A Nonsensical Post For Which I Blame Mean-Spirited Elves

Hello dear readers! How was your longgggggggggggggg weekend? We did what any couple with five young children does while spending extended family time together: ENDURE.


We did NOT go shopping (well, except for food - we shop for food every 3.9 hours here). Kohl's at 2am with a bunch of crazed bargain hunters sounds worse than a week's worth of water boarding.


We DID go to McDonalds (a reward to the punks for behaving more or less admirably during a portrait session for their grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary). After the lovely woman took all the kids' orders for Happy Meals, she asked what I wanted. I wasn't that hungry - I had just had my jillion calorie Venti Mocha - so I said fries and hot chocolate. Ahem. She looked at me, patted her chest and said, "You're nursing? No, no! You need protein! You need a grilled chicken breast. How about a salad too?" Well, she spoke with such maternal authority - sort of like my mom, plus sixty pounds - so I couldn't say no. And she gave me the hot chocolate for free.




We DID endure many rounds of playing Batman Guys with Will. And learned - once again - that anyone who believes gender is a social construct does not have children: Colette played too, except instead of fighting with the guys like Will, brought some of her dolls to be Batman's "mommy."




We DID invite our church's Monsignor (pronounced Mon-ZANE-or by Will. Sort of makes one picture a crazed drunk with a bishop hat on. Our Monsignor is nothing of the sort.) over for dinner. Why? I'm not sure; probably because the Holy Spirit moved me. So Phil (who is NOT Catholic!) obligingly made his specialty - lasagna with homemade everything - and spent all of Sunday stewing, chopping, whipping and saute-ing. Finally, the hour came when Mon-ZANE-or was supposed to arrive. We waited (rather nervously, I suppose, since sinners like us reek a mile away). And then Mon-ZANE-or called to say he had to go administer last rites.

I hadn't really thought about a priest being on call like a doctor, but so they are. So if you're in town, come on over: we have a LOT of lasagna.

By the way, do you have holiday parties to go to? I have TWO: one is formal-ish for PVT's entire company at a hotel. The other is tricky: it is just for PVT's group within the company, and it is held in a private home. A very CHI CHI private home. So - holiday casual? Except the last time we went to an event there, the CHI CHI hostess was wearing a plaid shirt, denim capris, and fuchsia-streaked hair.

I DUNNO, people. But I'm sure my friends at Nordstrom will help me out.

What are You Thankful For?

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers! I hope this holiday finds you and yours healthy, with full tummies, and enough food, drink and cha-ching to meet your needs. Well, your needs and perhaps the occasional ill-advised stiletto purchase.

I'm feeling quite grateful this year. The birth of a perfect little girl, particularly after I learned the hard way not to take such events for granted, is hard to top. But so many other things: my parents, still spry and youthful. My sisters, who still accept my calls. Nordstrom.com. A bit of financial wherewithal to make an occasional purchase from Nordstrom.com.

And, of course, the five punks themselves: Heck, no, I couldn't get them in one picture.

And I am thankful for that guy who gave this brood to me, PVT. And I'm thankful for his job. And that, thus far, he actually returns HOME each night from said job.

And on those days when there's been one too many fights, one too many requests to hold "Sylvieeeeeeeeeeeeee pleasessseeeeeeeeeeeee Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa," and one too many moments where I wonder in how many ways I have gone wrong as a mother, I am thankful for:

Oh, who am I kidding.

Cheers.

A Motto to Live By

What? What's that you say? I had another child just so I could buy this onesie?

Well. There are worse reasons to procreate, aren't there?

The Night Job

My GAWSH life has been busy lately. The club has just been crazy; so so busy. I guess the desire for sex - or its facsimile - is recession-proof. I haven't gotten home before 4am the past few nights. Sure, the tips have been great, but my inner thighs are actually suffering a bit of pole burn. And this one creep is just obsessed with lap dances - I think I pinched a nerve in the small of my back last night. Hopefully his wife is back in town, because I need a break. I prefer the grayer guys who just like to talk dirty and stuff my garters with cash. I'm getting too old for all of these acrobatics and gyrations. And once my shift is done, of course the baby needs to be nursed the minute I walk in the door.

But! I'm earning some extra holiday cash, though. How else are we supposed to afford another bike, PSP games, a "Bat Cave," another Lego Star Wars abomination, a doll house, et cetera, et cetera...?

BAH HAH. Did I have you there a minute? Well, I have been busy, but you don't want to read about more soccer games, diaper changes, Walmart runs, and arguments over the merits of a banana versus a box of Nerds for a snack. Or how we are spending too much on these dang kids' Christmas presents - the little punks. Or laundry.

By the way, if you found a petrified piece of poop in the dryer, would you redo the whole load that was in the dryer when you discovered it?

What if the load had been bleached?

These are entirely hypothetical questions, of course.

