Get thee to an OB

Lately I've been thinking that I want to have another baby. I enjoyed my pregnancy with Nathan and who knows, maybe we'll luck out and have another awesome kid who cracks up at his own gas. Then I realized that I don't want another baby, I want a double stroller. I don't know what attracts me to those half-domed vehicles, but whenever I see a woman with her kin ferried in those large stadium seat-gliders, I think, I want that. This just means I need to get my IUD quick until I have a genuine reason to fertilize my ladygarden.

EDIT: I must point out that "ladygarden" is my friend Bea's word. I am a word thief.

what I inherited

Some days I wish I could be just like my mother. Other days I'm happy that I remember not to pronounce the "h" in herbs.

Project Runaway

My sister taught me how to thread a bobbin and the other intricacies of my sewing machine. I've always felt inadequate in any domestic area, especially since my mother taught Home Economics and has the ability to duplicate any fashion she sees. I can look at anyone and recreate him/her in stick figure form. I didn't have to go to school to gain those skillz.



I am moistening the thread. I am not making out with my Kenmore. Not yet.



At least the babies are impressed.

OH-EM-GEE IT'S SNOWING!

I woke up this morning and saw white blobs falling outside. It's a snowpocalypse! Snow means three things in Seattle: 1) it is too cold to rain, 2) this is what everyone will talk about today and 3) no one will know how to drive.

We lived in Oregon when I was in the first and second grade and I remember seeing my breath for the first time. I almost hyperventilated trying to keep that mouth-fog going. I didn't see snow again until the third grade when some company in Japan shipped over a container of snow to Saipan so the mall could hold a snowman contest. Unfortunately, when the snow became tightly packed ice blocks so snowmen were impossible. One kid suffered a black eye during a snowfight.

If it doesn't melt, I'll call the babysitter while Mike cues "Eye of the Tiger" because there is going to be some serious snowball royale today.

Mona's guide to football

When my sister-in-law asked me what Mike and I were doing, I answered, "Well, the big Seahawks game is on."

"Oh, how does it feel to be a football widow?" She assumed that Mike would be watching the game and I would be prepping the brownies or putting the knee-pads on for the obligatory head-at-half-time, because in her world, you're either baking or blowing.

None of the men in my life have been interested in sports. The beaus who came along before Mike didn't give one asscheek (I almost wrote asscheck, which sounds like a weird form of currency) about sports. So when Mike and I were in the early stages of courtship, I wanted to be the cool girlfriend who didn't say things like, "I'm rooting for the clock," or stand right in front of the television like I was made out of glass, I plopped my uneducated butt next to him in an attempt to figure out what compelled my man to devote hours to this testosterone mystery. Many conversations went like this:

Me: Who's playing?

Mike: St. Louis Rams and the Carolina Panthers.

Me: I hate the Panthers!

Mike: No, honey, we like the Panthers.

Me: Oh. I hate the Rams!

Remember Sponge from Salute Your Shorts? He got his name because he was so smart, if you pressed his brain, information would squish out, like, wait for it, a sponge! My husband is the same way, only much of that cranial ooze is comprised of stats, field positions and the fluctuating price of milk in the 70's. With the bulk of our Thanksgiving dedicated to watching the games, I've written up a few helpful hints that have guided me through these last four years with SpongeMike Squarepants (but if he gains weight, he'll be SpongeMike Roundpants).

If you're like me and don't have the time to go attend Football for Wives 101, but want enough to get through the rest of this season, here's a primer with a small p:

1. Learn the language/history:

In order to get through a game, you'll need to know the basic glossary of terms like blitz, coverage, yardage, etc. You don't have to know everything, but it will come naturally.

Last year was the first time the Seahawks made it to the Superbowl and they did stupid things like miss a ball or screw up a kick. However, I choose not to remember the errors and instead, remember when Ben Roethlisberger (the cheater) sneaked the ball over the line for a touchdown and the refs protected that cheater with their stupid officiating. I share my man's grudge.

FYI: If you're on the west coast, it's a good chance that ESPN won't talk about your team because they hate west coast teams and besides, everyone hates the Seahawks.

