Friend me

On Saipan, there was a phrase we used often. "Friend me." "To friend" someone really means to befriend someone, but we dropped those pesky two letters, lazy peeps we are. In elementary school, where friendships were created and dropped in the same day, it was common to ask, "Are you friending me?" If a squabble arose, you would pout and complain, "She's not friending me."

Since having Nathan, it has become overhemingly important for me to find a mom-community. My sister-in-law suggested that I bring an extra twinkie to my parenting class since that was where she made all her friends. When I attended my birthing class, I scoured the room for my potential pregnancy twin, the one with whom I would friend (and more importantly, she would friend me) and our children would grow up together, communicating through tin-cans and string or flashlight morse code. But there was no such luck. During the diapering exercise, the woman next to me began to cry into her cloth diaper because her husband joked at how she held the doll up by its leg. I wanted to extend some comforting line, like, it's okay, I'm sure you won't really handle your baby that way, but she was busy emptying her face into the white fabric.

At one of the playgroups, I met a woman named C. who lives in my neighborhood. She invited me over for tea. It wasn't long before I realized that we probably wouldn't be meeting again. She was nice, but she was also weird. This sounds mean because she welcomed me into her home and made me a cup of soothing moments but still, she was weird. Not weird in that she would pop up with a question like, "Soooo, my husband and I are swingers, how about you?" but weird in that, she wrangled her toddlers using "grown-up" language like, "You're overcompensating." or "I know you're doing that as a control method, but it's not going to work here." This shocked me into wondering how I'm going to talk to my son when he begins potty-training (you mean he's really going to stop using diapers one day and I won't have to employ the gun-to-the-head method? eeep!). I'll probably say something like, "Yo little G. You best stop dropping it like it's hot all over the carpet, yo."

We're just in different stages of parenthood, methinks. I'm just trying to keep my son from kicking his own poo. I need to friend someone like me.

I am not so good with this friend-making business. The last friend I made was Nathan, and though I had to give birth to him, we are friends for life. I am neurotic and self-conscious and believe that intially, most people hate me. Or think I'm weird and/or crazy. I am not up to date on trends. I do not have the accessorizing gene. I am lucky if I leave the house not looking like I rolled around in flour and walked out the door. Deborah Eisenberg wrote a short-story called "The Custodian" in which one of the characters had a face that drew everything into it and gave nothing in return. This describes most of the popular people I have ever known, the attention-consuming faces and magnetic personalities. I was told once that I have a radio face.

This is tangential information, but Deece was the most popular girl in junior high. She was so cool with her Doc Martens and good-lookingness (not a word, but, whatev). So I was very surprised that the most popular girl in junior high linked to me! Me! I thought, this must be a mistake! Doesn't she remember my enormous eyebrows and Babysitter Club Book fanaticism?

Today I spent 2 1/2 hours walking with one of the moms from my PEPS group. I really like her. When we assembled our travel strollers, I told her that I hope it wasn't too hot because the tank I was wearing had "Brewsky's Bar and Grill" on the back and what kind of mom advertises bars? She laughed! I tricked her into thinking I was funny! Our pets have the same initials! We are both lazy! She is so cool, I am using my buddy the exclamation point! I hope she never stumbles across this blog and decides I am too dorky.

When I told her about the hassle of organizing the baptism, this conversation ensued.

"You need a priest, right? What other religions need a priest?"

"I think voodoo does. Maybe I'll just baptize my son voodoo."

--


Forget Baby Einstein flash cards, my son's into the good stuff.

The real Miss Universe

On Tuesday, Nathan and I headed to the breast center so they could aspirate my plugged duct. For some reason, I thought a vacuum would be involved. One of those super-powerful X-File vacuums that suck earthlings up through a light beam and into the mothership. But there was none of that THX awesomeness. Instead, I was on my back in a dark room, watching my doctor trace the black mass on the ultrasound. The doctor pointed out the black cavernous-looking mass filled with two centimeters of "fluid and debris." There's debris? In my boob? So thaaaat's how they got the term, "dirty pillows."

I kept my eyes on the screen as my doctor inserted the needle (that's needle #3 this week) into my breast and slowly punctured the dark spot. A nurse was stationed at the edge of the table, feeding Nathan his bottle. A soft suctioning noise drifted in the room and the doctor pulled out the needle, she said, "There, doesn't it feel softer?" Yeah, like my fist is softer than my knee.

"I want you to see M. She's a nurse and this is all she does."

So, why didn't I go see her in the first place? Doesn't anyone communicate in this hospital?

