blame it on the Rainn

I'm a little sad today because of an invitation I received.



Dwight from The Office will be at my alma mater this Friday and I have a work event to orchestrate that night.

Is it also ironic that it's sponsored in part by the MONA FOUNDATION?

Nathan's costumes this year

A.J. Soprano.



Carmela Soprano.



Paulie Walnuts.



Tony Soprano.

And the unknown member of the Sopranos:



Juan Soprano.

Who's a winner?

I entered the Ryka free shoe contest ages ago but never received a "Hey you won!" email so imagine my Christmas-morning excitement when I got home yesterday and found these beauties waiting for me! Now you know someone who won!

But let me warn you that this is not the time to tell me, "Hey Mona, I just won the lottery! Now you know someone with a million dollars," because I will use these babies to run to your house and kick your ass. That's really how Million Dollar Baby should have ended. She should have worn these sweet Ryka shoes and taken that German down! Why doesn't anyone consult me on these things?

--

Also check out my new column, "The Frugal Femme," over at Seattle Mom Blogs. I plan to use this column to share how I keep my wallet from hemorraghing. Don't you want to know, you crazy diamond! Shine on!

This week, I've listed out my Freecycle and Craigslist magic skillz. Cause girls only want bloggers with skillz.

Just when Nathan thought he was safe

The Bumbo Seat has been recalled due to idiotic parents leaving their seated children on elevated surfaces.

I have never done this.

Oh wait.



Oh wait again!



Are you waiting? Wait some more!



Can't you see the terror in his eyes?



He is utterly frightened. You'd think he was on a cliff with a sea raging below. He could have almost died! His life could have almost flashed before his eyes! And my boobs would have had a remarkable presence in said near-death flashes! I don't know why I just wrote that, but hey, any cameo my boobs make is a good one, even if it never happened.

A shot at love, or at least awkward situations

About eight years ago, I was at a high school party when a girl hit on me. I don't even think that's the proper word for it because what happened was that I walked into the room to get my purse and she jumped out, naked. And it was dreamlike, because when you're in a dream, you know what is going on and what is required of you even though nothing is explicitly stated. She just stood there, with her body yelling, "Here I am, rock you like a hurricane! Except I'm all nudey! Jazz hands!" Only, there weren't any jazz hands.

I grabbed my purse, zoomed past her and didn't stop until I was in my car, safely heading home.

What was I supposed to do? Hug her? I could not bring myself to hug a beaver flasher. You wouldn't excuse a guy who pulled out his wang, like, "Hey, the party's right here!"

Even if I had been into women, I could never have reciprocated this girl's advances. Earlier in the evening, she had shared her "poetry" and I use quotation marks because the poetry was terrible and worse, it rhymed. I can't do the deed with someone who writes rhyming poetry. There are infinite possibilities with the English language and you remove so much of it with that restriction. She had submitted her "work" to the contests that advertise in the back pages of Seventeen, the ones next to "Trace this turtle and you're accepted into our prestigious art school (once your check clears)."

Rhyming poetry is my deal breaker. You can't date someone who smokes? Has toes long enough to curl back and fill an elf's shoe perfectly? Okay, I can't date anyone who writes on the following: 1) the depths of the soul 2) the alabaster flesh (Isn't there a Wiccan circle missing you right now, Azrael?) or 3) urinary tract infections (UTI sonnets exist!).

And I'm telling you this because I watched Tila Tequila's reality show, A Shot at Love. Who's betting that she ends up with a guy? I am.

Also, I found Nude Poet this evening on MySpace. She now plays the drums in a industrial-goth band called, "Dark Prince's Left Nut." Not the real name, of course, but still it has it testicular theme. How many themes can the testicles have? There are only two, after all.

no apparent sorrow

Last year, I opted for the Mirena IUD instead of the copper version after hearing so many stories about copper wire theft. It's desperate times, people! I also cancelled my appointment to remove the IUD because Mike and I have decided not to have another child.

This was not a decision we came to lightly. We have see-sawed the options of when to have a child and if to have another child. Immediately after Nathan's birth came the question of when to have baby number two, without any thought if this would be the best choice for us.

It is a strange response to have, that no, we won't be having another baby and we're okay with that. I'm prepared for the frowns from those who disagree, those who will push us even though they will not be caring or paying for hypothetical baby.

We want to provide the best life for the child we have. Nathan is a spectacular boy and when I say, "Nathan, sit down," he will sit! On command! Take that, nonresponsive cats! When I stretch out my hands, he charges toward me until his laughing mouth is drooling on my chest. If I am sitting on the floor, he will shimmy backwards until he plops into my lap. These moments remind me that if this is all I'll have, I am fine.

