hate to be the guy who stole this box...

...without reading the sign.

Friday giveaway! That means FREE STUFF people!

I'm throwing my hat into the blog-prize-giveaway-fray with this hypothetical: suppose I throw a party and invite you, my dear internet friend. What dish are you bringing?

All you have to do is answer that question by tonight 10PM PST and I'll randomly pick a comment.



If you win, you get a brand-new copy of Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook Deceptively Delicious.

P.S. If you don't prefer chickpeas in your chocolate chip cookies, don't put them in! The recipes still work, deceptive or not.

can he hear me now?

Nathan's audiologist appointment was not at all as terrifying as I had imagined.

I had been waking up several times a night, partly because The Late Talker says that if you delay intervention, your child will eventually kill you. Though there's no direct speech-development and matricide connection, the first few chapters discuss how late talkers can't communicate and therefore will become juvenile delinquents which will result in my inevitable death. Nathan will probably give me a fatal heart attack by saying, "I don't think The Office is all that funny," or worse, "I've decided to go to Washington State University."

This is why I don't read parenting books.

I also haven't been sleeping well because Nathan's teething again. Whenever I asked him, "Nathan, how long are you going to cry tonight," he'd get all Lionel Ritchie on me, saying, "ALL NIGHT LONG! I'LL CRY! ALL NIGHT!" Hello insomnia, indeed.

My fear was that I would say something like, "So does this mean he'll never get into MENSA?" and they would laugh back, "MENSA?!?! He'll be more likely to contract MRSA!"

But the audiologist and her assistant were very sweet with Nathan and played with him, cooing in high-pitched voices. Nathan flirted with the women, flashing them a deep-dimpled smile.

We sat in a small sound booth, a smaller version of the one Lionel Ritchie probably used to record that godawful song. They checked his ear for fluids and then stuck earbuds in to test his reflexes. He began wriggling and screaming while I held him down. He shot me a red-faced look, like, "Et tu, mother?" These are the times I'd rather be doing anything else other than restraining my child, like chewing tin foil or using YouTube to show everyone how I always play air guitar at the beginning of CSI Miami.

I tried to nurse him, but it was more like I was plugging up his mouth with my saggy boob and instead of latching on, he cried around my boob, like, “Why on earth would you think that this meat sock would make a difference?”

Once they were done with the earbud testing, they left the sound booth and sat on the other side of the glass window. Two corners of the room had a speaker and a black tinted box. The audiologist spoke into the microphone and Nathan's head turned towards the speaker. Then the black box lit up and inside a teddy bear played the drums and Nathan's head turned again. I was so glad it was a teddy bear with drums and not that evil monkey with the cymbals, though that would have been much more exciting. This continued for a few minutes, with the audiologist varying the volumes, practically whispering toward the end.

The two women walked back into the room and the audiologist told me that Nathan's hearing was sufficient for speech development. Meaning, it's not his hearing.

But I already knew this. So this is where we are now. My son, babbling mama and dada and me, waiting and waiting.

this doesn't help my ego

Since we drove in separate cars to Nathan's hearing appointment, Mike was behind me as we sat at the red light. The man next to me honked his horn several times to get my attention. I rolled down the window and we exchanged some words before he drove away.

When we got home, Mike asked, "What did that guy say to you?"

"He asked me for my phone number. But then I told him I was married and he drove off."

My husband paused for a second then said, "Okay, what did he really say to you?"

"He asked me for directions to Harborview."

No one hits on me anymore. The last guy who hit on me was the baker who always sliced my baguettes for free. Then I found out that it was store policy and he slices everyone's baguettes free of charge. I bet he really does want to tap my fine self, but has to say a spiel about polices and yada yada yada but he secretly kneads his bread into round shapes and giggles while whispering, "Boobies."

In a past life

There was a time when I could say, "Yes, Trashy.com, I am a returning customer." I was in love with cuban-heeled stockings and patent leather pumps. Now this raunchy-retro-wear sits in a duffel bag in my closet. I don't have the heart to give it to those who truly need six-inch-heels like maybe some homeless drag queen shelter.