I think doctors should be hired on a contigency basis, like those personal injury lawyers. If they don't cure what ails you, there'll be no fee or co-pay. I shouldn't have to pay since I was stuck with a needle three times and still a lump remains.

I guess it could have been worse. It could have affected my good boob. I've named my good boob Miss Universe. The other one is Miss International. They're both crown-worthy, but if I were to parade one boob around the globe, it'd definitely be Miss Universe.

--

Now that I've ruined your idea of beauty pageants, take a look at my son who wonders why the bear is talking.

my lady lump

During last week's conversation with the lactation consultant, I mentioned that there was a hard lump growing in my left breast. I asked her what I should do about it and she suggested that I massage it and apply a warm compress. I did that and still, the lump remained. I went to babycenter.com to do a web diagnosis. I tried some remedies posted on the message board such as breastfeeding on all fours, sticking my boob in a basin of warm water and sitting in a hot bath and massaging the sucker out. Have you ever taken a hot bath while it was 95 degrees? I felt like I was a pimple on the ass of the bayou.

When I called my doctor, I found out that my OB's on vacation. What's vacation? Seems such a foreign word right now. Every time I get to use the bathroom without Nathan crying for me seems like a vacation, and I savor every silent nanosecond. Anyway. Because my OB was out, my call was forwarded to the triage nurse who asked me a series of questions about my lovely lady lump.

"Do you have a fever?"

"Why? Is the prescription more cowbell?"

"Um, ma'am?"

"No, I don't have a fever."

"Well, we don't prescribe antibiotics if you don't have a fever, but it sounds like you might need to come in to get it checked out."

At the doctor's office, the OB on-call examined my lump and determined that it was a clogged milk duct. Well, file that under "obvious." She said that it didn't seem like I had mastisis but I would get anitbiotics because my skin looked red. She then offered to get rid of it there instead of sending me to the breast center. (I asked her to repeat it because, hehehe, she said breast center.)

This is when she became the Marquis de Sade of OB's. She stabbed a needle into the lump and dug around in an attempt to, I don't know, send me into so much pain that I pass out and wake up with my baby missing and a scar where my kidney used to be. When nothing emerged from the bleeding dot on my boob, she asked me to sit up.

"Maybe it'll work this way."

Maybe? Maybe??? Shouldn't you know this, woman? "Maybe" works on the game Operation, not Mona, the woman with a ping-pong ball in her boob. I had only the soothing sounds of my son crying in his infant carrier to distract me from the hypodermic line disappearing into my skin.

But sadly, nothing came out of round two with the needle stab. Yep. I was shot. In the boob. Twice.

"Sorry about that." Dr. McShootemup said. "I'll have to send you to the breast center."

I am convinced that somewhere an ex of mine has a voodoo doll with my face on it and is enjoying every minute.

EDIT: I just read the paper I have to give the breast center. The OB wrote that I was experiencing symptoms in my right breast. It was my left breast, woman! I didn't go to med school, but if I stuck a needle into someone's boob, I would know which one it was!

In which I expose myself to the 120 bus

I am the only person in my mom's group who doesn't have power-lock doors. To suffice for this lack of technology, I hold my keys and the imaginary remote, aim at my car and go, "Bloop bloop." I hope this works and they never catch me unlocking the passenger side door, then reaching in to unlock the back door so I can secure my son, who doesn't care how he gets in the car, into his snugride car base.

--

My camera is broken. The battery compartment door won't close. Technically it still works if I hold the side and I'm sure it will be perfectly fine if I secure it with duct tape. But how ghetto is that? I'm going to take it in for an estimate but I'm scared that the diagnosis will be: Get a new camera, cheapskate.

And now I feel like I'm between a rock and another rock. What if I have to buy a new camera? Do I buy a super sweet pricey camera that will mean my son will not have diapers but at least the pictures will be awesome or do I buy a camera that gets the job done but leaves me longing for the sweetness of expensive gadgetry?

I feel this need to take pictures of my son every single day. I'm scared that I'll slack off and he'll flip through these photos and ask me where the hell month four went. My parents weren't exactly trigger-happy with photos. I know there are only a handful of baby pictures of me, but I was the youngest of five so maybe they were worn out. My oldest sister offered a different opinion, claiming I'm really adopted and those pictures are actually documentation of when Mr. Kim handed me off to Mr. and Mrs. Concepcion.

When I was in the second grade, she typed out an adoption certificate to prove I wasn't really part of the family. You know what my real name was? Chew Ing Gum. How's that for overt Asian racism?

--

I received a call yesterday from Sister Mary who informed me that my mother's order of "Novena in a Time of Difficulty" was out of print. I find this very odd. No one has had a time of difficulty? Isn't that what drives this scriptural novena market?