My life is good the way it is.

not on the road again

On Friday, Mike picked me up from work. Our car was stuffed with our suitcases and toddler accoutrement: DVD player, assortment of books and toys, and the pill they give astronauts in case they want to end it--that was for me, silly! They don't have infant versions!

Our plan was to drive to a tiny mountain town in Oregon to attend a our friend Matt's wedding, but what we didn't take into account is that on a rainy Friday afternoon, the Seattle traffic is hellish. It is not the "parking lot" cliche because you know what? I have never wanted to kill anyone in a parking lot. I have never felt the murderous rage of someone who does not know how to merge or someone who has to cut in front of me! Please don't cut in front of me because I will spend the next hour hating you and your "coexist" bumper sticker.

So instead of driving 10+ hours, we drove an hour from my work to our home. What an awesome roadtrip, indeed.

Our trips are no longer as seamless as they were when it was just us. (Duh Mona! File that under "Obvious"! I bet you prefer your hamburgers without cheese, which is also filed under "Obvious"!) We could handle interminable highway miles or frustrating ticket agents. And things could be done on a whim, like when we were in Sedona, Arizona and I fulfilled my dream of working a western brothel:



So instead of journeying the Oregon Trail (best. game. ever.), we stayed in this weekend.



Nathan became a pot head.



And got the munchies.



And tried to climb up my back using my ponytail.

How was your weekend?

he's laughing, I swear

he's laughing, I swear
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

there was much swearing when this happened

This is unfortunate.

I can't even blame it on Nathan, though I'm sure I could and you all would nod with sympathy while thinking, "Are you sure YOU didn't do it, Mona? This looks like your work." You caught me. A toddler would have left a peanut butter smear. And pee.

My camera slipped from my hands and landed on the hardwood. If I had softwood floors, I wouldn't have this problem. Or if I lived in one of those inflatable bouncy houses or in Strawberry Shortcake's house because she lived in a cake made of strawberry! I could just eat around my lens! Problem solved, tummy full, high five!

The filter is shattered and bent so I can't twist it off to examine the lens underneath. Rest in peace, 17-85mm.

Last night I picked up a 24-105mm lens and 430EX speedlite and now I can finally take the pictures I want without having to load up Photoshop.

You see right through me, internet friend! I really just want to take pictures of my cat, Lilo!



Lilo knows I am transparent.

And can I ask why there is so much hate toward women, particularly mothers, who purchase higher-end cameras? I've read some blog banter recently that cut through moms with cameras, pointing out that they can never ever call themselves photographers. How dare they mention the word photography! I must always refer to it as square things with my son's face in the middle. Granted, I am not a professional photographer by any stretch, but those kind of comments shut out those like me who find photography fascinating and cathartic. Tell me, who spiked the punch with haterade?

But you don't feel that way, right, my sweet internet friend? If we went bowling, you would totally let me win, which would mean you would have to aim for the gutter so my single digit score would pwn you. That's the kind of relationship we have, you l33t hax0r!

We are the world

This weekend we purchased a family membership to the Seattle Children’s Museum because the last few times we’ve been there, Nathan has gone Pat O’Brien crazy, only without the drugs or prostitutes. (That’s what college is for!)

We bought the membership because not only does Nathan whole-heartedly love the place, but it offers us a warm, dry haven when the parks have turned dark and cold.

Nathan particularly loves Discovery Bay, the section for children under 3, where he can Godzilla his way through immobile babies. I always apologize, though I would be frustrated with six-month-olds stationed where there should be movement.

But each time we make our rounds through the different rooms, I roll my eyes at the overgeneralizing of cultures. Seriously. I know this is a children's museum and not a call for post-doc papers, but I have a feeling that most of the money was blown on set design and not cultural accuracy. The conversation might have gone like this:

Children's Museum Employee 1: Oh no, how can we properly detail different countries of the world on sixty bucks! Why did you have to throw a Children's Museum Employee Recognition Dance-Off?!?

Children's Museum Employee 2: Shut up! You loved Dance Dance Revolution and you know it! Besides, we only have to talk about the most general, antiquated features and that's it! No one will ever know.

Children's Museum Employee 1: Except Mona. She will see right through our Yap money display.



Poor Yap. No mention of the country's current updated use of AMERICAN DOLLARS, but instead an illusion that these Pacific Islanders prefer huge boulders of rock to foldable pieces of paper, because...rock beats paper? What? Yap is full of second-graders? I'm sure the researchers at the Children's Museum would have done more investigative work, but they heard that Yapese people have cooties.