2. Direct your anger/smart-ass remarks.

If a ref has called something against your team, always say, "That was a stupid call," or "What was that?!?" If the Field Judge has erred (or even if he hasn't, it doesn't matter), get really angry, or remember the time that your man brought home whipping cream instead of heavy cream when you clearly marked it on a list with a Sharpie (I'm working with recent events here), yell, "What does FJ stand for? Effing joke?" When Mike Holmgren is blabbing behind his laminated roster, I say, "What are you doing? Ordering a hoagie?"

If John Madden's an announcer, you're in luck. Make fun of him as much as you can. You will learn quickly that he is the king of obvious. He only has three things to say: What a pass! What a play! That's the way to sack him! If you hear anything else, that's someone from EA Sports feeding it to him through the earpiece. Also, you can do a great Madden impression if you include, "blub, blub, blub," with any of the preceding soundbites. If he stumbles over anything, which usually happens when Al Michaels, the real journalist, cuts him off, say, "Where's your tough-acting Tenactin now? Booyah!" And this is my favorite gem: "That's John Maddening." That pun's on me, my friend.

3. Fake it, fake it, fake it.

Sports Cliche List is the definitive source of everything everyone says about sports. If you're going to watch a game, memorize about five and alter it accordingly. If someone does something especially egregious that warrants a personal foul, say, "They'll be talking about this is in the locker room."

There are some classic all-purpose ones not included like, "We don't have time for this!" or "Why are you even playing Sundays, idiot!"

4. It doesn't hurt to ask.

I'm pretty lucky that my husband doesn't mind when I bombard him with questions during the game. I know a lot of guys that get all territorial with football and shoo women away. Mike's friend asked me a lot of, "Who's the running back for..." kind of questions just to make me feel stupid but I shot back with, "Well, I do know you were the first round draft pick for the Missouri Jerkfaces."

Learning about football is not learning about quantum physics. If you don't know anything about quantum physics now, it's unlikely that you'll make it in that field. Once I figured out what was going on in a game, it was like I cracked a code. And if you already know that 4th and inches is not the score, you're way ahead. It took me a while before I realized that number's impossible.

I should end this by saying that you don't have to do anything that you don't want to do. If you want to let your significant other enjoy the game while you take a much needed break, fine. At the very least, it's something considerate and at the most, it could get you laid. If Mike said, "So, Luke and Lorelai were together, then they weren't together, then they were together and now they're not together, and now she married Christopher? WTF," I would be getting off like a prom dress. Same deal. You can forget Spanish Fly with this magic.

Nathan's plan for world domination: phase 1

"This is the best idea ever..."


"...if I just keep smiling..."


"...no one will know..."


"...I've stopped sleeping through the night!"

Dear Gilmore Girls writers,

Luke would have never noticed the ring if Lorelai didn't wave it in front of his face three times. Men do not notice wedding rings. If she had hung the ring off her hard nipples, however, then I could believe it. A recap? Wedding ring: cheap ploy. Smuggled peas: easily spotted.
kthxbye, Mona.

Jenny, I've got your number

I've always wondered about those people with the phone number: 867-5308. Because you know they have to have had prank calls, but from slackers who are one number off.

The same goes for people with 867-5390 because their crank callers are dyslexic with numbers.

What I don't say during interviews

When I was in the third grade, I befriended the Korean girl next door whose family ran the corner store and laundry mat. She had to man the register one night and asked me to help her. I bagged the small purchases and she dealt change. I consider this my first job. I made .50 that night and haven't made much more than that since then.

Half a year

At Nathan's six-month check-up, I told his doctor about the massive trench-rash going on in his diapers. She said, "See these red dots? That's a sign of yeast." Yeast? Lady, he's a baby, not a sourdough loaf.

My son weighs 22 lbs 13 oz which is in the 98th percentile. He's 28 inches long which fits in the 95th percentile. His 18 and a half-inch head? Off the charts. Also, a monkey jumped into the room and Nathan drop-kicked the hairy beast. The doc scanned her charts but couldn't find a number. I told her I'd have to get him a spacesuit cause it'd be out of this world!

There haven't been any teeth yet, but I can tell they're coming. Lately during breastfeeding, he gnaws or clamps down and throws his head back like my nipple is a Stretch Armstrong doll and not a nerve-filled part of my body. He also says things like, "Mamamamama," which does not translate to "mother" but rather "shake your laffy taffy, your laffy taffy."

