PVT on a Diet

My husband is a good looking dude, internet. He is a sturdy six footer with strong arms to protect me and the spawn from tornadoes. He isn't SKINNY, or hasn't been since I've known him (he says before he started drinking beer in college he was). And that's how I like me men - big, strong, substantive. I can't say I'm usually attracted to

FAT guys (a bit of Netanyahu paunch notwithstanding), but I do like them BIG. Like my SUV.

Ahem.

AT ANY RATE...last Monday PVT decided he was going to lose weight. I am not sure what the impetus was; perhaps there is a hot new admin at the office? I can only speculate. Once PVT's mind is made up, it is set. I do not share this characteristic. I might want to firm up some body part, or make some sort of virtuous self sacrifice, but I will not actually be able to ACT upon any act of self-deprivation without much gnashing of teeth and internal angst.

PVT, though? In nine days he has lost almost EIGHT pounds. How, you might ask? It's so boring, but it will save you the $24 you would spend on buying the latest "I Lost 32 pounds on the Organic Green Grapefruit Tea Diet" book. He is just meticulously counting calories. He writes down every single bite he eats after measuring out the calories of whatever he is consuming. Today he came home (from a whole day of work, you know!) and said, "I'm up to 50 calories today!" I had decided to count my own calories out of curiosity and I was already up to 1,480. Suddenly I'm living with Man Twiggy.

I am unsure where this quest will end - hopefully while he still outweighs me? - but he is doing SPECTACULAR. I might have to get that darn boob job to be as EQUALLY hot as he is.

Isn't that what marriage is all about?

Babies, Babes, etc.

Coletti di Spoletti had her best night EVER last night! She slept from 9 to 3:30 am in her OWN CRIB, and then I brought her to my room, nursed her, and put her in her little crib next to my bed where she slept until 7:15am. WOO HOO! Our first non-organic, non-granola, no co-sleeping night! How old is she, you ask? 9 weeks? NO NINE MONTHS for freak's sake. Ah well.

Of course, the gods of parenting, those cruel, guffawing thugs, saw to it that we STILL didn't sleep; a thunderstorm sent two boys to our bed, so PVT went UPSTAIRS to sleep in one of their beds. Musical beds yet again.

In other non news, don't baby cankles whack your latent mama hormones up into a frenzy? I could have 4 more (children, feet, what have you) when I look at these:

Porn for Mamas (you know, when we're not looking at Peter Krause covered in Cool Whip).The baby is sporting NINE DOLLAR socks that Memere bought her on her latest visit. Too bad we couldn't actually afford to clothe her after that purchase.

Things that Go BUMP in the Night (besides me)

Ah, us Mamas. Even the most sainted (a group I don't profess to be in!) have their secrets. Mine? My children do not stop taking bottles until they are ready to get their drivers' permit. They have never taken pacifiers (in fact find them a bit comical), don't suck their thumbs, but they love their BABAS.

So FINALLY the bottle monster came to our house the other night. He took all of Will's bottles and gave them to babies in need. I hope he didn't give them to YOUR baby, however, as I think my bottles had that BPA or some other deadly, evil plastic (I am terrible of keeping abreast with the latest threat that BIG CORPORATIONS are inflicting on our children).

And Will himself is doing just fine, thanks to the vodka tonics that have replaced his precious nightly babas.

MOPS Flop

In my continuing efforts to break into the inner circles of South Tulsa Yummy Mummydom, I decided to go to a South Tulsa MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) meeting. Sounded like fun! Isn't it a bunch of women sitting around yapping with their frappucinos and ignoring their children, who are busy running around and fighting over a bunch of new toys? Perfect way to spend a Wednesday morning.

So, while the "big" boys were in school, I took the babies to the local Baptist church where the meeting was. I walked in and brightly asked the nearest mother-looking type where the MOPS meeting was. "Oh, you drop that boy in that room, bring the baby over to that room, and the fellowship meeting is around in Fellowship Hall."

Holy holiness, internet. I wasn't ready at all for that. For one thing, I hate leaving my kids in random places with random people I don't know with even randomer germs. Anal, I know, when I know logically they'll be perfectly fine. I just wasn't ready to prepared to abandon them this morning, especially the baby.

And FELLOWSHIP? I was raised Catholic in the atheist Northwest, lived in California with tan agnostics, and in Manhattan with conservative (untan) Jews. So Fellowship? Rightly or wrongly, for me it conjures up images of women in a dank church hall daintily nibbling on sugar cookies, swapping tear jerker stories, and lacing their conversation with references to being saved and Bible verses. In other words, it scares the SHITE out of me! Sort of like an AA meeting without the good boozy horror stories.

