We're turning pages
On Becoming Fearless
by Arianna Huffington

Do you hear what I hear?
Tangerine by David Mead


They made me do it...


 




These are a few of my favorite things

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© Copyright Fluid Pudding 2001-2006

Quick Letter to the Person Who Recently Accepted a Position on Jeff's Team at Work

Before you get started, I believe there are a few things you need to know.

1. If you walk into Jeff's office and he's on the telephone talking about whores, don't be concerned. He's talking to me. I check in with him once each day, and we often speak of whores. Nothing to worry about.

2. It's not my fault that your new team doesn't have homemade baked goods on a weekly basis. I'm always like, "Hey! Jeff! Do you want me to make muffins/biscotti/cookies/fancy pants bread for your team people?" And he's always like, "No. Food shifts focus, and we've got a job to do."

3. Do you think I'm starting to look younger? The answer to that question is Yes!

4. Jeff's wedding ring has been known to fly from his finger during especially animated phone calls. (Not the calls during which we discuss whores, but the more work-related calls that have nothing to do with me.) He may ask you to help him find the wedding ring. This is not part of your job description. You don't have to crawl around on his office floor searching for a symbol of our love. If you do the crawl and find the ring, however, you will be paid in biscotti. I will sneak it to you when Jeff isn't looking.

5. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I open my eyes and try to convince myself that we have a loose squirrel in the house. Deep down, I know there's no squirrel. But come on! Loose squirrel! Wait! Did you hear that?! Could it be, oh, I don't know--a loose squirrel?!?!?! How will we capture it? Is it eating our food? Did you hear that?! Anyway, this squirrel thing has nothing to do with you. I just want you to know where we're coming from over here.

Best wishes,
FP

In Bed With Jerry Lewis

Last night in my dreams I was on a neverending vacation with Billy Crystal, Zach Braff, and Jerry Lewis. We spent our days driving around America in a tiny car. In the evenings, we would enter a hotel and register for a room. We would then flip coins to determine bed mates. And although there was obvious chemistry between Mr. Braff and myself, I always flipped the coin and ended up in bed with Jerry Lewis. (By the way, if I ever write a novel (and I won't), I will title it "In Bed With Jerry Lewis".) It was so exhausting. Stuck in a car day after day. Losing the coin toss each and every night and ending up in bed with Jerry.

In real world news, on Sunday our next door neighbor parked her car on the street. (It gets better.) A few minutes later, the car fell out of gear, backed into our mailbox, and parked itself in our front yard. On Tuesday, my dad came over and replaced the mailbox for us.

Yesterday, our gutter guy showed up (eight days late) to install our new gutters. (He told me that he was late because of a dental appointment and traffic. That must have been One Hell of a Dental Appointment!) As he backed out of our driveway, he ran into our mailbox and knocked it over. When I walked outside and flagged him down, all he could say was, "Oh! Hey! I didn't know anyone was home! Ha! Um, can I have a glass of water?!"

In bed with Jerry Lewis.

Freak Outs and Fatwas

Today is the six year anniversary of my “I’m Going to be Thirty and I’ve Never Lived Outside of Missouri” freak out move to Nashville, Tennessee.

Six years ago today I left Jeff’s apartment feeling very heavy-hearted, for I really had no idea when I would be seeing him again.

Six years ago today I wouldn’t let anyone ride with me during the five hour drive to Nashville. Looking back, it’s sort of funny. I had four family members accompanying me to help out during the move. I wouldn’t let any of them share the trip with me, because I wanted to choose my own music on the road, and I really didn’t feel like making conversation.

Six years ago today I listened to every one of the many mix tapes that Jeff had made for me. I also listened to a lot of Pavement.

Six years ago today, after everything was out of the truck and into the apartment, my family went to their hotel and I sat on my couch and started reading The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie. To this day, that book means a lot to me for many reasons, including: 1. It was the first book I read while living 300 miles away from all of my friends and family; 2. It was the only book that accompanied me on my final family vacation to Dauphin Island; and 3. After Jeff moved to Nashville and we got married and we moved back to St. Louis and I became pregnant with Meredith and was suffering through the “I just peed, but I think I need to pee again” stage of pregnancy, I was able to get my copy of the book signed by the real Salman Rushdie. And although he wouldn’t write “Salman says ‘Kiss me deadly!’” on the inside front cover, he DID write “Salman Rushdie”, and I suppose I can’t really ask for anything more.