And what about the African exhibit? Children, did you know that all Africans are all about their hair! Yes, it's true! There was also a civil war over a coke bottle that fell from the sky! Also true!



Hello Simba, may I interest you in the Mafia Cut?



Or how about the Boeing 707? What's that you say? That plane is only flown in Iran and Argentina? In that case, would sir be interested in our African special? The Kid-n-Play?



But I love you Children's Museum, even though you go on assuming these things about cultures. And you know what assuming does. It makes an ass out of you and Ming. Poor Ming. Poor Chinese guy.

oh em gee this kid.

Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

He loves Taco Del Mar, but who doesn't? Ole!

In which I stared at a lot of boobs but in a non-lesbonic way, though there's nothing wrong with that 'cause, hey, everyone experiments freshman year

Last Friday night, I thought the world was against me attending the very swank Seattle Mom Blogs party. I lost the mapquest directions on the way there, even though I had them on my lap. I had to pull over and do a thorough search before I concluded that I sat on the directions and my ass ate them. But what could I do? My ass needs directions!

I'm glad I didn't let my ass get in the way because it was such a blast and I mean that genuinely, not in the Baby-sitters Club sense of the word because those girls didn't have a firm grasp of adjectives. I mean, I don't remember anything about them taking infant CPR classes, only sticking straws in oranges for a "fun treat" or how Claudia Kishi was oh-so-stylish with her cosby sweaters and STIRRUP PANTS.

But enough about my ass and 90s-lit-references. The Seattle Mom Blogs party was sponsored by Method. When I told Mike about it, he asked if it was about birth control. Right, environmentally-safe cleaning products totally make me think about the Rhythm Method. This is why I am on the search for the father of Nathan's half-brother or half-sister.

I was afraid that I would have to be on guard since this was a party full of bloggers and there was a good chance that there'd be posts about some drunk woman named Mona who thought there was going to be a game of quarters, but then suggested a round of "organic quarters."

It was an interesting game of staring at boob-level name tags to figure out, oh yes, I've read your blog or oh yes, you're the one getting married or you're the one who just had a baby. It was like a game of Guess Who, only not annoying and now with cocktails!

And of the many, many awesome moments of the night was when Kathryn asked me if Mona was my real name. I had never thought of Mona as a fake name. Kathryn shared that she writes the way she talks and I would talk the way I write if I had a delete key near my mouth or a button that says, "Save this inane anecdote as draft, Mona."

Seattle Mom Bloggers, I heart you.

File this under "Gutter, head in the"

Right Brain vs. Left Brain vs. Gutter Brain.

Okay, so if you see the dancer turning clockwise, you're right-brained. If you see the dancer turning counter-clockwise, you're left-brained.

If you can't focus on her spinning because someone designed the dancer with perfectly pert, perky breasts with no apparent history of breastfeeding, I'm going to invite you to Mona's Pity Party 2007. Now with punch and pie! Where did they get the illustrator? Methinks that somewhere, a seventh grade homeroom is missing the kid with the boob-filled sketchpad.

Come on over, my internet friends. We'll mourn our breasts of yore. Whaddya say?

Um, Rihanna? "Ella" is not a word.

Okay, I've ragged on Fergie before, but "Big Girls Don't Cry" makes me a die a little. "I'm going to miss you like a child misses their blanket," she sings. Are you too glamorous for correct pronoun-antecedent agreement? And how is it that a song as blatantly offensive to the English language as "The Way I Are" infiltrates the airwaves and I am subsequently subjected to it the minute I scan the radio stations. I know this is an offense committed by many artists, but Timbaland, let's go back in time, stick some vocabulary flash cards in the spokes of your Huffy bike and we'll try this again.

I'm just glad that Gwen Stefani spelled fruit correctly, if not the song title, in "Hollaback Girl," or I'd have to call her out, because Gwen, that shit's not bananus.

I think I need mouth to mouth and other inappropriate things I did not say at my son's check-up

This afternoon was Nathan's last appointment at the clinic he's been to since he was three days old. Mike and I decided to move him to a children's clinic closer to our house, one that doesn't involve destroying our brakes by jerking through downtown traffic or for the sake of my son's innocent and budding vocabulary, require that I replace my normal slew of road rage swear words for phrases like, "CHEESE AND RICE!" and "HOLY HARRY POTTER!"

This afternoon was the first time for me to experience the magic that is the Hot Doctor. Internet readers, not one of you said, Mona, you should go find a hot doctor. That will make fighting rush hour traffic worth it. I'd be willing to be dropped in a pit of Tae Bo trained monkeys that I'd have to battle before getting to Hot Doctor. Bring it!