I love the way my life is now, that I can still pull out my goody bag and play dress up while figuring how much time I have to take this shot and run back to the kitchen before the chicken stir fry burns up.

A regular day at Chez Mona

Oh IUDidn't: a haiku

My dear IUD,
No period in two months?
Stop freaking me out

While my brother and I watched The Siege

Me: Have you seen this movie before?

George: Yeah.

Me: What's going to happen?

George: Denzel Washington's going to convince the terrorists that he should be on the bus and he's going to trade places with all the hostages.

*Bus explodes. Hostages inside die.*

George: No, wait. The bus explodes and the hostages inside die.

thanksgiving in review

Thanksgiving in Chez Mona was a success. The Thanksgiving-in-a-box deal yielded tons of food that was actually food! No military-type rations that needed water added! Real food! Imagine that!





Here's a holiday confession: this is my only "fancy" serving dish.



Nathan loved his food so much he inhaled it.



And requested some mead to wash down the turkey leg.



Turkey doesn't make Nathan sleepy. It makes him go on and on about about how he'll join a fraternity called, "Tapa Kega Day." Get it? Tap a keg a day? I didn't.



But his dad did.

--



I like seeing my brother as a father. He's a much different person than when he was still living at home and would do things like sneak into my room when I was asleep, fart in my face and try to convince me in the morning that I was just dreaming.

--



Mike refused to buy Nathan a doll stroller because "it's for girls." Even though doll strollers are the perfect height for Nathan, I compromised and bought a shopping cart with two Target stickers slapped on the side. Nathan loves it. He also loves the cardboard box, especially when he's wearing plaid and camouflage. Great. We're raising a homeless man. What's that? Your son is going to be a doctor? My son is going to be a transient. All he needs is a sign that says, "Anything helps!"

And isn't helping my son choose which freeway exit he'll work as a panhandler what Thanksgiving's all about? Or am I confusing Thanksgiving with Born on the Fourth of July?

animal kingdom

animal kingdom
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

I just used my imagination

This weekend I watched Knocked Up and can I say how much I needed to hear a beard joke like, "Was it difficult changing your name from Cat Stevens to Yusuf Islam?" Halfway through the movie I had to direct my hyena laugh into a pillow lest my neighbors wonder if we wound animals in the living room.

And thanks to Knocked Up, I know what it looks like to push out a baby, at least how Hollywood illustrates a cannonball being shoved through the eye of a needle.

I have never seen that, not even during my labor. I refused the mirror because I was going through enough stress at the moment with the epidural wearing off and my mother insisting to count OUT OF SYNC. Also, there were so many people coming through the room, witnessing my goodies--my husband, doctors, nurses, orderlies, American Idol contestants, Alaska-bound tourists, many of whom gasped in horror, "Honey this is not CARNIVAL CRUISE!"

I did click through a labor and delivery website during my pregnancy and the pictures were so bloody and graphic, I couldn't tell which was the baby's head and which was the beaver. Someone should have gone in with MS Paint and airbrushed a line of demarcation. It worked for the Civil War and they didn't even have babies, beavers, or Windows XP! That website could have used the same technology that football games utilize when a yellow line shoots across the screen to indicate how close it is to a first down. Curious expecting moms and not-curious-but-forced-to-look-dads would know which is the baby and which is the beaver.

With Thanksgiving this week, aren't you thankful there are no pictures in this post?

thanksgiving menu, now with 60% less effort!

So in addition to a succulent turkey, we will feast on the following:
Roasted Garlic and Parmesan Mashed Potatoes
Old Fashioned Poultry Gravy
Sour Cream and Sage Dressing Using Artisan Bread
Green Beans Valencia with Citrus Hazelnut Glaze
Kahluá Yams
Cranberry Walnut Sauce
Dinner Rolls
Pumpkin Pie

And if you checked "Premium Turkey Dinner" at QFC, we'll be like Thanksgiving-in-a-box twins! Let's pump our fists in the air, lock rings and shout, "Thanksgiving-in-a-box Twin Powers ACTIVATE!"

giving thanks

Thank you all for your wonderful comments over Nathan's profound two-word vocabulary. I feel much better knowing that I'm not going crazy here, even though the beginning of this sentence is totally something a crazy person would say. So as long as I'm not shouting at cars or wearing tattered camouflage gear and mumbling apocalypse predictions into a walkie-talkie, I feel like I can handle this.