Off on a tangent: It was during that Salman Rushdie reading/signing that I first heard Jeff use the phrase “In the spirit of reciprocity…”. To this day, I try to incorporate that phrase into nearly every conversation. It makes me sound so unintentionally benevolent!

Guy at the Gas Station: Fourteen dollars in gas and a Twix bar?

Me: In the spirit of reciprocity, I would like to offer you exactly fourteen dollars and eighty seven cents.

Guy at the Gas Station: What?

Me: Salman says, “Kiss me deadly!”

Off the tangent: So, anyway, The Ground Beneath Her Feet isn’t my favorite book, but it’s probably the one book on my shelf that stirs up the most nostalgia. And I know I could probably get, like, ten bucks or something for it on e-Bay (actually, I might get twelve dollars due to the fatwa thing), but I’d rather keep it as a symbol of my most proliferous times.

Freak Outs and Fatwas

Today is the six year anniversary of my “I’m Going to be Thirty and I’ve Never Lived Outside of Missouri” freak out move to Nashville, Tennessee.

Six years ago today I left Jeff’s apartment feeling very heavy-hearted, for I really had no idea when I would be seeing him again.

Six years ago today I wouldn’t let anyone ride with me during the five hour drive to Nashville. Looking back, it’s sort of funny. I had four family members accompanying me to help out during the move. I wouldn’t let any of them share the trip with me, because I wanted to choose my own music on the road, and I really didn’t feel like making conversation.

Six years ago today I listened to every one of the many mix tapes that Jeff had made for me. I also listened to a lot of Pavement.

Six years ago today, after everything was out of the truck and into the apartment, my family went to their hotel and I sat on my couch and started reading The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie. To this day, that book means a lot to me for many reasons, including: 1. It was the first book I read while living 300 miles away from all of my friends and family; 2. It was the only book that accompanied me on my final family vacation to Dauphin Island; and 3. After Jeff moved to Nashville and we got married and we moved back to St. Louis and I became pregnant with Meredith and was suffering through the “I just peed, but I think I need to pee again” stage of pregnancy, I was able to get my copy of the book signed by the real Salman Rushdie. And although he wouldn’t write “Salman says ‘Kiss me deadly!’” on the inside front cover, he DID write “Salman Rushdie”, and I suppose I can’t really ask for anything more.

Off on a tangent: It was during that Salman Rushdie reading/signing that I first heard Jeff use the phrase “In the spirit of reciprocity…”. To this day, I try to incorporate that phrase into nearly every conversation. It makes me sound so unintentionally benevolent!

Guy at the Gas Station: Fourteen dollars in gas and a Twix bar?

Me: In the spirit of reciprocity, I would like to offer you exactly fourteen dollars and eighty seven cents.

Guy at the Gas Station: What?

Me: Salman says, “Kiss me deadly!”

Off the tangent: So, anyway, The Ground Beneath Her Feet isn’t my favorite book, but it’s probably the one book on my shelf that stirs up the most nostalgia. And I know I could probably get, like, ten bucks or something for it on e-Bay (actually, I might get twelve dollars due to the fatwa thing), but I’d rather keep it as a symbol of my most proliferous times.

Bloody Heads and Pizza

Last night I had a dream in which Jonathan cut my hair. Halfway through the cut, Oprah decided that she wanted to cut one side of my head while Jonathan cut the other. So my hair kept getting shorter and shorter and was very uneven and part of my head was bleeding and all of a sudden I was wearing a very sheer black shirt and trying to walk down a long hallway while wearing slutty high-heeled boots. I kept falling and crawling and standing up and walking and falling and crawling, etc. And everyone complimented my shaggy hair, and no one seemed to notice the falling or the dried blood, so I changed into my pajamas and waited for a pizza to arrive.

I blame this dream on Carole, who got me hooked on Blow Out, and on Poppymom, who made the incredible fruit cobbler that I devoured shortly before going to bed.

"I want plums! OJ! More OJ! Wonderful!"

MC knows her right hand  from her left, yet she has no idea how to use her "inside voice".

MC can identify each member of The Beach Boys, yet she is unable to pick Fruit Loops off of the floor.

MC can count to twenty, yet she cannot grasp the concept that anything (and everything) that comes out of her nose should be placed in a tissue.

MC can work the DVD player and the VCR, yet she has no idea how to use her "inside voice".

She truly has NO IDEA how to use her "inside voice".

And today I'm not sure what I would rather have: a two year old screaming random thoughts every few seconds, or a boring fraternity boyfriend calling me "Babe" and forcing me to do shots of Jagermeister as his "brothers" sit around on a stinky couch wearing backwards baseball caps and talking about how much they dig the Dave Matthews Band.