I shook his hand and introduced myself, thinking "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY SON'S LIFE?" But once I stopped acting like Robert Deniro in Awakenings and wiped the drool from my hanging mouth, we had the most in-depth discussion about Nathan's habits and health. I didn't have to fire off my requisite check-up questions because he was in a hurry. Hot Doctor patiently played with Nathan, called him "pumpkin" and nodded at all my concerns about his weight. (Nathan weighed in at 30.5 lbs. Someone do the math and tell me how many meerkats that is, por favor.)

"Oh, he's growing perfectly. He's perfect for his height. He's just big!" Hot Doctor laughed. (That's what I've been saying all along...but about myself. I'm just big-boned, especially around my butt.)

I lied to Hot Doctor when he asked me if we spoke another language at home. I said, "Yes, we do! I speak Chamorro to him!" This is only slightly true. In the rare moments when Nathan still needs to be breastfed, I'll repeat loudly as I unfurl my sweater puppy, "Susu! Susu! Susu!" Basically, I'm yelling to my son, "BOOB! BOOB! BOOB!"

There were many things I wanted to ask Hot Doctor, like how I want to teach Nathan math and number sequences, so hey, what's your phone number? Or even more blunt inquires such as, "Baby, why you so fine?"

As incredibly good-looking as Hot Doctor was, I still had to submit the paperwork to transfer Nathan's files. If Nathan's next appointment is not as satisfying, I'll have the memory of Hot Doctor and some of his DNA on my skin because I am never washing my hand again.

this is what you get when you marry me

Me: I want an iPhone.

Mike: That's what's wrong with your generation. You always want the latest gadget.

Me: What about your generation? Did you go out an buy an 8-track player?

Mike: Yeah, but I didn't have to have it the moment it came out.

Me: Well, that's understandable. I mean, didn't they just make movies in color? How old were you when they stop calling them talking pictures?

Sticking his thumb in my nose and other effective techniques to wake up Mommy

This was Nathan last year as the most adorable lion ever. This year, I bought a chicken costume in hopes that we can replicate the ease and enjoyment of exploiting utilizing my son to represent the animal kingdom. But shortly after I shimmied his squiggly body into the soft fuzzy chicken suit complete with hooded chicken head, he let out a terrible squeal to warn everyone on our block that his parents were committing something as egregious as forced poultry wear.

And this is the disconnect we've had lately. When I want him to enjoy something as much as I do, I am faced with a, "What kind of sick tradition is this holiday you call 'Halloween,' woman?" attitude. When we went to the pumpkin patch the other week, there were bales of hay that other children were climbing on and thorougly enjoying and when I plopped him in and urged him to play, he looked at me with utter confusion like, "WHY ARE YOU DUMPING ME IN HERE WITH ALL THESE WHITE KIDS?"



My son is now 17 months and while putting on his diaper is like diapering a break-dancing pig, I love this stage. When he wants to wake me up, he'll stick a finger in my nose, press his face close to mine or pull at my pajama sleeve. He's just as intent on expressing his happiness. At the Children's Museum this weekend, he was so elated to be in a space where I wasn't hollering, "ROCKS ARE NOT FOOD, CHILD," that he kept running into my lap, giggling wildly. I want to bottle those moments up and smash them open during the times I cannot breathe because there is a thumb lodged in my nostril.



Even though I haven't been able to teach him how to kiss Mommy, the Children's Museum's Global Village Room offered us the important lesson that everyone in the Philippines has rattan furniture.

this is my "I don't want camel toe" pose

this is my "I don't want camel toe" pose
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

Friday quickie

If Sinead O'Connor weren't bi-polar, would that mean that something compares to you?

babby daddies and serial kilers

I told Mike last night, "I would like to have another baby. But it doesn't have to be with you."

He replied, "You know, this is the third time you've told me this."

When we do start planning for baby number 2, I think paternity should be included in the preliminary talks. I always hear tame questions like, "Do you think it'll be a girl," when the real pressing issue is, "Do you think Clive Owen will make a good father for Nathan's half-brother or half-sister?"

--



Do you remember that episode of Friends in which Ross taught Chandler the "hug and roll"? That's what I try to do when I put Nathan to sleep (because if it worked on TV, it totally translates into real situations!) but the moment I shift, I startle the kid awake and suddenly, he's babbling and full of questions like, "Hey Mom, if a Silverback gorilla and a tiger were to fight to the death, who would win? Yeah, that's what I thought. The Silverback." And the kid won't sleep unless he gets an answer to, "If Boutros Boutros-Ghali were to become a wrestler, would his name be Boutros Boutros The Undertaker Ghali?"