Nathan is just absorbing the world around him and soon, maybe on his own or maybe with professional help, he'll be able to express that verbally. He's fine. He will be fine.

Thank you again for being wonderful and supportive. I'd take you all out to the arcade so we could play air hockey and when I'd try to let you win, you'd fake a wrist injury so I'd win by default. Even in my hypothetical show of gratitude and appreciation, you are still awesome.

Look who’s (not) talking

Since we had switched to a new doctor, I was able to see the notes that Nathan's previous doctors had written. One of them read, "Nathan's father is a large man." Supposedly, this was to account for Nathan's size, but really, it makes me look like I married Shrek.

The new doctor was very patient and ran through the requisite questions about diet and motor skills. Physically, he is on track. He can perform all the skills that toddlers at 18 months should be able to do.

Except talking.

Though he babbles all the time, but Nathan has only two real words: mama and dada.

The doctor referred us to an audiologist to find out if Nathan's hearing is affecting his vocabulary. "Maybe he's not hearing the whole word," he said. "That could affect his speech." If his vocabulary hasn't grown in three to four months, we might try speech therapy.

When we left, my heart sank. My whole life as a mother had been flung down a greased spiral, heading down into neuroses and shoulda woulda couldas. I've left every other appointment with a proud sense of accomplishment. Nathan has always been in the high 90+ percentiles for weight, height and head size, especially head. That huge head has to be filled with brain, right?

He'll meet the audiologist soon. I'm reading The Late Talker and everything else Amalah has written on this.

I know, boys develop slower than girls. I know, so-and-so didn't talk until he was four. So-and-so couldn't stop talking once she did, don't worry Mona.

It is easier for me to share that Nathan will eat a pound of spinach. That he laughs constantly. That he is bubbly and smiley. His body is solid and healthy.

But these other truths are lodged in my throat.

It is difficult to admit that he cannot say anything more than “mama” and “dada.” Sometimes he will hold the phone to his shoulder and say, “Hey Jew,” but that’s only when he’s hitting up his honey at the yeshiva. It’s hard to tell others, especially mothers with children who are geniuses, who can sign and point and write sonnets in crayon.

I want the space and freedom to freak out. I want to have the ability to tell someone there’s something wrong but we’re working on it.

I've been thinking about what Nathan has inherited. Mike has a story that when he was little, he talked so much that his mother paid him a dollar to shut up for an afternoon. This was a monumental event because in the early 60s, a dollar could get you hundred candy bars or a model T. And Mike's mother basked in that silent house, free from young Mike's constant inquiry.

I have faith in my son. I believe that he is learning at his own pace. He has my brain and Mike's and yet, a brain wired uniquely just for him. I believe that eventually the right synapses in his brain will fire off so rapidly that there will be many words and I won't have enough money to stop it.

18 months

30 pounds of solid toddler. It's mostly in his gut. He received that bump twenty minutes after I left for work and on the day I had to present him to a medical professional.

Story of my life.

I am thankful for deep fryers

To celebrate our first Thanksgiving, Mike and I went to his favorite Seattle restaurant: The Old Country Buffet. It’s your typical buffet joint, complete with mirrored walls to magnify how much jello and prime rib they’re serving that night. You'll be awestruck that the selection Mike loves this place so much, he doesn't even say its full name. Just OCB. He's on abbreviation-basis with the Old Country Buffet.

One reason why I love my husband so much is that he’s pretty simple when it comes to food. But that also means he's reluctant to try new recipes, particularly when they have fancy ingredients that do not come in a Costco-sized green tub or are not made by Kraft Foods.

When I suggested making butternut, bacon and sage soup, he shot back with, "Do we live in Manhattan? Do I eat salsa made in New York City?" [This is when you say in disbelief, "New York City?!?"]