So I thanked the nice woman, pretended to wander down the hall in search of Fellowshipping in Fellowship Hall, and then quickly turned around with my very confused two year old and sprinted for the parking lot.

So if you know of any MOPS groups where no one Fellowships, do let me know.

Battered Mama Syndrome

Ah, Gymboree. So seductive! So charming! So beguiling and drool-inspiring are your clothes...but like a BAD boyfriend, how absolutely ABUSIVE you are to your customers!

I told you recently (and laughably, yes) that I have just discovered this cash vortex. While my mother was here, I actually went to the dreaded local mall and eagerly marched into Gymboree, all CHILDREN in tow, to redeem the Gymbucks I had recently acquired online. I painstakingly went through the store, going through sale racks, finding things for EACH child. After about an hour of fielding the "when are we DONE MAWWWWWWWma?" question, I brought my loot to the counter and proudly presented my $25 in GYMBUCKS to apply to my order. The chipper clerk looked at me and said, "Oh, you need your receipt and packing slip to redeem Gymbucks from online orders." WWWWWWWHat? Do I look like someone who has the time or patience to read the fine print, or keep a PACKING slip for cripes' sake? The clerk asked, "Can I hold these for you?" So I leaned across the counter to smack her (softly, of course), and said, "I am NOT coming back here to redo this whole agonizing experience."

Now, internet, I KNOW about fine print. I'm married to an attorney, and I'm a CPA. There's a time and place for fine print. Like buying a house! Or a car! But GYMBOREE caters to harried mothers with chocolate stained sleeves, oui? Why can't you just bring in your blasted coupon without a receipt? It's $25 off after you spend $50, after all. It isn't $1,994, or a free sample of crack. And why couldn't the clerk take pity on me (as a Nordstrom clerk would), and override my sale to take the $25 off "just this once" for a first time know-nothing Gymbucks user?

So I wrote an impassioned email to Gymboree (what else is a stay at home mom supposed to do? Besides, um, pine for Nordstrom). And they responded less that 8 hours later with $25 in Gymbucks for me.

So that's nice...but I still urge them to revisit their dumb receipt policy! Because WHO HAS THE FREAKING TIME.

But my gawd their clothes...

Yes, that's a Worm on Your Ear

The sole vestiges of my parents' visit:

Yes, those are sticky creepy crawlies from Wal Mart; my parents bought 83 bags and the boys had a marvelous time throwing them all over the ceiling. And they leave an oily residue everywhere...which is no big deal since I'm resigned to living in creative squalor for the next 18 years.

I'm not sure my parents would have allowed such a greasy good time when I was little, however... grandparents are a bit more LAISSEZ FAIRE.

My Self-Serving Warm and Fuzzy Post

Someone told me recently that I was an "excellent" mother. Ha! I may have had a period of seven minutes last week when I wasn't yelling at, nagging or ignoring my children, in which case I guess I would be an OK mother. "Excellent" was some serious hyperbole. I shall protect the name of the commenter as they were likely piss-arse drunk when they said this.


But internet! It made me feel so GOOD. Yes, it's cliche that this mamahood thing is so thankless. But when I was told I wasn't doing TOO horrible a job, I just felt like I was being doused with warm white chocolate syrup all over. AAHHHHHHHHHHhhh. You just don't hear those nice sentiments when you're down in the poop and snot and muck.


So, fellow mummies, remember to compliment that pregnant mom at the park who just wants to sit on her bum but is pushing her kid on the swings, or that other mom who is trying to maintain alacrity during a tornado tantrum. You may make her day.


This picture, not my mothering, is what IS excellent though - #2 pushing #4 (photo again courtesy of Ravishing Red Ann, who I am going to hire assuming her salary requirements are zero).

I'm Hoping for Frequent Bouts of Depression

Sheesh I am one lucky chick. PVT, sensing my "blahs" of late, booked a trip on the sly to a SPA. Not just any spa. A Bliss Spa (of Marcia Kilgore fame) at the new W Scottsdale:

So to get there I would have to fly. Sans kids. (I have tried to take an infant to a facial; not surprisingly, infants don't care much that your pores are in desperate need of excavation). And stay at this HOTEL! Is it not the sexiest thing you ever ever seen?

The hotel simmering in the Scottsdale sunset (sorry about the over-alliteration):

The pool, cheekily called "Wet:"


The bar, "Shade," where apparently illicit acts appropriate only to poor lighting take place:

And look at the lobby! What kind of drugs do they give the receptionists to numb them to this blazing pink?