And about the diaper rash: what worked better than giving my son's butt a kabuki facial with the doctor-suggested-clotrimazole was the oatmeal bath I learned via parenthacks. I also played Hall and Oates for good measure, but that's because I prefer their version of "Maneater." Yeah, I'm looking at you Nelly Furtado!



Nathan was first weighed on that scale when he was three days old. His tiny body sunk into the bucket seat and I never thought he would be any bigger than that. And now, he's only a few ounces away from being beefy enough to take on a silverback. I'll have to take him to those places off the freeway where they weigh 18-wheelers.

I wouldn't make it very far on Project Runway

During the only lap dance I ever received from a woman, the dancer "Sloane" said, "You can't thread a moving needle." I've always remembered that line and her acrobatic demonstration on making a dollar out of fifteen cents. I've flirted with the idea of visiting her again since she could help me with my latest endeavor: sewing cloth diapers.

She could probably also teach me how to maneuver the Caucasian Helicopter. I've heard of another position called the Chuukese helicopter, but since Sloane was wearing only sequined pasties and a thong and not a floral ankle skirt and a shirt saying "MICHIGAN," it's safe to say she wasn't from the Federated States of Micronesia. (I tried to google pics of Chuukese women in said ensembles, but no luck. You disappoint me, Internets!)

I've been thinking of switching Nathan to cloth diapers because as we've moved up in size, we're still paying the same amount for a Costco box of Huggies but for fewer diapers per box. New wraps cost anywhere from $16 to $25 each and that's just too rich for Nathan's bum. I've searched a few consignment shops for wraps, but most of them are ratty and as appealing as used toilet paper.

Here's what works in my favor: free diaper patterns and my sewing machine (albeit dust-covered). Here's the monkey wrench: I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SEW! I bought a couple of yards of fleece and pul fabric and brought it home. I practiced first on a faded pillow case. I guided it under the needle and then I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure how to end it, so I clipped the thread. I'm sure that if I took up knitting, I would start out with a scarf and end up with a carpet runner.

I went to sleep thinking that some answer would magically appear in my dream but nothing came. I fiddled with the bobbin this morning and now I have an unthreaded bobbin, a pillow case with a line sewn in and a sewing machine that needs someone with a higher IQ to operate it.

My sewing skills are so cold, they should be measured in Kelvin.

In which Nathan is destined for therapy

Back in July, when it was still warm and sunny and my car was in tact, I went to a garage sale in a swanky area of West Seattle. I arrived there during the final hour so most of what I wanted had already been picked up. What was left were Ikea knives and a season of Felicity. As I was about to leave, she said, "Wait! Why don't you just take these? I just need to get rid of it." She pointed to a box of women's clothing and a Macy's bag and was practically hauling it towards my trunk before I could accept.

Do you think I took the free clothing? Does a bear shit in the woods?

The thing was, the woman had the measurements of Olive Oyl: 19-19-19. Roll her in Crisco and she could squeeze through a railing. She was a size 2 and I was a size elephant.

At home, I sorted through the clothing. I kept a sorority cap but gave most of it to my 12-year-old niece who appreciated the Express jeans and Limited blouses.

I kept the Macy's bag though because inside was a wedding dress and veil. Her wedding dress. Who gives away her wedding dress to a complete stranger? There were no rips or tears. I could tell she had danced it in since there were dirt lines along the edge, but still... I remember an urban legend about a poor girl who bought a beautiful dress from a thrift store but it turned out to be from a dead woman and the sweat and fluid transfusion from the fabric caused her to die. I didn't think I was going to die, but I didn't want to give it to my niece because I didn't want to send some sort of message like, "I know you're only twelve, but hey, if you get pregnant, all's we need is the shotgun!"

I've had it hanging up in my closet because until this morning, I hadn't decided what to do with it.

Then I was knocked on my ass by the most brilliant idea ever.



The world's largest baptismal gown!



It meets all the Catholic criterion. It's white. It's a dress. And besides, Nathan doesn't seem to mind. I was going to try on the veil, but thought, that's just wrong.

baby daddy proof

I'm convinced that Nathan looks more like Mike than he does like me. Granted, he has my dark eyes, but that's about it. I've been rifling through Mike's baby pictures, trying to find some doppleganger proof, like I'm trying to build a case for my upcoming appearance on Maury Povich.

