Cilantro it away

This is what happens when I say to my husband, "I want prawn fried rice from the Thai place but NO CILANTRO and if it comes back to me with cilantro, so help me Harry Potter, you will want to go into hiding because I know where you keep your testicles."



Happy Friday!

More time lost to googling

This was pilfered from Ariel (whose last poetry shindig I had to miss because I had two babies here). Type in your name and "last I heard [he/she] was" and check out the results.

Mine were:

Last I heard she was still wailing for a candy bar.

The last I heard, she was living in the Bristol Hotel, which is regarded as one of the premier hotels — if not THE premier hotel — in Paris...

Last i heard she was into alot of different drugs..

Last I heard, she was stumping for his (ultra-liberal) opponent

Last I heard she was with a keeny price but i dont know if she is still with him

The last I heard, she was still smoking, stealing, and practicing wicca...

Last I heard she was living on her son's life insurance settlement...

Last I heard she was a prostitute in Cleveland somewhere and was in the hospital

Last I heard she was on a TV show called Kitty Party. Ironical eh? ;)

Last I heard she was directing midget porn

Of all the results, the last one is the most disconcerting. It's called little-people porn, folks.

Dear God, Are You There? It's Me, Mona.

After 13 months of being period-free, I finally got it today. The bad news: I got my period. The good news: I'm finally a woman!

The dark lord known as Expedia

On Friday I purchased three tickets to St. Louis through Expedia. I attempted to do it online, but by the time I was ready to complete the order, it said that it encountered an error and I would have to call customer service. So I did. I managed to get three tickets for us and I received the itinerary while still on the phone. I noticed that the guy made out the itinerary for me, my husband and some kid named Nathan Kickey.

"My son's last name is not Kickey."

"Oh! Good thing you found that out now! It would have been really hard to correct that in an hour."

Gee. I'm really glad I caught your mistake, stupidhead.

"Let me just stop the ticketing now and correct the itinerary. I just need your credit card again."

"Isn't it going to charge my card twice?"

"It shouldn't charge it twice, ma'am. I stopped the ticketing."

I checked my account immediately after he corrected it and yes indeedy, my balance showed they took another $842.43. He apologized again and said that it would take about two to three business days to get the money (MY MONEY!) back into my account and since I did it on a Friday, I should expect a refund on Wednesday since weekends are not included.

But he did refund the $10 booking fee.

I called the airline and told them what the dumbshit Expedia did to me and agent pointed out that I had to call them again because they hadn't voided out the original itinerary. I had two identical reservations.

Another call to Expedia. This time a lady told me the first guy didn't void out the first flight at all, he just stopped the ticketing. Whatever the hell that means. That's probably Expedia-speak for he wanted to take my ass for a ride.

When I called this morning to ask why the hell I hadn't been refunded MY MONEY, the guy tried to appease me by applying a $50 credit to my Expedia account, which doesn't equal cash, it means I can take $50 off their next fuck-up.

Have you ever been royally screwed this way by Expedia or some other stupid company quickly whisks dollars away and puts it on the we'll-take-our-sweet-ass-time train?

I need a hug. Or some jolly ranchers.

On my friend converting to Judaism

Me: Are you going to have a bat Mitzvah?

L: Well, I don't think I need to have the whole 'becoming a woman' ceremony, considering I just gave birth.

FYI

If you don't hear from me ever again, then I'm probably in jail for whittling a stick into a sharp object and hunting down the idiot at Expedia WHO SPELLED MY SON'S LAST NAME AS KICKEY AND CHARGED MY CREDIT CARD TWICE.

Can I add googling to my resume?

When I had to register as a new patient, the receptionist asked me what my work number was. I had to explain that my home number is my work number because, duh, I am employed by a 24-inch-long baby.

"I'm a stay-at-home mom." I said. When I didn't get the chuckling response I had hoped, I added, "And being a mom's a job, too, you know. It never ends." Why was I trying to justify myself in front of a woman whose cubicle wall was adorned with MySpace-style photos?