Within walking distance of this W? Oui, PVT knows me well. Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall - which happens to sport not only a deluscious Nordstrom, but also a Neiman's, and soon even a BARNEY'S (which I can only appreciate from the sidelines):So...am I actually going to attend this Jill-wet-dream of a trip? YIKES. I would have to wean the baby by Memorial Day weekend...a worthy and hopefully attainable goal anyway. But methinks it's a bit too soon to run away from this whacko family I've begotten...perhaps in the fall? And I'm just not sure I could go to such a self-indulgent resort without PVT himself. After all, one of the pillars of our marriage is a shared talent for sitting by the pool, drinking overpriced drinks named after erupting volcanoes, and capping off a rough day at a pricey restaurant.

I could probably TRY, though.

Summering, VT Style

Your summer home is in East Hampton, you say? Martha's Vineyard? Kennebunkport?


Well, dahlings, PUH-SHAW. Mine is SO much more convenient. It is just steps away, in my own BACKYARD:


You can even see it from my kitchen; what a gorgeous vista, oui?


All of our friends are CLAMORING for an invitation to our summer place. We put these on the wall behind our house:

Yes, dears, perhaps you'll be lucky enough to enjoy cocktails on the pied-a-terre too...if I like you enough.

Life Up to the Brim

An egg hunt with friends...





...and a happy Easter to all, from Chez VT to Vous:




Photos courtesy of Ravishing Red Ann and her new kick-arse camera.

All I Needed was a Tsp. of RDJ

Internet (er, Molly and Missy), THANK YOU so much for your concern for my malaise. I am slowly feeling MUCH better, having identified the two root causes of my angst. And little things (it's always the little things) have transpired to make me feel MUCH better: the arrival of my beauty swag from Nordstrom; the arrival of Colette's Easter Gymboree wardrobe.

Oh, and the arrival of my PARENTS! With Captain Bill and Memere here, there is a lot of free booze, unlimited childcare and general uproariousness. Woo hoo.

And look what my Dad brought for me:

How could anyone remain depressed with him on the fridge?

Funk U

Internet, I'm in a bit of a funk! Now, nothing MACRO bad is going on; the children are healthy (hallelujah!), the husband is employed (decently, and with medical insurance!). Ah, but Confucius say: "No food, one problem. Food, many problems."

So my many problems - even PROBLEM is too strong a word - more like nit-picks, non-problems, are not happening in Tulsa, Oklahoma, which I have been feeling rather...NON about lately. No, nada, not, nilch, Nietzsche?

I shall snap out of it soon, and will be back to my more or less chipper, shallow self faster than you can say O NORDSTROM WHERE ART THOU AND WHY ARE YOU OPENING A STORE IN PEABODY, MASS, FOR FREAK'S SAKE.

It's Actually Palm and Lava Sunday

Apparently Jesus' return to Jerusalem was a bit more dramatic than has heretofore been recorded; that's an erupting volcano in the background, as depicted by Rory during his Sunday school class:



We were just relieved that Jesus wasn't carrying a light saber, too.

Our Triumphant Holy Day (Ugly Baskets Notwithstanding)

PVT is almost home, and his absence was a smashing success! I had three fervent wishes: 1) that the kids stayed healthy; 2) that we weren't burglarized; and 3) that I didn't lose my freaking mind. ALL THREE were granted. PVT called one night to crow about his executive suite at a Sofitel in Palo Alto (to which he had been ferried by ESCALADE, for cripes' sake!), while I was nursing, changing a poop and reading "The Diggingest Dog." So I think I have a bit of a "me time" deficit to work at. Ahem.

Now that I don't have to think about mere SURVIVAL, I can think about ... Easter! What reminded me? It came in the mail yesterday, worse than a fashion magazine, more evil than Glamour: Pottery Barn Kids. Its pages leer at me, mocking my own kids' bedrooms, which are mish mashes of odd accumulations and hand-me-downs, their walls decorated with self-made art affixed with tacks. I have to hide that thing so the kiddies don't bring it out as Exhibit A in their future therapy sessions.

But I thought at least I could afford to get my kids some adorable personalized Easter baskets, to replace our pathetic collection of mismatched baskets from Walgreen's. But I AM TOO LATE! Their Easter baskets and personalized liners are all SOLD OUT. So I looked a bit more on the internet, and unless I want to spend about $150 on personalized baskets, I think I'm out of luck this year.

Luckily Easter is about the Risen Lord and NEW LIFE, right? I suspect my kids will buy that as long as the Easter Bunny is still generous with the loot, ugly baskets or not.