately our goal was to help educate nursing staff and develop a doula (labor support person) program.  Mostly, I felt I made a small difference in the experiences of a few local women.  Regardless of resources, the basic needs of women everywhere are the same.  A little labor support goes a long way and women value this immensely.  After hours and hours of labor followed by a c-section, Maria delivered a beautiful baby girl. She and her husband had a boy’s name pick out, but were at a loss for a girl’s name, so they gave my one of the coolest gift I’ve ever received – they named their baby “Mallory.”

Maria + her husband, Mallory and Baby Mallory

Apparently, sleep deprivation has done away with all methodical thinking.  I started chatting with Jonathan Stephens, one of the creators of the Color Me Rad 5k.  It’s not just any regular old 5k.  Picture.. okay.  Picture running a race, but you’re running through Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and Veruca Salt is pegging you with swirly lollipops.  And there are hamsters, and…

I’ve said too much.

It’s a seriously fun race for seriously non-serious people.  You run and people throw colorful cornstarch at your head.  IS THIS REAL LIFE?  Yes.  It is.  And it looks incredible.  And it’s to raise money for good causes!

So Jon was all, “Hey, Roo, the next 5k is in your neighborhood.  May 26th in Hartford, Connecticut.”

And I was all, “Jon, that’s two and a half weeks from now!”

And Jon was all, “Get a team together, sister-friend.”

And I was all, “DONE.  Done.  Doing it.  Done-skis.”

Never mind that I just had a baby.  Never mind that I’ve never participated in a 5k before.  Never mind that the last time I ran, it was to flag down the ice cream truck who dared to leave my neighborhood before handing me a toasted almond eclair.

I’m doing it.

Thankfully, this is the casual sort of race where no one will make fun of me as I huff and puff across the finish line in last place.  I’m sure I’ll have to walk all some of it, but whoooo cares cause my eyeballs will be covered in turquoise fluff and I will be in some sort of fantastic rainbow buzz beckoning Charlie the Unicorn to come to Candy Mountain.

HEY, BUDS!  RUN WITH ME!

I’m opening my team to all NGN readers.  If you wannu run with me on May 26th in Hartford, all you have to do is register and join the NiceGirlNotes team.  The site will prompt you to enter a team name and the team captain’s last name.

Team Name:  NiceGirlNotes
Team Captain’s Last Name:  Ciambriello

Our start time is 9:10am!

And, bonus?  They’re offering you 20% off the registration fee with the code nicegirlnotesblog.  But you have to register before May 16th.  Go, go, go, go!  :)  Bring a white t-shirt to the race, and over the next week or so, we’ll figure out a way to band together as NGNers.  I was thinking brass knuckles with NGN engraved into them so we can thug life this race up a bit.  Will keep you posted.  Make sure you that you comment that you registered so I can email you and we can all gather before the start of the race.  And practice our gang signs ahead of time.

“ROO, NO FAIR!  I live in Philadelphia, Fresh Prince style.  There’s no way I’m running with you in Hartford.”

Well, oh hayyyyyy!  Color Me Rad is offering 20% off any races that are open for registration right now.  (Same code!  nicegirlnotesblog, expires 5/16.)

Get your eye black on, pals.  And if someone certified in CPR could run next to me the whole time, that would be great.

Ughhhh I totally want Cheetos now.

Disclosure: Color Me Rad 5k did not compensate me for inclusion in this post.  They are, however, being kind enough to offer discounted rates to you and me and e’erybodyyyyyy. 

Translation: HE SHOULD NOT BE GETTING HURT THIS MUCH.

Last summer. Broken foot.

After I set his cleats on fire, I tried to figure out how I was going to handle taking care of a newborn, a two year old, a three year old, and a thirty-one year old on top of handling normal house stuff and actual work-work.  I want to be on top of everything LIKE A BOSS, as opposed to crying in the corner and wheezing into my old stuffed bear.  (Sidenote: His name is Puffy.)

Last night I was all, “YEAH!  I’m going to meal plan for the week!”

And this morning I was all, “YEAH!  Lemme brown these pork chops and throw them in the slow cooker!”

And then my slow cooker was all, “I’m actually dead now.  I died.”