With Thanksgiving approaching, I've decided to do something different. Instead of making our yearly trek to the the grocery store to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner box--a cold delivery of turkey, pumpkin pie, rolls and two sides--I want to cook this year, not merely reheat or pull out the mashed potatoes from the microwave halfway to stir.

I convinced Mike that at least some of our dinner should be semi-homemade, like Sandra Lee, only without the weird boob rack she hauls around. Come on lady, I thought silicone was out along with shoulder pads.

I'm hoping for the best on this one since I'm not very skilled at executing recipes. I tried to make the chicken salad in Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook Deceptively Delicious. I cut up the chicken, eggs, and celery, stirred the mixture along with other ingredients and scooped it into a tupperware container. When I opened it the next day, it smelled like someone had opened up the container, released a sulphuric fart into it and sealed it up again. Farts may be deceptive, but they're not delicious.

Okay moving on, this year, I want deep fried turkey. We are not deepfrying this ourselves. Because it is a technical and delicate process, Mike would ask me to figure it out, and I would likely set his precious University of Washington garage on fire. So next week we are bringing a turkey to Willie's Taste of Soul BBQ where Willie's deep fryer will give me the heart-clogging richness that only canola oil can bring.

And speaking of food, Ashley is offering up a $40 Amazon gift card to those who dish up comments about their most memorable meal. You have until 8PM PST to enter. Check it out here and please look around her site which is so full of food picture goodness, you will lick your screen. That's the only kind of electronic tonguing I condone. Please don't lick your keyboard. That makes it hard to type.

Tangent: We agreed never to eat out on Christmas because the last time we did, Mike made some stupid comment to the waitress that, “Hey, it’s a holiday so you must be making a lot of money tonight,” and the woman burst out into tears right at our table, stammering a “No, I’m not,” before taking our drink orders.

That was the saddest diet coke I’ve ever had.

Chuck Norris does not blog

I was telling this lady the other day that I'm turning 25 in January and she said, "Well you don't really know yourself until you're 35."

Great. I have ten more years of people saying, "Mona, who the hell do you think you are?!?!" but at least I can respond, "Who the hell do I think I am?!?! I don't know! I'm not 35 yet!"

--

I called my mother last night. I could tell that she was still upset, but she asked about Nathan.

"He said his first word last night, Mom."

"Really?"

"Yes, he said, 'Grandma.' Actually, it was a sentence: 'I love you Grandma!'"

I don't think she was impressed.

--



Last week I took Nathan to the doctor to check out a huge sty that had developed on his left eyelid.

He was waddling down the hallway, but because he was zig-zagging instead of moving forward, I put my hand on his back and ushered him toward the examining room. He fell face forward onto the carpet.

"Up, up, up!" I said.

"Oh, I saw that. You pushed him!"

I turned and there was one of the doctors, laughing at my fallen son.

I smiled dumbly and responded, "Oh, ha-ha, yeah." That's eloquence, verbatim.

What I wanted to say was, "Oh you should see how I push him at home! You should see how he falls down the stairs!" I couldn't crack a joke with someone who has a direct line to Child Protective Services.

I have enough to worry about.

--

I bought an 8-lb container of popcorn kernels from Costco. I thought this was a brilliant idea because it meant that I could have popcorn anytime. On my own terms! VICTORY IS MINE!

Now, I've only eaten half a pound and I already hate it. I hate popcorn. What's worse is that you can't make anything else out of popcorn like a popcorn casserole or popcorn fritters. Hey neighbor, try out my popcorn trifle! Wait, where are you going! I ADDED BACON!

My coworker suggested parceling out the rest of them into mason jars and adding a Netflix or Blockbuster gift card for an easy Christmas gift. That would still require work and my actually giving gifts. I'm sure if I gave everyone in my family a Christmas gift, it would spread such joy that their little hearts would burst and they would write in their diaries about how popcorn is the gift that keeps on giving. This would be great, only I don't give gifts to everyone.

Kind of like how Chuck Norris' tears can cure cancer, only he never cries.

Any suggestions on this, dear internet friend?

bad daughter

My mother is not speaking to me.

She bought a sewing machine back from a small store in September and set up a payment plan. She sent in the final payment and wanted me to call and ask the store to calculate the shipping.