When I was pregnant, I said to my husband, "I hope he has your eyes and my brain." I guess I can't win 'em all.

Also, Mike's baby picture is in black and white because the world didn't have color when he was born. Mike told me once that he lived through two wars and I said, "Oh, the Spanish-American and what was the other one?"

And before you start passing judgment because I married someone significantly older, I should just tell you that once I help him into his Depends, he's just like you and me. Just like you and me.

Can I get a witness?

If motherhood were a university, my class ranking would not be somewhere between the stoners and the six-year-seniors. At my moms group, someone mentioned having read, "Super Baby Food" and three other moms chimed in while I totally fake-nodded, acting like I read it, loved it and Ebayed the t-shirt. During one of my high school debates, my intense opponent who attended debate camp said, "And according to Black's Law, blah blah blah I'm smarter than you..." and I thought, "Black's Law? That's a little racist."

And this is a long and nonsensical way to confess that I bought Nathan a girl's car seat. I was set on purchasing a Britax Decathalon, but the online store that had peddled it for $219 was sold out. So I opted for a Marathon at the same price but only the Luau fabric was available.



I didn't think anything of it until last night's Gilmore Girls when Lorelai and Christopher were strapping in Gigi in her car seat and I realized that it was the exact car seat I had just purchased for my Y-chromosomed boy.

I can pass it off as a Pacific Islander choice, since he's half Chamorro, but why do I even care? It's a car seat, not a sweater. After all the vehicular drama this week, it's the safest one I could buy. I can just imagine what the other moms might say, "Mona, nice car seat, where's your daughter?" And I would come back with, "Whatever's clever," because in my head, if rhyme were a drug, I'd sell it by the gram.

When one of my professors became pregnant mid-term, she admitted that she was happy that she was having a girl because, "It's difficult to raise a feminist boy." And how do you raise a feminist boy? Mike and I have this sort of laissez-faire philosophy that if Nathan wants to play football, then great, Mike knows everything about sports (he goes to sleep listening to the sports radio station and when the Seahawks are on TV, he flips between sports talk and the television announcers) and he'd be a great, positive role model, not one of those idiots who live vicariously through their pee-wee league sons. If Nathan wants to spend his days with me watching Gilmore Girls, that doesn't make him a tulip, that makes him fucking awesome.

I didn't intend to talk about gendered parenting, but I'm tired of going to stores and seeing all the pink bibs with "I love Mommy" and the blue bibs with "I love Daddy" and no neutral colored clothing saying, "I appreciate my parents equally for what they have contributed to my life."

And what I really wanted to say was, "Did you see Gilmore Girls last night? What happened to the Lorelai of yore? The one who wouldn't do anything without Rory!" Can I get a witness, internet friends?

When I really need a Groundhog Day

First, thanks for all the wonderful comments. I truly appreciate it. When I win the Mega Millions Lotto, can I just take you all out and we'll have punch and pie? Deal?

Yesterday I was two blocks away from my doctor's office when we got into the wreck. I didn't make it to my IUD appointment, which is a big bummer because I had been looking forward to doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel.

I thought about whether or not to post up pictures of the scrap of tin which is now my car but right now, I don't want to fill this space with a serious case of ugly. Can I just tell you it looks bad? The hood now has a bent arc like a sneered lip.

My car is giving me its sex face.

In the other car, there was an older couple. The man asked me if I was okay and I said I was worried about my baby. He then asked if I was going to hold him and I said no because I thought I had relinquished all rights to be Nathan's mother and I was sure that his new mother would soon pull up like a tow truck and whisk away my car and the son she would never dare let be involved in an accident.

The driver and I exchanged info and they drove away. I unbuckled my baby from his seat. He was laughing and giggling as if this was just one big bumper car ride. Nathan was unphased by the whole event and gave me the, "Why the hell have we stopped?" face. I took him to the front seat and began bawling. I thought I was going to vomit on him, which, I'm sure Nathan wouldn't have minded because like his mother he believes in things like retribution and quid pro quo (I think this is also because I watched Silence of the Lambs and Bloodthirst III while he was in utero).