See?  That’s what I get for attempting to cook.  Take out fajitas all day, every day, baby.  Just kidding, mostly.  I threw all that action right in a skillet.

I’m going to take a little time tonight and have a little one-on-one chat with God.  Thanks for my fantastic little family.  Please let Jack’s surgeon be super attentive and bright-eyed and have extra loads of smartness in his brain while he is doing vomit-inducing things to my husband’s knee.

For real.  Jack was watching all of these videos on YouTube and wanted me to watch.  No, thanks, Jack.  It’s 3am and I’m changing a diaper and I don’t really have the brain capacity or the soundness of stomach to watch that right now.

It’ll be fine.  Jack and I have stormed through a few hospital visits (one day I’ll tell you about the time he accidentally hit me in the face and we were in the ER and the police were all “Blink twice if you need help”) and kids are resilient and so on, and so forth.  :)  A couple of my friends have rallied to help by offering to take Rembot to dance class and Sharky to the park and that sort of thing.  Bless them a lot a lot.

Seriously, COME OVER RIGHT NOW because these pork chops are amazing.

“He dropped $400 on his mom for Mother’s Day, but nothing for me.  Finally, as the day was coming to a close, I asked him what the deal was.  He looked shocked and said, ‘But you’re not MY mother.’”

“I got nothing.  Except hurt feelings, so I went out and bought myself a Keurig.”

“My husband got me a card on behalf of himself and the kids, and then went out to play golf.”

No one said “OH AND MY HUSBAND’S A DEADBEAT.”  It’s kind of a fact of life.  Some guys wear superhero t-shirts tucked into pleated pants.  Some guys forget birthdays.  Some guys are really bad gift givers.

I am not a bad gift giver.  I love giving gifts and taking the time to pick out something the recipient will really like.  On the other hand, I lack in other areas of my life.  Like having a desire to cook, for example.  I do it because my family has to eat and Willy Wonka’s three course meal in a stick of chewing gum invention hasn’t actually come to fruition yet.  Eating, however?  I love eating.  I’m reaaaally good at eating.)

If you’re the kind of person that will be so bummed on Mother’s Day if the father of your children plans absolutely nothing, here’s how to subtly let him know how you want.

JK!  Subtle hints don’t work.  Spell it out and email it to him.   Leave him a note, but not in an obscure place.  Sharpie a message onto his windshield.

I’ve never defaced his car, but Jack needs some guidance now and again in the gift giving department.  No big deal.  I can’t flip a pancake to save my life, so I can’t be all judgey about how his gift giving skills are sub par to MY AWESOME ONES!  :)  So I made a little board on Pinterest called “Hey Husband, I Wouldn’t Hate It If You Bought Me This” where I’ve pinned a couple of things in a wide range of price points so he can have some ideas and I can still be surprised.

Of course, then he was all like AHHHH what is an Etsy!?  Who is Pinterest?, so I may have to cater to his lack of estrogen and throw something up on an Amazon Wishlist.

rub a dub dub, homies

I test drove the products (sacrificially), and the Purifying Bath and Shower Elixir is my faaaaavorite.  I use it as a body wash and it smells so good and therapeutic that I can ignore the fact that I stepped on a little beluga whale bath toy for the fourth time.

Enter to win by answering the question: What do you want for Mother’s Day?

Not a mom?  Tell me a good joke.

Do you have to be a mother to win?  Absolutely not.  You can be a mom or a not-mom or a fifty-eight year old man who wears a chartreuse bathrobe on Tuesdays.  Honey Badger don’t care.

And please do check out Maclaren on Twitter and on Twitter and on Facebook, too.  You know, in case you wanted to hang out.  :)

Disclosure: Contest closes on Wednesday, May 9th, at 11:59pm.  This is open to residents of the US, UK, and Canada.  I was not compensated for inclusion in this post, but Maclaren did send me products for review.  And because they like me.  Opinions are my own.

Can you figure out which pictures are Rembot, which ones are Sharky, and which ones are Minnie?

Don’t feel badly; I can barely distinguish who’s who, and I grew them and birthed them.  It’s kind of like I gave birth to triplets and froze the other two for later.  But, dang, they’re cute right?  I can say that without sounding obnoxious, can’t I?

:)