Unfortunately, she asked me on the day I had a huge banquet to orchestrate. I was frantically rushing and overseeing caterers, florists, deliveries, band members and I had absolutely no time to make a call she could have made herself. But instead of telling her this, (and possibly angering her to the point where she would get on the next plane just to smack me upside the head) I agreed.

I called the next day but found out that she had already placed the call. I left my number with them and said that I would pay for the shipping once they receive her last payment.

In short, I was screwed.

With my mother, there is a five minute window to complete the task at hand. I have five minutes after she has asked and also, five minutes before she has asked because as the youngest daughter, I have to have psychic abilities. If she has to ask, I am already too late. Also, if I suggest that maybe her grown son who also lives in this state and is more than capable of satisfying her request could do it, she'll say, "I asked YOU to do it."

When I called my mother to tell her that I was paying the shipping, she cut me off and said, "Why don't you like to obey me!"

As if I like to disobey her because that's where a woman with full-time job, mortgage, child gets pleasure--from disobeying her mother.

And she went on about how I should have just done it, regardless that I was busy with my job and other duties. When I told her that hey, she doesn't have to pay for shipping, she said bluntly, "Okay. Have a nice day."

I love my mother. I do. She is a sweet woman who babysat our son, took care of me after I gave birth, raised me on her own after my father died.

But sometimes, I wonder about other mother-daughter relationships and if they're cheery and balanced. If other mothers make their daughters try on clothes *outside* of the dressing room because, "No one's looking!" If other mothers force half-slips on their daughters even though half-slips are just another skirt! If other mothers tell their daughters not to speak because it is Good Friday.

If I knew math, I could calculate the ratio of shitty things to good things I'll have to do to make up for this transgression. I'm thinking it's 1:6. She still hasn't gotten over the fact that I didn't send her a monstrous flamingo area rug that she ordered and since they wouldn't ship to Saipan, guess who was stuck with the shipping charges!

I actually did send it. A year later.

I think it'll be safe to check in with her...maybe around Thanksgiving.

I probably would have requested the Care Bears theme song

Me: I would have loved to see Blondie in concert.

Mike: I saw them play with Duran Duran. I hated my date.

Me: You should've taken me! I would have made an awesome Blondie-Duran Duran date!

Mike: You were only four at the time.

Me: SO!?!? I would have been in my big girl bed. I would have danced and it'd be cute!

On Iowa and why I can't take narcotics

The summer we first moved in together, Mike and I traveled to Iowa for the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. The University of Iowa houses the finest creative writing program in the country and for many years, I wanted to be accepted into their competitive coven which I was sure offered in its curricula free cookies. Who doesn't love cookies?! You don't? You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.

I chose a short story class led by Famous Female Writer. During the week, we read short stories and analyzed them, dissecting their parts, highlighting what succeeded and how we could work that into our own writing. It was also during that week that I swallowed one of Mike's percocets. That was beyond stupid. If there is a level of stupid higher than downing someone else's medication, it will be featured in the next episode of America's Most Smartest Model (I can't type that without cringing).

I thought that being stoned would heighten my creativity and I would be transformed into a font of literary genius. Because that's what happens when you're high, right? You channel the great writers who have walked through the University of Iowa. You do not sound at all like someone who can't complete a coherent sentence without dropping a Simpsons quote or craving unnatural food combinations like watermelon and ranch dressing.

So it began hitting me during our discussion of Faulkner's "Barn Burning" and after a few minutes of feeling floaty, my mouth soured. I started sweating. I rose from my chair, fled down the hallway and had a few seconds before my face met the toilet opening.

After throwing up violently, I thought I was well enough to head back. I thought, "You're young, Mona! Shake it off! They need to know how you feel about this story, the arc, the voice, the tone! Don't keep them from your geeeeniuuuus!"

When I got to my seat, I had enough strength to mention how the clock in Faulkner's story had stopped before I had to end my own witty observation and excuse myself once again and head to the ladies.