Back in August I applied for a job at my alma mater as an English major advisor. I was good friends with the woman leaving the position and by the way she had described it, the job was as good as mine. I knew it would be perfect for me. I was an English major. If the English major was a category on Jeopardy, I'd get all true daily double, sucka! I also knew the director and was somewhat convinced she knew me. When I handed in my carefully typed, laser-printed resume, she didn't call security and even said, "Thanks, Mona!"

So for weeks I fantasized about this job. There were small scale fantasies like shopping for work clothes and calling up my old professors and saying, "Hey I work in this building now!" Then there were complex daydreams about whether I should place Nathan in a daycare close to home so Mike could pick him up or close to work so I could nurse during my lunch break. And the latter included worries. Would they let Nathan cry? Would they know that he enters a trance when seranaded with the Octopus song? And what if by leaving him in cold, hollow room with strangers, he'll never develop his motor skills? What if I come to pick him up and he doesn't recognize me and the only way I'll get him into his car seat is if I flash him some boobage so he knows it's Mommy?

I spent a few weeks swimming in hypotheticals before I called the director.

"Hi Mona, I'm sure you're calling about your resume."

"Yes, I am."

"Well. I've just finished the first round of interviews."

The first round of interviews, I thought. Is there going to be a bonus round? Am I going to be the wild card?

"You see," she continued, "you seem very qualified but we're really looking for PhD candidates right now."

"Oh. Okay."

"But don't feel bad! We had 152 candidates and we narrowed it down to 12. And you were not one of the 12, you big floppy donkey loser."

She didn't say that last sentence, but she might as well have because that was it. No deciding between working out during lunch or sneaking a sandwich and latte into the library. No starting an actual career or pension. No conference calls or departmental meetings. There won't be another baby shower at the office because my new office is here. My work now entails breastfeeding and clearing toys off the floor so this house doesn't become an obstacle course.

I should have whored myself out more. I have had only three serious relationships in my life, this marriage included. I think sometimes that if I had been as slutty as my junior high's bathroom stalls claimed I was, then I could say, "Yeah, starring in Camp Suckaweewee 35 was great and all, but now that I'm a stay-at-home mom, my life is complete."

There are times when I'm grateful that I can spend this time with my son. Last night, I plopped myself on the couch and held Nathan close to my face. I sang the Octopus song, twisted my face in exaggerated expressions and he squealed. Just when I thought my heart was going to burst with motherhood spooge, Nathan headbutted me in the eye. His space-orbit forehead was as hard and effective as a clenched fist.

There is no bruise. I'm harboring the physical damage inside, right next to my hopes and dreams and failed American Idol audition.

Like I have any time to do this

I blame you, Josie, for bringing out the competitive googler in me.

I want to be the good person bad things happen to

Our temporary custody of Antonio ended yesterday morning. So now we're down to one baby, our baby. Taking care of them was the closest thing I'll ever get to having twins. It was an ass-reaming reminder of how difficult newborns can be. I've forgotten those few weeks when I manned a hawk-eye watch over Nathan for fear that his floppy head would fall off or that I would break him.

If I was a bad person before, this whole taking-another-baby-in-hoopla should exonerate me somewhat. I kept a log of Antonio's wet diapers. Detailing someone else's baby's poo must count for something. Now I can tell my mom that I was the one who accidently set her backyard trash can on fire because I was playing around with a magnifying glass and a cereal box. When I said that I didn't know what happened, I did know what happened and it wasn't a random bolt of lightning.

--



Nathan is not wearing tape in this photo. I didn't want to use tape because there would be inevitable torture of removing the tape. I took a *clean* pantyliner, colored it in with a non-toxic marker, and cut out the mustache and eyebrows. That's why there are white bits because those things really are absorbent.