Sister Mary said she'd send me a list of available novenas for my mother to choose. Before she hung up, she said, "God Bless."

"Right back at cha."

I said "right back at cha" to a nun! I guess I should have expected that, she being a nun and all, but I'm not used to people saying that to me, like I'm not used to people saying "Happy Birthday" on my b-day so I end up saying, "You, too."

Which reminds me of this snippet:

Jesse: Grandma, what kind of meat do priests eat?

Mom: I don't know.

Jesse: Nun. Get it, Grandma? Nun?

Me: Jesse, stop telling your Grandma jokes you heard from Cheech and Chong!

--

This baptism is giving me a headache. Catholicism on Saipan is so much easier. When I flew home for my god-daughter's baptismal, my sister and I attended the "interview" with the priest during which he said, "Oh I know your mother." And that was it. I was a godmother because of my mom knows how to hip-hop-till-you-don't-stop with the clergy. But at the baptismal class here, they showed a 70's-style-conjunction-junction cartoon explaining the history of baptism because I guess a regular lecture would have been too difficult to understand. I'm sure during the baptismal curriculum planning, someone said, "You know what this class needs? Animation."

--

It is too hot. I am not okay with the weather. I moved here to Seattle because the rain meant I could wear layers, thus eliminating the exposure of my back fat. But no, it was 100 degrees today even with the wind-chill. Back fat shirts, it is then.

--

I called my lactation consultant after I had a breast pain so excruciating I wanted to cut it off. I told her that Nathan's been pulling away and wants to eat all the diggity-dang time.

"Oh, he must be going through a growth spurt."

"Oh really? Is that what this incessant screaming is?" I mean, come on woman. I knew that. I could have sat here watching Little House on the Prairie re-runs and known that.

--

On the way back from the gym, Nathan started his "fill my mouth with boob now" cry. We had about ten minutes before we were home so I tried something I heard on Surviving Motherhood: breast-feeding in the car. We were driving down a secluded street, naked except for a few cars. I unbuckled my seat belt, leaned over my son's car seat while bracing myself on the headrest. Using my right hand, I freed my "good boob" (Come on ladies. You know you have a "good boob," unless your breasts are perky and symmetrical, which in that case, I hate you) and proceeded to feed my son in the most awkward and uncomfortable nursing position ever.

If you were on the 120 bus heading toward West Seattle, you most likely were afforded a view of me spidered over my son with one boob in my hand and a face red as a tomato. That's more skin than my husband has seen, so count yourself lucky.

Sometimes I wonder what will become of my breasts when I stop nursing. Will they be flat and lifeless? Will my husband be reminded of his grandmother? I saw my grandmother's breasts once, and believe me, I do not want my chest to look like an unfurled fruit roll-up.

Sorry, Grams.

Whaddya mean they sold the Sonics and the Storm?

What do you mean they sold the Sonics and the Storm?
Originally uploaded by kirida.

My son expresses his look of shock and disappointment that Seattle's only championship-winning teams have been sold.

I'll have the roast duck with the mango salsa

Mike and I have been taking Nathan to the pool at our gym every day for the past week. I had been reluctant to take him to the gym because of germs, even though I've taken him to every other germy place in Seattle: stores, bathrooms, landfill, etc. But last week, Mike dashed my dreams of protecting my baby from the microbial cesspool when he leaped through the door yielding a package of swimmers and said, "Let's go, family!"



At first, Nathan hated it, the way he hates baths and other crap we put him through because we want him to enjoy it (Why are you crying, child? I SPENT $12 ON THIS CD, SO YOU HAD BETTER LOVE BABY EINSTEIN, YOU HEAR ME?). A look of sheer terror seized him when we slowly dipped him in, but now he just clings to us, wide-eyed and wondering what the hell is going on.



The biggest obstacle however has been the mouthy lifeguard, who puts down her self-help book and follows us while filling our ears with what we should do with Nathan in the water. I know it comes with the territory of having kids and all, but I do not enjoy unsolicited advice when it's pushed on me instead of offered kindly. I've been accosted by strangers who are quick to tell me how to hold my baby, but I can handle them since I can just nod, pretend I'm listening, and then quickly forget it once they're out of view. With this lady, I can expect that she will see us waddle toward the water and then intercept our walk with some stupid make-sure-you-do-this lecture. I know she means well, but it's just annoying.

Yesterday, she perched herself on the edge of the pool and started singing! "This is the way we swim at the pool, swim at the pool, swim at the pool..." When she noticed we weren't applauding her American Idol audition, she said, "Don't you have any songs?"

"I have songs," Mike shot back. "I have lots of songs."