One of the women, now a well-known children's author, walked in behind me and asked if I was okay. I spoke to her shoes which was all I could see under the stall. I couldn't go back to class, so I told her Easy Spirits that I wasn't feeling well and would meet them later at dinner.

I had cheated myself out of an afternoon soaking in briliant ideas about literary theory and the state of modern fiction. I was robbed! By my own doing! I robbed myself! MAN VERSUS MAN!

After sleeping off the day, I found my class at the restaurant. They asked me how I was and I said I was fine, I didn't know what came over me, dainty little flower I was! What? Misuse of percocets? Why I never! I'm sure I just mixed white wine with red! Tee-hee!

What still embarrasses me now is that instead of dining with one of the greatest female writers today and feasting on her knowledge of fiction and publishing, we were treated to her own story of inconvenient vomiting. And everyone agreed that it is never a good time to vomit. You're never standing in the hair care aisle at Target, thinking, "Hmm. It's 3:30! Now's a good time to rolf." The class chimed in with how they had thrown up at parties, backseats of cars, into the laps of Japanese dignitaries. And I had nothing to add because they were all part of my own tale.

I'm sure someone must have left with a good story, even if it was mine.

my hair minions

There are times during the day when my husband will call and instead of getting the requisite "Hi honey, how's your day" check-in, I'll hear, "Hey, guess where I found your hair today?" I don't like this game since it's not my fault that I shed so often. It's not my fault that long after I visit your home, you'll pull black strands from the carpet fibers. These quadrillion strands are not my minions nor do they collectively do my bidding.

If I did wield that kind of control, they would have gone back in time and taught Dog the Bounty Hunter a more racially tolerant vocabulary and the ability to shut the hell up. I'm really disappointed in Dog. Now where am I going to watch Pacific islanders on television? All I have is the Lilo and Stitch and that's a cartoon. Of course, there's LOST and I'm hoping that the polar bear isn't really a polar bear, but the ghosts of native Hawaiians who demand either their land back or an answer as to why people who are stranded on an island aren't more unattractive.

Back to my hair.

If my hair had any say in the decisions I have made, it would probably have said, "Girl, are streaks natural?" If my hair could speak, it would drop words like "Girl" and "Oh no you didn't" because my hair would be part gay, part Rosie Perez.



Two weeks later:



Hooker blonde!

And since you've been such great internet friends, let me share with you a picture of my 15-year-old goth-wannabe self:



Can't you see the pain? The angst? The wet n' wild lipstick?

seattle state of mind

We saw Billy Joel last night at Key Arena. This was Mike's 14th time to see Billy Joel and my first. Mike has seen over 200+ concerts in his lifetime, but most of them were during the 70s, a magical decade when tickets weren't more than three dollars.

If you didn't have enough money, you could chop down a tree and use the wood to barter your way to the front row. Or you could stand outside the stadium with the other street urchins and shine the shoes of those who survived the Wall Street crash of 1929.

I brought my dinky minolta point-and-shoot with me. It's still held together by duct tape and hope that I'll fetch a good estimate on Antiques Roadshow.

It was so light that holding it felt like I was holding a newborn, which is really strange because whenever I hold a newborn, I feel like I'm holding my minolta.

Nathan is in the way of my fitness goals, but what's new

Last night, I sang "Itsy Bitsy Spider" to Nathan as I put him to bed. Because I had his enormous head cradled in the crook of my arm, I could only make spider gestures with one hand. Now I'm worried that instead of singing him a sweet (albeit off-key) lullaby, I've taught him gang signs. Great. I just wanted to put him to bed, not make him a member of the Crips.

--

I'm glad there wasn't a new episode of Pushing Daisies last night since the one-handed lullaby ditty/gang sign demonstration really wore me out. (Bring it, daylight savings time! IT'S ON!) Is anyone else enjoying this show as much as I am? It has the same fast paced wit as Gilmore Girls but it doesn't make me sneer at rich people. Only, in last week's episode, Ned claimed that Chuck's childhood memory of his peeing his pants wasn't because he was scared, it was because the brie was runny. Kids eating brie before the age of 13? White privilege says what?