A Miscellaneous Rant Which Edifies No One

I can't tell you how many times during the day this thought will flit through my head: "Oh, THAT is funny. I should blog about that." But the thought quickly scampers away, and by the time all of the children are in bed (this is abut 10:30 or 11pm lately. The older four are down by nineish; and then Sylvie, who is a happy, content, sleepy little girl throughout the day, decides it's time to party like it's 1999), I don't even know what my NAME is, let alone what I should blog about.


And, for those of you whom we pass on the street and who marvel at the number of kids we have, don't be impressed. The kids are a piece of cake. It is all the HOUSEWORK that is the killer. The laundry, the snacks, the meals, the crumbs. And the chauffeuring. If I read any more about a hands-on Hollywood mom, I will impale myself with a nose syringe. I would be the awesome cheerleading playground Mom too if I had a chef and a full time housekeeper.


Speaking of hands on, or off, I continue to be the worst soccer mom in the world. Most moms are creating intricate, gaudy trophies for the "Halloween Cup" or "Christmas Cup," or angling the coach for playing time for their kids (why? They'll just get tired! See, I told you I suck!), I am sneaking my kids out of practice early because I cannot take being a HANDS ON MOM to the three little ones on the sidelines for ninety minutes. And now Rory has been chosen for an indoor team that has practice on Friday nights from 6 to 7pm. (Coached by a lithe, gorgeous black man named Simba. Simba makes you want to sell your home and move to Ghana to follow their national soccer team. For all I know, of course, Simba was born in Oklahoma City.)


WHAT?!! Friday night practice? Haven't you heard of MARGARITA NIGHT, you soccer nutcases? Where families meet for dinner at a cheap Mexican joint, the kids scream, and mummy and daddy slurp down margaritas? NO? Where are your PRIORITIES! Even PVT, a devout fan and longtime player/goalie who has just recently sacrificed the use of an entire finger to the game (a save gone terribly awry), thinks this is a bit much.


So hopefully we will get away with missing a few practices. Because I can only give up so much of my life to soccer.


And in more totally unrelated flotsam, it is Ugg season again. UGH. I have blogged about my hatred of Uggs before, since it leads to scenarios like these:
Terrifying. But! Look at these:
That boot on the left, my friends? That is an UGG. Can you believe it? It's actually rather attractive!


But I'm not wearing it. Just in case it's a fluke.

I'll Be Sticking to Chubbygirl Margaritas, Thankyouverymuch

Well, after plunking down my $15 for a 750 milliliter bottle of Skinnygirl Margarita, I was quite excited to try this tantalizing-sounding beverage. So last night at the appropriate hour of 5 pm, I popped it open amidst the shrieking cacophony of evening chaos.

Oh my GAWD, my friends. This shizz is VILE. I was sorely disappointed. And I don't even want to think about what Bethenny earns from hawking this brew. It tastes like...rubbing alcohol with a hint of lime? The melted, discarded ice liquid at the end of a real margarita with a twist of ethanol? It is TERRIBLE. PVT was trying to explain to me how it is sweetened with agave nectar...I don't know. Whatever is going on there, it's not working. I was tempted to actually pour it down the drain, but since it is a sin of mortal proportion to waste BOOZE in our family (a love of hooch runs way back), I will probably keep it around. And try to foist it off on you should you come to visit. Or, in a moment of desperation, mix it for myself with Diet Mountain Dew (my secret weapon mixer. That stuff is awesome.). So I will stick with my jillion calorie margaritas, and my arse will just have to deal.

***

Now, hey! How about some pictures of a few kiddies? Lest you think I just stand around assessing cocktail options all day:

Isn't the double gap grin the cutest thing in the world? The teeth, alas, will likely grow in before Christmas and the rousing rendition of "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth..."

My delicious stuffed goose of a two month old, who has doubled her birth weight: Doctors like babies to double their birth weight in four months. She's very advanced, you know.

And our resident redhead, hamming it up for the camera while modeling some of the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale selections I bought her (if you are a pediatric dentist, please ignore the omnipresent juice baba):

Not only do I receive daily - HOURLY - comments on her hair, now I've been getting comments on her limpid blue eyes and luscious lashes.
Good LORD. It's like living with a character out of a fairy tale. As her preschool teacher told me, we have our work cut out for us.

Like a Traveling Nudie Beach (Without the French Je Ne Sais Quoi)

One would think after breastfeeding four children for almost a year each, I would have NO issues feeding my fifth. And from a purely nutritional standpoint, thankfully, I don't: I have always produced gallons of milk which my children have sucked down so eagerly and ravenously that they have all looked like offspring of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man after a few weeks.

But to breastfeed gracefully and in public has never been particularly easy for me, although I do it anyway. Some more modest and elegant mothers I know pump and bring bottles out in public, but I am too damn lazy to pump if I don't have to (which means if I am not working in an office for 8 hours, I am not pumping).

So: I always have milk stains all over my shirt, since I never remember to replace my nursing pads after they have been soaked through. And I managed to get the most ill-fitting horrible nursing bras from Motherhood Maternity - this place should be burnt down in the middle of the night, my friends - with straps that never stay up.