Does anyone know when I can use face paint on a baby? I have so many plans that must be executed before the handbasket comes to take me away.

I think I have a problem.

More of the madness here.

Nathan's plan for world domination

I found this in the crib this morning.



If you play Baby Einstein backwards, it'll say, "Paul is a dead man." I believe Nathan had something to do with it.



--



I think I'm going to leave Mike and offer my "services" to the inventor of the Ergo Baby Carrier. I've become sick of the sling, the Snugli and the Baby Bjorn. whenever I wear one of these contraptions, Nathan's gargantuan body pulls on my back and I worry I'm forming a hump. I don't want a hump. No one looks at a humped-woman and thinks, "I'd tap that." I don't want to apply for AARP just yet or dive into candle-making. The Ergo is the best. thing. ever. I don't feel anything when I wear it. Unlike wearing the sling, I don't feel like a fumblina when I'm strapping Nathan in. And unlike wearing the Bjorn, I don't feel like a trend-hungry tool.

If the Ergo inventor is a woman, that's cool. I'd go gay for the Ergo.

from the abundance of the fart, the mouth speaks

So I'm walking behind my mother in the hallway when she lets out the most potent Chernobyl fart ever. She realizes then that I've been a pace behind so she starts coughing like that's what she had meant to do but it came out the other end.

Great. I have a mother who coughs out of her ass. That's okay I guess. I talk out of mine.

One step forward, four months back

Nathan's been really fussy with feedings this week. He does not like the bottle. He has to be breastfed. When I try to pry his mouth open, he bats at the bottle and screams something I believe means, "THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE HIGHLANDER!"

--

During lunch with my mother at PCC:

Mom: Wow, I really like this dessert!

Me: What did you get?

Mom: The apple crips.

Me: The apple crips?

Mom: Yeah, the apple crips.

Me: You mean the apple crisp? What? Is there some kind of pastry gang war going on? Are we to watch out for the peach bloods?

--

Let's just say we're baby-sitting. Little Antonio is staying at our place for a little bit. I don't want to go into why this is all happening, only that it is and this is the best solution for now. But it is hell. It's unreal to think that there's a four-month-old and a four-day-old in my small hovel. It's only day two and I've forgotten the bruising misery of caring for a newborn. I've grown accustomed to my heavy, nugget of a baby. With Nathan, he's husky and durable (wow, he sounds like work boots or camping gear). Warning: CPS-worthy statement coming up and not at all something I would do. I can plop Nathan on my lap or lift him towards the ceiling. I have to treat Antonio like a Faberge egg, whereas Nathan can take a hit.

When Antonio cries, I rush to the crib and try to soothe him before Nathan decides it's a perfect time to put on his one-act play, "Bloody-Hell Screaming," as peformed by Sir Nathan McBiteaboob and the There-Can-Only-Be-One-Highlander Players. When Nathan cries, I have to shove a boob in his mouth before he wakes up Antonio and I'm caught in the ninth circle of hell.

If Jar-Jar Binks were to narrate this episode, he would say, "Pleasure this is not. Birth control this is. Jack Daniels please send."

I am tired, but I shouldn't talk

My sister went into labor on Labor Day. The irony is not lost on me.



This is her seventh child.



But you wanna hear something more shocking than that?



She did it without an epidural.

Antonio Cabrera. 8 lbs 1 oz. 18 inches. Vertical leap: 0.

little buddha and the magic bullet

I've made two significant purchases for this household. First, the Magic Bullet. I'm tired of watching Ina Garten or Paula Deen whip out blenders and food processors. I'm tired of saying, "Freaking-a! I don't have that! I'm out!" But now I can join those Food Networkers with this sleek, fat phallic shaped appliance that has seduced me with its ultimate party machine potential.