Mike arrived, smoking a cigarette even though he had quit. Never in my life had I wanted a cigarette more. Or a bottle of Jack. Or to be in that movie Groundhog Day.

It could have been worse. Something could have happened to Nathan or me. I don't think I could have forgiven myself. But we are fine. My baby is fine. He is alive and unharmed. I just have to tell that to myself as I spend the next few days maxing out my credit card to spare my insurance premium.

I'm going to try to go to sleep now and there had better be a dream involving my sweet man hybrid of Colin Firth and Justin Timberlake or as I call him, Colin Timberfirth.

Here's hoping.

Because we all need some lolz

Anne? I nominated your Embarrassment & Lazy Nipples for the , courtesy of MoTR and Izzy Mom because lady, your writing makes me want to go back to school and major in whatever lets me take courses to sound less like the south end of a north facing donkey and more like someone who knows how to properly execute a punchline.

They don't call it an "on purpose"

Nathan and I were in a bad accident today.

Our bodies are fine. Nathan is fine. After it happened, I ran back to check if he was okay and he looked at me and laughed.

My car is totaled.

I want this day back.

I heart Demetri Martin

"Seattle: very hip if you like coffee and crying..."

I wish more comics had sites like his.

In which Rachel and I bring Homeland Security to Lady Sovereign's concert and try to deport her

Last night, after the Lady Sovereign show had sold out, which coincidentally was right after Rachel and I waited in the biting wind for an hour, we decided to eat some pommes frites instead.



Some time during this brilliant maneuver, we heard screaming outside the window. Lady Sovereign popped her head out, showcasing her side-ponytail and cornrows.



Amidst the groupie shouting, one teenage girl dressed in striped stockings like the Muppet Babies' nanny, yelled, "OH MY GOD SHE IS SO HOT! I AM GOING TO GO MASTURBATE NOW!" What? Don't you have Kermit or Miss Piggy to look after? And besides, Lady Sovereign looks like she's ten. That's not exactly masturbatory material, unless you whack off watching To Catch a Predator.

Rachel and I hypothesized over what she must do alone in that gigantic tour bus. Rachel thought there was a play station involved. I was sure she was curled up on plush leather, reading Dickens and analyzing the concept of childhood in late Victorian literature, which just happened to be my senior thesis, woot woot!

We were back in front of her tour bus, waiting to get into the bar next door, when Lady Sovereign stuck her head out. "I need some weed. I need some weed right now." One guy in sloppy dreads said, "You need some weed? I could get some."

"So that means you haven't got any," she retorted. "This is very unsuperstar-like," she said to the crowd, "waiting by myself while girls bang on my window asking me to sign their tits."

Aside from the hancock-on-chest request, what puzzled me was that Lady Sovereign had no weed! In Seattle! What kind of publicist didn't hook her up with some BC bud? Not that I would know of anyone who distributes said illegal substance, or that I really know what BC bud is; I'm just saying. So I've heard. *cough cough*

A bachelorette party was ahead of us in line. Lady Sovereign said, "Who's getting married?"

"I don't know," Rachel answered. "But they're all wearing those necklaces with penises on them."

"It's all about worshiping the dick!" She replied. She retreated behind the blinds again, every so often opening up the window to yell, "I'm bored!"

I don't know if she ever got her weed.

If I were a rising music star, I'd put weird shit on my concert rider. I would demand a table of fresh cilantro so I could be a diva and flip over the table and say, "Who the hell put cilantro out here? Don't you know cilantro is the devil? The DEVIL!"

What would you demand?

Where is my mind?

Have you ever flipped through old photos of yourself and wondered, "Where the hell did that jacket/shirt/thong leotard go?"

Today I am on the prowl for this pink jacket.

And if I can find it today, the day after Mike McHavoc concedes to Washington's only non-lesbian-looking senator, that would be awesome.

Mona to Britney: Girl, you don't need no man

In the midst of this crucial election, where real issues of social and political import are at hand, I am just giddy about Britney leaving Kevin Federline? Why would you sire children with a man who doesn't even tie his shoes?

Elect Mona as your state asshole!