To Klatch, Perhaps

For the first time in over four months, I believe I'm going engage in a bit of knit and chat with my fellow Stitch Klatchers tonight. The possibility of a few hours away gives me those happy goosebumpy things. And if my plans fall through for some unpredictable child-related reason, tonight will find me sitting on the couch eating Weight Watchers ice cream bars and watching Gilmore Girls. And that's not so bad, either.

Have I been knitting? Not much, really.

I DID finish a chunky sweater (that is in desperate need of blocking) for Harper last week. By the way, it will NEVER fit over her head.
 

I'm currently working on scrap yarn mittens. And let me just say this: When I throw these mittens on in a few months, I fully expect that everyone who sees them will want to be my best friend and/or dancing partner. Because as I sit and knit them, I'm all full of smiley Paul Simon-esque Ladysmith Black Mambazo cheer. And if that's not infectious, I don't know what is.

Only Five Months Until Christmas!!!

This morning I learned that I didn't receive all of my e-mail last week, and the e-mails I sent didn't actually travel to the intended recipients. Also, if you have sent e-mail to me in the past month, it was probably destroyed during Hard Drive Nasty Blow 2005. In other words, I apologize to any and all who have sent mail and received nothing in return. I may have never received your message, or your message may have been lost.

Also, for those who have expressed an inability to leave comments, please know that the comment form is at the very end of the comments. (I tried to not use the word "comments" so often in that last sentence, but I failed, didn't I? Um, comments! Again! Comments!) Anyway, the confirmation code is "fluidpop". One more thing! Fluid Pudding Dot Com is not an invitation only club. If you're having problems seeing anything, let me know.

Oh! And another thing! I only receive mail at "angela at fluid pudding dot com" or "angie at fluid pudding dot com". If you've been sending to "fluidpudding at fluid pudding dot com" or "Meredith at fluid pudding dot com" or "Whatever else you might possibly be using at fluid pudding dot com", well, I'm not getting those messages.

Let me know if there are any more problems. Really. I love problems! (The one hour season premiere of Laguna Beach is tonight on MTV! But that's beside the point!)

Now that I've cleaned house and read the rules, it's time for a picture of MC in her turtle pool. Five minutes after this picture was taken, she sat down in the water and her non-swimmy diaper soaked up nearly all of the pool water--making her all bootylicious, pissed off, and done.

Just a Test. Nothing to See. Move on.

This should all be in Ariel. No gingerbready serif crap. No one should see any type of flourishy panache. Test. Test. Test.

Next up? Testing a picture. Just because.


It's all about the hard drive or something. Nothing more to see.

Letter to a Superstar

Dear Tom Cruise,

This morning I dragged my (still packing the pregnancy pounds) tired ass out of bed after getting not enough sleep. My convenient alarm clock comes in the form of a two year old little girl who swings her bedroom door open at 5:45 and yells things like "I need to get more sleep!" She has no idea what that sentence means, Mr. Cruise, but she has heard her mother say it many (many) times.

After crawling out of bed, feeding my twelve week old baby, and watching part of our Wiggles DVD for the gajillionith time, I decided to take a quick shower. The second I turned off the water, the two year old was in the bathroom crying. She was crying because the baby was crying. And when the baby hears the two year old cry, she cries even harder, which makes the two year old cry even harder, and all of the crying makes my boobs start spraying. My boobs have a mind of their own, Mr. Cruise, and like everyone's grandmother, they assume that all cries can be fixed with food. So there I stood--wet, naked, and spraying--in a tiny little bathroom with a little screaming meanie. Have your boobs ever sprayed, Mr. Cruise? If you think being sprayed with water on the red carpet is humiliating, well, you should try having your boobs saturate your shirt simply because you hear a baby cry. It truly is a sight to see.

After getting dressed, I realized that today was our appointment at the photography studio. Fast forward to the studio, where my baby decided to cry during the entire appointment. So, there I stood--spraying and smiling and saying things like, "Say cheese, Meredith! Cheeeeeese!!!" And what I WANTED to say was, "Bourbon, please. Bring it."

After the pictures were taken, my mom and I took the girls to eat. I ordered a vegetable panini. The waitress brought me a chicken panini. Since I'm currently going through a hormonal shift where chicken tastes like dog and my upper lip sweats a lot, I had to send the sandwich back to the kitchen. By the time my vegetable panini came to the table, the baby was crying, Meredith was becoming fragile, and my mom had finished her meal. I boxed up my panini and took it home, and by the time I found time to eat, the bread was soggy and the vegetables had weird butter bubbles on them. I had five chocolate chip cookies for lunch.