This was a much nicer response than I had in mind. "We're singing 'Smoke on the Water' next, lady," I would have said had I grown some steel-toed balla bollas* instead of biting my lip. "We don't need any accompaniment. My eyes are rolling for a reason, woman. Buy a ticket for the clue train!"



All aboard!

*balls, the male kind.

Ha! I wrote balls after posting a picture of my innocent, non-swearing son. Hip hooray for my maturity!

The obligatory "About Me" page

Hi. I'm Mona.



I moved to Seattle in 2001 after living all but two years of my life on the tiny and gorgeous island of Saipan. The move from a temperate, tropical island to a tempermental, rainy climate was shocking. They don't tell you in the guide books that it will be so cold, you'll want to sit on your hands to use the toilet. I stay out of the rain, mostly. I suffer bouts of homesickness.

I started this website in 1999, when I was a junior in high school and thought it very clever to write hormone-charged, cryptic entries. I dropped the site for a while and started back up in late 2004. Since then, this website has chronicled my life as a non-profiteer, college student turned college grad, fiancee turned wife turned pregnant wife and now, stay-at-home-mom, or as I've learned, stay-at-home-all-the-long-ass-day mom.

I gave birth to a baby boy named Nathan on May 8th, 2006. I speak to him in a high-pitched sing-song voice while calling him nonsensical names such as, "My yummy honey bunny." This rhymes with, "The boy who makes no money." He likes it, so that's cool with me.

I also write about my kooky family and the tragic comedy of being the youngest of five, having a mother who cannot pronounce the word "cheddar," and a brother who made me lick nine-volt batteries and address him as, "Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir."

I often watch close-captioned television not because I need it, but because I am fond of subtitles. One time, my brother sat down next to me, looked at the text scrolling across the screen, placed his mouth next to my ear and yelled, "WHO IN THIS HOUSE IS HEARING-IMPAIRED?"

If you work for Saturday Night Live, I will sell you my immortal soul if you can get me on. I don't need to be there throughout the show, I just want to say, "Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!" I also dream that I will appear on Jeopardy and the final category will be "Mona Owns This." I would bet it all, my friend.

I can be reached through email at mona at kirida dot com. I like comments, comedy, high-fives and you, my internet friend.

Add some junk in the trunk and you've got it.

Me, animated.

My request for the loosening of my buttons went unfulfilled as you continued your fronting

Last night when I entered my son's baptismal class, I was greeted by ten disapproving faces. I was late. It was bad enough that carrying my son in his gargantuan car seat plus lugging the stupid choo-choo train diaper bag made me walk lopsided. The nun who had called me to confirm my attendance gave me the wrong time and there I was standing like an idiot with a group of people giving me the, "This rickety plastic folding chair next to me is taken, woman!" face.

I had arrived in time for class to break up into two groups. It became clear to me that I was grouped with the woman who was set on becoming valedictorian of the baptismal class. We were given a series of questions, the first asking what baptism meant to us. The round began with me saying, "It's the first sacrament and it starts off the child's relationship with the church." Then the Baptismal Class President chimed in, "AND WITH GOD!" As we went through the list, she would continue to butt in with textbook answers, correcting people and finishing their sentences.

When we returned to our regular seating, the nun asked the woman what baptism means to her and she replied, "It's the first sacrament and it starts off the child's relationship with the church." Then with her fangs exposed, she stabbed the air with the words, "AND WITH GOD."

She totally jacked my answer! I really wanted to tell her to get off her Huffy Bike. I don't remember the book of "I'm Better Than You" being in the Bible. When we filed out of the room, she swung her Lancome tote bag over her shoulder. It was then that I wished I had balls to yell after her, "Who the hell do you think you are with your Lancome bag! I know a 'Free Gift with Purchase' when I see one!"



Guess who I am?

water torture

I took Nathan into the doctor for his two-month check-up. I don't think he had a good time at all. After his weigh-in (12 pounds, 8 ounces - woot woot!), I laid him down on the table to dress him and he started peeing. I'm never prepared for that mini-yellow geyser, so I grabbed the diaper and attempted a pee-block, but instead deflected the flow and it hit him in the eyes. Are you reading this, Child Protective Services? I made my son pee in his eyes. Poor kid. Then I had to hold him down so the nurses could give him his shots. It broke my heart to see him morph into a red-faced grimace and to know that I not only had to restrain him but I gave an eye full of urine.



I can't shake it off. I would never want to pee in my eyes. The nurses cooed and taped on some roadrunner band-aids, but man, if I peed in my eyes, I would want some tequila. In the mouth.