And speaking of television, here's what the fall season will look like without writers (via Best Week Ever):

25 x 25

When Mike and I first met, I was about 35 pounds heavier than I am right now. It was weight I gained throughout high school and carried through into my first year of college. I spent many years overweight. I can't even put a clever or cute term to describe how I felt, not zaftig or curvy or Rubenesque. I was fat.

Mike suggested that I join his gym since he went there every day. We had similar schedules back then, so it was easy for us to end work or class and head to the gym. We would spend an hour on the elliptical machine with mostly me rambling on and on until the machine would beep and we were done.

I lost about twenty pounds very quickly then frustratingly plateaued. I hired a trainer, ate healthy foods and lost the rest of the weight.


EDIT: This is how I looked circa 2003 after I had lost all that weight. Not at all the way I look now. *weeps*

None of this was easy. I missed chugging Strawberry Nesquik and then falling asleep or inhaling a Costco hotdog with reckless abandon. That's how you eat a Costco hotdog--with reckless abandon. It also helps to have someone stand over you yelling, "GO MONA! GO MONA!" But my body morphed into something normal, a shape I was comfortable living in.

When I visited Saipan that Christmas, I encountered a wide range of reactions. Most people were astonished that I could have lost all that weight, that I wasn't so fat anymore. And they let me know it with the same zest and enthusiasm as when I was heavier and they'd say, "JESUS CHRIST RAMONA YOU HAVE TO REDUCE!"

When my mother and I visited Suicide Cliff, she was explaining to some American tourists that I was home from college, adding, "She used to be very fat."

"MOM!" I chided. "They don't even know me!"

When other family would pay compliments, my mother would chime in with, "She works at a gym!"

Then they'd nod as if yes, that's why she's skinnier now. She works at a gym. Because I totally lost weight by osmosis and not by any actual exercise on my part.

I'm at a point where I'm ready to commit to a new lifestyle. HAI LADIEZZZ! Actually, no. No lesbianism, but a dramatic change in diet and exercise. I'm hoping to lost 25 pounds by my 25th birthday without the use of meth or amputation. Actually, amputation doesn't sound that bad. I mean, if you cut off my arm, that's what? 15 pounds? I don't know math, but hey, I'd be closer to my goal!

if I hadn't skipped class so much, there would be a better title here

I got away with a lot in high school like never really attending math class because I had too much "yearbook duty," or I had to work on a speech. This is why I am clueless about fractals, but I could probably win a debate about it. The debate would be titled: "Resolved: Fractals were in one piece until yo' mama sat on them." BURN!

There was an unwritten rule that the students who excelled at certain subjects like math or speech and debate were forgiven as long as they won awards and the school was credited in the media. I won the Attorney General's Cup one year, the biggest speech competition at the time, and my principal snatched up the award without so much as congratulating me. But at least I didn't have to go to class the next day.

This was a school that suspended students for chewing gum or being in possession of gum. You could get a demerit (not detention, but the same thing) for untucking your shirt after school. At your home.

I claimed modesty to get out of serving demerits. Instead of dragging a dirty mop through the hallway, I said to my teacher, "Sir, I don't feel comfortable doing that because there are boys around and I am a female. And sir, if I have to lean forward, they might see the back of my knee."

It worked.

casual day

Here are the most asexual uniforms ever. Our chests imploded under the vests and the pleated skirts fanned out like drawn movie theater curtains. As if I didn't have enough issues with my body, I had to strap myself into this polyester get-up every morning and assure myself that as long as I could use my tongue to tie a cherry stem into a knot, someone would want me. At least I would be fun at parties.

Casual Day came once a year, like the Christmas we weren't allowed to have because the school said Jesus was not born in December and Santa Claus was pagan. Also pagan: the Easter Bunny and Barney.

Casual Day also coincided with my goth phase, so instead of wearing my black penguin suit, I wore a long black skirt and a puffy white blouse. I completed the outfit with an ankh, heavy eyeliner, and a moral compass that pointed to the darkside.

And when I wasn't scrawling long odes to my pain--oh the abyssmal, unique teen pain--I was yelling, "CIRCLE JERK!" at cameras long before my friends knew what that meant.