Today, as you head to the polls to exercise your democratic right, why not vote me as Washington's biggest asshole? Here are some reasons why:

1. I saw a former co-worker at the gym whom I haven't seen him since I was unmarried and skinny (read: hawt!). Instead of stopping and chatting with him, I totally pretended I didn't see him through the glass window. And of course he bellowed, "HI MONA!" once my fat Michelin-man back was turned and I was almost into the women's locker room. So I spun around in a "Oh, what a surprise!" move and said, "Hiiii, how's it going!" I should have said, "Since you last saw me, I got married and had a baby and exchanged my size 6 jeans for black track suits with elastic waistbands," but I ended up mumbling something about having a babysitter and needing time for myself, mumble, mumble, mumble. Woman, thy name is asshole.

2. I am the only woman who does not like Rachel Ray. She's too mouthy for me. I am not impressed by her "stoups" or "sammies." I watched that Halloween episode where she made "Worms and Eyeballs" with chicken meatballs and noodles. She raved how kids would love it. No they won't, Rachel Ray. As my Korean ESL student Hyo Kim would say, "Liar, liar, there is fire on your pants." This is where you come in with, "Come on! How can you hate Rachel Ray?" If you're an asshole, it's quite easy.

3. I hate revolving doors because I'm afraid my butt will get caught and I'll trap in some unsuspecting tourist who wasn't prepared to be encased in glass thanks to Ms. Junk in the Trunk up front. I don't know if that qualifies me as an asshole or not, but if you're ever in a revolving door with me and we get stuck, you have permission to say, "Geez woman and your butt trap! You're such an asshole!"

Hi-five for sex crimes!

Why today was chock-full of awesomeness:

1. Mike, Nathan and I met Anthony at the Metro and watched Borat. We took advantage of the Metro's crying room, which I highly recommend for anyone who wants to bring a baby to a theater. Tangent: since there's only one crying room at the Metro, the movie selections are sometimes questionable for kids. I called last week and Saw III was offered in the crying room. Still, hi-five for sex crimes! All was well until I found Anthony teaching Nathan how to play "quarters" using Avent bottles.

2. I found out that a former boss of mine gave me a glowing review which I expected because she's such a sweet person, but hearing someone say something nice about me which did not involve any bribes or checks made payable to said reviewer was especially awesome.

3. I lost three pounds this week! And crystal meth gets such a bad name, paa-shaa!

4. About a month ago, Nathan was casted to be a baby model for a local high-end children's clothing website. The website hasn't launched, but the owner emailed me a few of the photos and it healed my broken spirit at Babies R Us. Before you think I've turned my son into some JonBenét or John Benet, rather, I will most likely never do it again. I was ill-prepared and exhausted. I didn't have a boppy or bumbo seat with me, so I had to hold him up while ducking out of the shot. And since he couldn't sit up on his own, I had to be ready to catch his gargantuan head before it hit the grass.

My son, the fashionisto:







You like? I like! It's nice!

candy and cervices

I found out that my insurance fully covers the IUD, so I made an appointment. The receptionist said that everything could be done in forty-five minutes, granted my cervix was good enough.

Is there a chance my cervix won't be good enough? As evidenced by my birth story, I have a very popular cervix. I have the Cervix du Soleil! But is there some sort of hazing ritual my cervix will have to endure to prove its loyalty to whomever is doing that finger-dinger-dance up there? I watched this Lifetime movie in which Hilary Swank was in a sorority and they blindfolded her and made her eat eggshells so she thought she was chewing glass. I hope my cervix doesn't have to do that. It may be the Cervix Class President, but I have to admit, it's a pussy.

(Gawd, was that last sentence necessary? I know my niece reads this! I also know that my uncle read this blog before I had a chance to erase everything and replace it with an online tribute to the Virgin Mary. Doh!)

So... those of you who have had an IUD, will it hurt? That's a stupid question. I know it's not going to be like sleeping on a hammock on an ocean liner, but do I have to do anything to prepare? Tae Bo, maybe?

--

We had about fifteen trick-or-treaters last night. There were the requisite princesses and ninjas. What stood out were the two teens who wore street clothes and Scream masks who did not look EIGHT YEARS OLD and the one kid who held out a backpack and then turned around to show his other backpack and asked, "Could you give some candy for my cousin? He's not here. He's at the house."

Your absent cousin. At the house. Riiiiight.