--

And now, some chit-chat:

"We have to go. The baby's getting fussy."

"Dude, do you always refer to yourself in third-person?"

The Devil Wears Target

Recently, I've spoken to two people whom I haven't seen since back in the day. I would drink jaggermiester and yell at strangers while my body was half-suspended through an open car window. During both times, I was stumped as to how to summarize what's happened in the past few years without being equally as dull as a mono-syallabic recap: Wife. Grad. Mom.

"So what have you been up to?" He asks.

"Oh, nothing much." [Here's when my eyes beam in direction of surgically attached stroller] "You know. Same old. Same old."

And the other person hugged me but was obviously waaay more into the hug I was. I hug like a limp fish. What was I supposed to do? Ask for a re-hug and instead body slam him in round two? This is why I hate greeting people. I never know when to extend my hand or plant a kiss on the cheek or perform a grinding hip snuggle.

--

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is my new favorite show. I love tonight's quote:

"That doesn't unbang your mom. You've got to do something worse."

--

And now, pictures!


Diapers are the new horse's head. Let this be a warning to anyone (i.e. HUSBAND) who dares hide the remote control so I do not find out what VH1's second most freaky concert moment is.


Laundry: what soothes the savage beast.


Don't go into the flash, Carol Ann.



You and me both, bud.

I love the smell of procrastination in the morning

I have bills to pay, work to do, and a son who doesn't listen to me when I say, "You want me to change your diapers? File that under 'D' for 'DO IT YOUR DAMN SELF'."

So what do I do? Make banana applesauce walnut bread!

Happy Indepants Day!

Mike and I attended a barbeque held by one of his former students. I cooked up a batch of mushroom canapes, thanks to the wonder that is Paula Deen. Mike loved my canapes but pronounced it "canopies."



I like to sing karaoke using my son's feet as microphones, particularly songs from The Who.



Some party attendees applauded Nathan for being such a "good crier." Can you be a good crier? Sometimes he sounds like a creaky door, other times he sounds like a wounded animal. I don't know if I conceived him at Home Depot or the Woodland Park Zoo.



Have a Happy Indepants Day, y'all!

EDIT: I retract the above. Happy Indepants Day to everyone EXCEPT the teenagers who are setting off the mini-rocket launchers which HAD BETTER NOT WAKE UP MY SON OR I WILL STORM OUT THERE AND REARRANGE SOME FACES.

9:57 EDIT: FORGET IT. I AM LEAVING NOW WITH A NOTEBOOK BECAUSE I AM GOING TO KICK ASS AND TAKE NAMES.

10:55 EDIT: All is well now. I will have to go in hiding because there are some deaths to be avenged. What if we all just listen to the "HAHAHAHA" song and eat ice cream?

Frankly Shakira, I don't feel comfortable reading the signs of your body

Poor Odawni. I forced her to emerge from her jet-lag-induced slumber so I could have a night out and be a normal alcohol-imbibing adult again. When Mike offered to babysit Nathan and give me the night off, I was so giddy that I didn't so much apply my make-up as run face first into it.

Odawni had slept through my crazy-woman phone calls and attempts to ring her apartment, leaving me to think that she had already headed to Bleu Bistro. While waiting outside, three guys walked through the door and one of them said to me, "Giiirrrl, do you need to get inside?"

I hung up my phone and squealed, "Oh my God yes! Thank you!"

"Well, get inside giiirl!" He ushered me in and I thought, I love gay men! What unassuming trust! What kindness! To all gay men in Seattle, if you address me by saying, "Giiirrrl" in a sassy tone, I will give you a dollar and pinch your cheeks. If you can do some sort of head shake with that, I'll give you a dollar fifty, two bucks tops.

Once inside, I realized the doors did not have numbers on them and I did not remember what floor she was on. Great, I thought. Now I'm stuck in a building in a fruitless search for my friend. I look like a crazy person.

In thinking that she had headed over to Bleu Bistro while I was vulturing the neighborhood for an open parking spot, I walked there by my lonesome. The lighting inside the bar was so dim that it reminded me of how an ex described my hair, "It's so dark that when you close your eyes and open your eyes, it's like you're still closing your eyes." It was a very swank yet crowded spot littered with votive candles and Capital Hill trendiness. I sat at the L-shaped bar, nursing a jack and coke when I spotted people to my right moving behind a curtain. I realized that that was their table and that they were eating in that fireplace-sized hole. Why didn't I think of that when I was like 12? I could have opened up a restaurant in my bedroom and served the only dishes I perfected, namely buttered toast, cereal and soba. My customers would have been other twelve-year-olds and college freshmen.

I need to get out more. Drinks anyone?