I've spent the afternoon jumping on the couch and screaming "I love Katie, Oprah!!!", but it doesn't seem to make me stop wanting to ram my fist through a wall. Please recommend the appropriate vitamins and/or exercises.

I thought Cocktail was cheesy, but I sort of dug your work in Magnolia.

You and I were both adults with orthodontia,

-your little buddy FP 

Reason #423 Why I Should Go Back to Church

Unlike my glass, Jeff's glass is always at least half full. And because of his undying optimism, he decided to ignore the death of the hard drive. He flipped the computer on this morning and immediately started screaming for me to retrieve our portable hard drive. Apparently, our laptop was working in Safe Mode, and the dead hard drive was moaning, but working! (Let me just say that I almost typed something about the hard drive pulling a Schiavo, but some things are a bit too tasteless.)

I'm proud to report that Jeff was able to retrieve most of the baby pictures before the hard drive died (again).

This evening he was able to retrieve most of his work files before the hard drive died (again).

Tomorrow morning he will attempt to retrieve my e-mail before it once again dies.

I wanted to thank you all for your words of encouragement.

If Jeff wasn't such a smiling mountain mover, I would totally be whoring myself out on the east side tonight to pay for hard drive maintenance. I wonder if the lactation thing would have been a selling point for the prostitution hounds? Also, I have those excellent c-section and appendectomy scars that are just begging for kisses!

I'll keep you updated on our progress. 

 

Reason #423 Why I Should Go Back to Church

Unlike my glass, Jeff's glass is always at least half full. And because of his undying optimism, he decided to ignore the death of the hard drive. He flipped the computer on this morning and immediately started screaming for me to retrieve our portable hard drive. Apparently, our laptop was working in Safe Mode, and the dead hard drive was moaning, but working! (Let me just say that I almost typed something about the hard drive pulling a Schiavo, but some things are a bit too tasteless.)

I'm proud to report that Jeff was able to retrieve most of the baby pictures before the hard drive died (again).

This evening he was able to retrieve most of his work files before the hard drive died (again).

Tomorrow morning he will attempt to retrieve my e-mail before it once again dies.

I wanted to thank you all for your words of encouragement.

If Jeff wasn't such a smiling mountain mover, I would totally be whoring myself out on the east side tonight to pay for hard drive maintenance. I wonder if the lactation thing would have been a selling point for the prostitution hounds? Also, I have those excellent c-section and appendectomy scars that are just begging for kisses!

I'll keep you updated on our progress. 

 

Reason #423 Why I Should Go Back to Church

Unlike my glass, Jeff's glass is always at least half full. And because of his undying optimism, he decided to ignore the death of the hard drive. He flipped the computer on this morning and immediately started screaming for me to retrieve our portable hard drive. Apparently, our laptop was working in Safe Mode, and the dead hard drive was moaning, but working! (Let me just say that I almost typed something about the hard drive pulling a Schiavo, but some things are a bit too tasteless.)

I'm proud to report that Jeff was able to retrieve most of the baby pictures before the hard drive died (again).

This evening he was able to retrieve most of his work files before the hard drive died (again).

Tomorrow morning he will attempt to retrieve my e-mail before it once again dies.

I wanted to thank you all for your words of encouragement.

If Jeff wasn't such a smiling mountain mover, I would totally be whoring myself out on the east side tonight to pay for hard drive maintenance. I wonder if the lactation thing would have been a selling point for the prostitution hounds? Also, I have those excellent c-section and appendectomy scars that are just begging for kisses!

I'll keep you updated on our progress. 

 

Reason #423 Why I Should Go Back to Church

Unlike my glass, Jeff's glass is always at least half full. And because of his undying optimism, he decided to ignore the death of the hard drive. He flipped the computer on this morning and immediately started screaming for me to retrieve our portable hard drive. Apparently, our laptop was working in Safe Mode, and the dead hard drive was moaning, but working! (Let me just say that I almost typed something about the hard drive pulling a Schiavo, but some things are a bit too tasteless.)

I'm proud to report that Jeff was able to retrieve most of the baby pictures before the hard drive died (again).

This evening he was able to retrieve most of his work files before the hard drive died (again).

Tomorrow morning he will attempt to retrieve my e-mail before it once again dies.