One thing I didn't know is that this sucker is LOUD. I tried to make a smoothie like they did in the infomercial and thought, "Geez, how did Mimi and Mick talk to each other?" Hah! I bet you didn't know their names! I bet you haven't watched this hour-long informercial three-thousand times! And if you have, (which would make me less of a weirdo...Thanks, friend, we should go bowling) you've probably also picked up on how unrealistic the party is. I mean, no one's actually eating the two different types of muffins, the five-second quesadilla or that omelet. And that cigarette 'ol grams is smoking is just a prop! No smoke is wafting toward the ceiling. And how do they actually know each other? My guess is A.A.



The second purchase: a deep freezer. Back home we had a freezer filled with cases of chicken and beef and the occasional neighborhood kid we dared to hide in the damn thing.

I've also grown tired of passing up frozen food sales because our freezer is small. It can barely fit Nathan in it. Believe me, I've tried. Mike and I journeyed to the big electronics store. It was easy enough at first. We chose a 5 cubic-foot unit model. The cashier asked if we needed help, we nodded energetically. But when a salesguy wheeled the boxed behemoth out to our car, Mike and I looked at each other and asked the obvious, "Will it fit in the trunk?"

It didn't. We were stupid to think that physics didn't apply to Mike's 2003 Nissan Altima because we willed it so. It didn't fit when the five white-shirt salesguys removed it from the box and tried to pry the backdoor far enough to slide it in. No dice.

Just as my deep freezer dream was about to be ruined, one salesdude perked up, "I can drive it to your place. I have a truck!"

"Are you sure?" Mike asked, blinking rapidly. I was too stunned to speak. So were the other sales posse.

"Of course I'm sure!" He added. "It's a truck!"

He ran inside to check with his manager. The salesguys started talking, oblivious that Mike and I were still there.

"Dude, that is one friendly guy..."

"Man, this is the second time he's done this!"

"Yeah I guess he really wants people to drive his truck."

Mike and I didn't look psycho enough because when happy salesguy returned, he handed Mike his keys. "My manager says I can't leave. Here, just return it okay?"

While Mike was bringing the ghetto truck around, I bore witness to this: one of the salesguys turned to another salesguy, pointed at an 18-wheeler in a distant parking lot and said in a solemn tone, "I bet you can't run up to that truck, punch the guy inside and run back without getting hurt."

"I bet I can," the other guy replied.

That's the only thing I miss about customer service. Silly co-worker exchanges. When I worked front desk at a gym, one of the personal trainers and I wore matching black Adidas jackets so we could be breakdancing twins. We were going to take that act on the road. My pop and lock was phenomenal.

Mike handed his keys over as collateral. Before we could yell "JOYRIDE!" we realized why happy salesguy was so willing to lend his truck to complete strangers. It looked like it had been purchased from McShitty Motors. It was a stick-shift with three years of dust on it. The dirt was so thick, you could carve into it and show it sideways as a project detailing the layers of the earth's crust. The plastic panel below the steering wheel fell off during the drive. I had to hold it up so Mike could shift gears.



Not shown: the rear view mirror, right side mirror, knob on the hand crank for the right side window and passenger side headrest. Why did I fail to capture these automobile essentials? They weren't there! It was like salesdude thought about fixing the spiderweb cracks in the windshield but decided to wait for his Pimp My Ride audition. Salesdude also advised us not to rev up the engine over 60 MPH. It was like Speed but in reverse. We were driving DEEPS! No wonder he had given us his keys so easily. Instead of liability insurance, he had little Buddha on the dash.

But we had to thank the guy for letting us use his truck. We didn't have to shell out fifty bucks for delivery. We had a freezer! When we returned the truck, the salesguy even apologized for its dilapidated state and explained that his dad uses it for business (What could that be? Hauling sides of beef? Helping strangers schlep heavy home appliances because they're too stupid to bring a measuring tape?). He didn't even want to take the $40 tip. He gave me a comment card and said that would help him more.

He should have handed me a deposit slip because what I wrote was so good he would have put it in the bank. Oh snap!