--

And you all have been watching Dexter? Thanks to Linda, I am now hooked! And here I thought that heroin was addictive. I prefer the Michael C. Hall, the serial killer to Michael C. Hall, the whining victim on Six Feet Under. Need a visual? Here it is: serial killer > whining victim.

If you love Dexter as much as I do, you'll like this short video.

And if you've never watched Dexter, you must be thinking that I have a very sick hierarchical order, but dude, he would not stop crying about being carjacked and held at gunpoint for hours. I spent the last two seasons of Six Feet Under thinking, "Cry me a river and jump into it, David Fisher." Anyone with me on that?

--

And can I just say thank you to everyone who participated in yesterday's Great Mofo Delurk 2007? Handjobs Ice cream for everyone!

You can't spell "Mofo" without "Mo"

Today is the launch of "The Great Mofo Delurk." This is a chance for you to leave your feed readers and say, "Hey there Mona!" or "Woman, where's my money?" To the latter, I must insist, it's on its way. Just give me more time.

So this weekend I surprised Mike with two tickets to Billy Joel. He said, "This is the nicest thing you've ever done for me!"

I was a little taken aback. "Really? This is the nicest thing I've ever done for you? Surely there was something I did nicer than this!"

And we sat there trying to think of something, anything. A long pause filled the room then I answered, "What about the time I didn't kick your ass? That was very nice of me. Was that Christmas or something?"

So back to the delurking focus of today: say hey, would you? And if my mom asks, this blog is really an online dedication to the Virgin Mary. Deal?

Nathan submits his vote of no confidence

I think he's unimpressed with my MySpace faces.

Nathan's wrestling name?

IMG_2127
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

The Body

de plane

My mom said her check-in was at 8 AM, so she told me to be at the airport no later than 5. She's always checked in three hours early, a routine she's kept long before it was necessary. And I inherited that fear of being late. As a kid, I would hyperventilate if I thought I was going to be tardy. Now, I still have dreams in which I can't get to work because I'm in another country. I wish I could have a talk with my subconscious and let it know that dream time is reserved for Colin Firth fantasies, not matri-induced nightmares.

I arrived at the airport at 5:45 AM and couldn't find my mother or brother's family. I called my brother who said, "We're just leaving the 7-11."

"Oh you mean the 7-11 near your house?!?!"

"Yeah. We'll be there soon."

"Oh that's funny because someone told me to be here at 5. AND HERE I AM!"

To work off the headache that resulted from waking up before I had to, I made rounds in the terminal, pushing Nathan's stroller past sleeping travelers, their heads resting on messenger bags and bunched-up coats. We walked by women who had woken up much earlier than I did to put on their make-up. The last time I traveled, I had a huge sty so instead of putting on make-up, I would say to gawking looky-loos, "Oh, you think this is bad? You should see the other guy."

Nathan was no longer impressed with the changing faces or the brightly light shops. He threw out his sippy bottle (we screwed on an Avent ring and nipple onto a sippy cup. Genius! Victory is mine!). It rolled in front of us until it reached the feet of a little five-year-old boy. The kid didn't see me rushing over and lifted his elephant foot to crush the bottle.

"No-no-no-no!" I hollered, afraid that maybe the kid had forgotten that this was the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, not a Jewish wedding.

"That's his!" Pointing to my son, who would not appreciate a broken sippy bottle.

Then the kid lifted the bottle and smiled at me. His mother turned her back to catch her son's kind offer. "That's so nice of you Lex Luthor." Actually, he had a sweet-sounding boy name, but after his foiled bottle stomp, he fit the profile of Superman's arch-nemesis, not a kid making a nice gesture.

I nodded, grabbed the bottle and continued. What was I supposed to say? Argue with a five-year-old over what he may or may not have done? You can't really make a case for yourself when you're wearing last night's make-up.

When my brother finally arrived with his wife, son and my mother, we escorted her to the passenger line and followed her through the entire boarding maze. I had never done this before, making me worry that I had been making a mistake all these years I've dropped my mother off at the "ENTER HERE" sign. Did she want to be followed for thirty minutes until I had to duck under the rope before I was asked for a boarding pass? With my mother, all good deeds are negated easily. For every screw-up, you must complete five soul-sucking errands like driving 40 miles to deliver a dozen glazed doughnuts without the glaze.

But she's a funny woman, my mother. The other night, I held my camera up to take a picture of the two of us. I said, "SAY 'MYSPACE'!"

"AI, NO!" she snapped. "I don't want to see this on the internet!"

"I didn't say anything about the internet, mom. I said, 'SAY NICE FACE!'"