I wanted to thank you all for your words of encouragement.

If Jeff wasn't such a smiling mountain mover, I would totally be whoring myself out on the east side tonight to pay for hard drive maintenance. I wonder if the lactation thing would have been a selling point for the prostitution hounds? Also, I have those excellent c-section and appendectomy scars that are just begging for kisses!

I'll keep you updated on our progress. 

 

Reason #423 Why I Should Go Back to Church

Unlike my glass, Jeff's glass is always at least half full. And because of his undying optimism, he decided to ignore the death of the hard drive. He flipped the computer on this morning and immediately started screaming for me to retrieve our portable hard drive. Apparently, our laptop was working in Safe Mode, and the dead hard drive was moaning, but working! (Let me just say that I almost typed something about the hard drive pulling a Schiavo, but some things are a bit too tasteless.)

I'm proud to report that Jeff was able to retrieve most of the baby pictures before the hard drive died (again).

This evening he was able to retrieve most of his work files before the hard drive died (again).

Tomorrow morning he will attempt to retrieve my e-mail before it once again dies.

I wanted to thank you all for your words of encouragement.

If Jeff wasn't such a smiling mountain mover, I would totally be whoring myself out on the east side tonight to pay for hard drive maintenance. I wonder if the lactation thing would have been a selling point for the prostitution hounds? Also, I have those excellent c-section and appendectomy scars that are just begging for kisses!

I'll keep you updated on our progress. 

 

Oh! The Bad News!

The Good News: The mailman delivered Harry Potter to me yesterday afternoon. AND, I'm nearing page 100, which can only mean that I'm In. What the mailman doesn't realize is that by delivering the book to me on the date of publication, he removed me from the Suicide Precaution List. Why was I on the Suicide Precaution List? Well, because of The Bad News.

The Bad News: You're probably aware that everything I know about computers can be safely stored in a pill bottle and shoved into the back of your junk drawer. I do know this: We lost our hard drive yesterday morning. And to add insult to our injury, we hadn't backed up our system since before Harper was born. Okay. The next sentences are going to bring me physical pain as I type them. We lost all of Harper's baby pictures. I lost all of the congratulatory e-mails I received when Meredith and Harper were born. Everything. Gone. And I'm a bit heartbroken. And because we've lost so many important things, I'm really pissed that I've let the computer become such an important part of my life. If this had happened five years ago, I wouldn't be concerned. But now we have no baby pictures. Damnit.

I'm really grateful that Fluid Pudding Dot Com was switched over to Bloghorn/Mojira a few weeks back. Otherwise, yesterday would have definitely seen the demise of Fluid Pudding. And please don't tell me that everything can be recovered. I know the boys at CompUSA couldn't do it. (Not that they're wizards or anything, but nevertheless...)

 

Oh! The Bad News!

The Good News: The mailman delivered Harry Potter to me yesterday afternoon. AND, I'm nearing page 100, which can only mean that I'm In. What the mailman doesn't realize is that by delivering the book to me on the date of publication, he removed me from the Suicide Precaution List. Why was I on the Suicide Precaution List? Well, because of The Bad News.

The Bad News: You're probably aware that everything I know about computers can be safely stored in a pill bottle and shoved into the back of your junk drawer. I do know this: We lost our hard drive yesterday morning. And to add insult to our injury, we hadn't backed up our system since before Harper was born. Okay. The next sentences are going to bring me physical pain as I type them. We lost all of Harper's baby pictures. I lost all of the congratulatory e-mails I received when Meredith and Harper were born. Everything. Gone. And I'm a bit heartbroken. And because we've lost so many important things, I'm really pissed that I've let the computer become such an important part of my life. If this had happened five years ago, I wouldn't be concerned. But now we have no baby pictures. Damnit.

I'm really grateful that Fluid Pudding Dot Com was switched over to Bloghorn/Mojira a few weeks back. Otherwise, yesterday would have definitely seen the demise of Fluid Pudding. And please don't tell me that everything can be recovered. I know the boys at CompUSA couldn't do it. (Not that they're wizards or anything, but nevertheless...)

 

Oh! The Bad News!

The Good News: The mailman delivered Harry Potter to me yesterday afternoon. AND, I'm nearing page 100, which can only mean that I'm In. What the mailman doesn't realize is that by delivering the book to me on the date of publication, he removed me from the Suicide Precaution List. Why was I on the Suicide Precaution List? Well, because of The Bad News.