None of this would be TOO bad - the straps and the stains - but it is often much worse: the other day in Target, for example, where I took the baby out of her car carrier and started nursing her while I pushed the cart. Yes, I walk and nurse at the same time - a practice my mother abhors. I tactfully threw a blanket over my shoulder and meandered along until I saw something - probably a shoe - I wanted to inspect when the blanket fell to the floor, exposing me, my floppy c-section belly, et CETERA, to all of Target.

Or worse: at one son's soccer game last week, I spent most of the second half nursing the baby on our blanket on the sidelines. After the game, we packed up the five kids, many balls, bags, and assorted snacks and jetsam, and made our achingly slow way to the parking lot. When we got to the car, PVT looked at me in horror: apparently I had forgotten - as usual - to restrap my bra, and my entire boob had come up OVER my shirt's scoop neckline. How long had I been flashing the whole soccer field? WHO KNOWS, my friends.

Fortunately I have finally received my much improved nursing bra with better coverage. And maybe I'll occasionally remember to restrap it. So if you see me walking around it with my boob hanging out, just avert your head and move along. Or, better yet, LET ME KNOW. I apparently have NO IDEA whether I am clothed or otherwise.

My Latest Career Aspiration: A Real Housewife!

Thank you for all the birthday wishes, my friends! I like Logical Libby's wisdom: "My take is the best is yet to come." What a good way to live.

In other news, yesterday I was at the booze store picking up some Chateau Franzia when I noticed this tantalizing bottle:

The "Skinnygirl Margarita!" This concoction was "invented" by Bethenny Frankel of Real Housewives of New York fame. Has anyone tried this pre-mixed version? I'm intrigued since my favorite margaritas are of the jillion and forty calorie variety, not a mere hundred. But does it taste like diet soda? Is it worth drinking? I will have to conduct a taste test.

Speaking of the always cheezy, smutty and delightful Real Housewives franchise, I am addicted to the latest Housewife installment: the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills! This one is awfully entertaining. Camille Grammer (wife, well now ex, of Kelsey) has four nannies - for her two kids! And she doesn't WORK, as far as I can tell. She plays tennis with a hot instructor and talks about how much she "gives back" and "never does anything for herself." And! She hired a surrogate to birth her children so she wouldn't ruin her hot bod!

This stuff is awesome.

And then there's Taylor, who threw a $60,000 fourth birthday party for her daughter. Oh, the little daughter Kennedy looked so LOST and sad at this birthday party. The sole semi-grounded cast member, Kim, spent a mere $12,000 on her two year old's party. The crazy money and nuttiness are so much FUN to watch.

So, Bravo, when is the casting call for South Tulsa? What? What's that you say? It's too...BORING here? Too many wholesome churchgoers; too many family soccer games and football practices, too many Wednesday night bible studies? AARGH. I know! Surely there's enough drama in my house for at least half a show...and there has to be SOMEONE else in Tulsa who is not quite as squeaky clean as all that? Anyone? Anyone?

When I am 60 This Will Seem Young

Happy (gulp!) THIRTY SEVENTH Birthday to ME, my friends! As a dear sorority sister posted on my Facebook page, "This calls for another kid!"

BAHAH. Let me just go fetch PVT from the roof before he jumps.

Anyhoo, I am really good at self-indulging and getting myself presents. Or finding excuses to ingest horrifying things like that jillion calorie eggnog latte (nothing like starting to ingest my yearly quota of eggnog in early November).

Then I took a cue from my sister and bought a smorgasbord of stuff from the Half Yearly Sale (although all I got for myself was a good nursing bra. Woo hoo! But just the process of all the clicking on darling deals that I won't find in godforsaken Tulsa is really FUN.)

And I skipped my weekly weigh in - because, well, phooey. I am too hard on myself when it comes to losing the baby weight. I can fit into my PRE-partum jeans - sort of, just please don't look at my arse, since I think those are panty lines.

So we went out to lick margarita salt and slurp salsa with our dear neighbors. And life is good: I have five healthy kids, a wonderful PVT, a house. I may have some serious eye creases, and there may be Botox in my future, but as I approach (gulp!) forty, life looks pretty good.

The only thing I do wish, though, that I felt more of a connection to this town I'm living in. Outside of a handful of good friends, I feel like there is nothing rooting me here. And it's my fault, really; I could be more involved in my church, or volunteer at school, or find that perfect 10-hour per week job. Bah! But it is just too easy to burrow into my house and not emerge for days. Of course anything requiring too much time right now is close to impossible. But anything for my brain to think about outside these four walls and its SEVEN inhabitants would be good - because when all I think about is children, I start thinking everyone has whooping cough.

And I suppose that will come in a few years with a bit of effort on my part...when I am FORTY.

Caught in A Brief Nanosecond of Peace. And a Nordstrom Sale.

See? They aren't ALWAYS at each others' throats.

Now I just need a few more boys to fill out an entire team.

Ahem.

***

My sister Tarzhay Miss alerted me to the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale today - even before Nordstrom themselves let me know. Apparently she did a lot of damage online this morning - before 8:30 am. Go Tarzhay Miss! This is their standard markdown sale...so take a peek. If you dare.