The Bad News: You're probably aware that everything I know about computers can be safely stored in a pill bottle and shoved into the back of your junk drawer. I do know this: We lost our hard drive yesterday morning. And to add insult to our injury, we hadn't backed up our system since before Harper was born. Okay. The next sentences are going to bring me physical pain as I type them. We lost all of Harper's baby pictures. I lost all of the congratulatory e-mails I received when Meredith and Harper were born. Everything. Gone. And I'm a bit heartbroken. And because we've lost so many important things, I'm really pissed that I've let the computer become such an important part of my life. If this had happened five years ago, I wouldn't be concerned. But now we have no baby pictures. Damnit.

I'm really grateful that Fluid Pudding Dot Com was switched over to Bloghorn/Mojira a few weeks back. Otherwise, yesterday would have definitely seen the demise of Fluid Pudding. And please don't tell me that everything can be recovered. I know the boys at CompUSA couldn't do it. (Not that they're wizards or anything, but nevertheless...)

 

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry's comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday's mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I'll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I'll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I'll French kiss him if he's game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you're holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there's not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.  

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It's all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I'm currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one's baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn't feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry's comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday's mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I'll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I'll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I'll French kiss him if he's game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you're holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there's not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.  

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It's all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I'm currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one's baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn't feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry's comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday's mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I'll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I'll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I'll French kiss him if he's game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you're holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there's not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.  

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It's all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I'm currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one's baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn't feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry’s comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday’s mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I’ll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I’ll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I’ll French kiss him if he’s game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you’re holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there’s not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It’s all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I’m currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one’s baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn’t feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry’s comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday’s mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I’ll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I’ll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I’ll French kiss him if he’s game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you’re holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there’s not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It’s all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I’m currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one’s baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn’t feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry’s comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday’s mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I’ll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I’ll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I’ll French kiss him if he’s game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you’re holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there’s not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It’s all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I’m currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one’s baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn’t feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry’s comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday’s mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I’ll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I’ll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I’ll French kiss him if he’s game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you’re holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there’s not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It’s all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I’m currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one’s baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn’t feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

Love, Harry Potter, and The Bottle

First of all, because of the kind words found in the previous entry’s comment section, I have fallen in love with 33 and a half of you. And, to prove my love, I went out last night, purchased a new hair color, and decided to leave well enough alone.

Secondly, I ordered the new Harry Potter book a few months back, and I fully expect it to be delivered (as promised) with Saturday’s mail. If you drive through my subdivision on Saturday, I’ll be the girl sitting in the front yard anxiously waiting for the mailman. Also, I’ll be pretending to wear an invisibility cloak while breastfeeding an eleven week old baby. If the mailman delivering my book arrives early and is dressed as Dumbledore, well, I’ll French kiss him if he’s game. Seriously.

You know, I swore I would never get into this Harry Potter thing. But then I had Meredith, and I spent hours each night holding her upright in order to keep the stomach acid out of her throat. And when you’re holding a baby upright in the middle of the night, there’s not much else to do but sigh loudly, read those damned Harry Potter books, and/or sing songs from the Chess soundtrack.

Lastly, please know that I was never able to pump when I nursed Meredith. When I DID manage to squirt a few bottles out, she refused them. It’s all about the nipple confusion, I suppose. (I would now like to extend a warm welcome to the "nipple confusion" Googlers out there. Pull up a chair!) Anyway, today I was able to pump a few ounces for Harper. And, like Meredith, she totally refused the bottle. This means I’m currently feeling the helpless feeling one feels when one is unable to leave one’s baby for more than two hours at a time. And it sucks. I nursed Meredith for 15 months. That means 15 months of never being away for more than two hours at a time. I know this was only our first attempt at the bottle. I know I shouldn’t feel deflated so early in the game. Nevertheless, ggggrrrrrrrr...

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Patience is a virtue.

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What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

What a Difference Three Years Makes

Three years ago today found Jeff and I flying to London for a belated honeymoon adventure where we flitted about without a care in the world. In the past three years, we have become the owners of a house, two daughters, and a flat screen television. In three MORE years, Meredith will be getting ready to start kindergarten. Three years after THAT will find BOTH kids going to school for full days, meaning I can attempt to find my place in the working world! Of course, in six years I will be completely unmarketable and will most likely be spending my time brushing the cats and lamenting over hair color decisions. Can a 41 year old still get away with a hair color that contains the phrase “cherries on fire”?!

One Hundred Things About Me

One Hundred Things About Me