If I didn't have photographic proof, would you believe me?

about the time I was a high school rebel and wore pants

I never went to my senior prom because my school never had one. I attended a small baptist high school that denied prom because it promoted promiscuity. Oh, that baptist high and their puns. Puns and insistence that people eat babies on Halloween. And women shouldn't wear pants. Bonus: We watched Pamela's Prayer often, a movie which advises against pre-marital kissing. KISSING! Because kissing is a gateway to whoring and whoring is a gateway to blogging. About whoring.

They also saved money by printing out tests on the backs of old grade sheet copies, so if you wanted to know the grades of another class, you could just flip your test over and voila! Private information made public! I don't know what they did with that fortune, maybe they purchased the sequel to Pamela's Prayer in which Pamela uploads a virus into the alien computer and saves the world. Wait, that was Independence Day? Whatever. It probably had the same stupid ending, only with Pamela pwning the church ladies' cookie committee. Oh ginger snap!

I was the class salutatorian which means a lot until I tell you that there were seven people in my graduating class and four of us were salutatorians. I don't know about that one.

My school covered grades 8-12 but there was never a student body larger than 57.

The Canterbury Tales was banned because the Wife of Bath's Tale was considered porn. Also considered porn? Glamour magazine.

Instead of prom, our annual event was the Thanksgiving Presentation in which each grade had to perform a song and dance routine. Again the point of this was to keep teen girls from getting pregnant which is what teenage girls are bound to do, right? Boys have no accountability and cannot be called whores or get expelled for becoming pregnant.

But I got around that by having my premaritial sex all year except for Thanksgiving Presentation. In fact, while all my friends were getting VD's, I contracted VS: Vaginal Sars. After many hospital visits and medication, I managed to get my vaginal sars under control, but I did have to quit my weekend gig performing a cigarette and shower show. Sad one, that.

Sistah girl, our periods are, like, totally in sync!

Can someone tell me what NIA is? Is it a bunch of women connecting their wombs with phases of the moon? Does the instructor say, "Okay ladies! Make like a train and choo-choo!" and everyone assembles into an estrogen-heavy conga line and yells, "Chugga-chugga-chugga! Woo-woo!"

I need a new workout routine, something more strenuous than lifting my 30-lb son onto my lap or off of my lap and in front of his other mother, the television. Sure I burn calories from the grueling trek I make from this desk to the refrigerator upstairs, but it's quickly negated with the tub of cookies and cream.

Hey, maybe I'll actually do something on a regular basis, as regular as the gym membership fee that's automatically deducted from my account even though I haven't been there in a working-out capacity in months. And by months, I mean, Nathan's birthday, specifically, the day he was born.

inheritance

A few years ago, Mike and I watched Open Water and I was hit with a surge of happiness that that would never happen to us. We would never be left out in the ocean to fend for ourselves against sharks and I have my husband's loud mouth to thank for that. I'm sure someone on the boat would say, "Hey where's that guy who kept asking if this boat had been in Miami Vice? And that teenage bride of his who told him to use his indoor voice? Where's she?"

Mike grew up as the oldest of nine kids and he sums up this experience with, "If you didn't talk, you didn't eat." I would think that in a family that large, if you didn't walk, you didn't get shoes. And if you did walk, you probably got your brother's sneakers even because your girl feet would eventually grow into them.

I'm the youngest of five, but most of my siblings were thinking about college and weddings when I was working out how I was to open up Saipan's first chapter of the Babysitter's Club. So while I felt like an only child, for Mike, growing up in an enormous family made him feel like he was the only child who didn't pee so furiously through the bunk bed mattress that it dripped onto the kid below.

I hope Nathan is as gregarious as his father, that he isn't afraid to greet people or make conversations at our doorstep. I remember listening to some conversation Mike was having with a newspaper salesman. They were both from the St. Louis area, both loved the Seahawks, both worked at the same newspaper for some time. When Mike came upstairs I noticed that he was just wearing a t-shirt and broxers (brief-boxer combo? Is there a word for that? I'm not up on my underwear lingo, mostly because I prefer thongs or better yet COMMANDO!).

And I surveyed my grown man of a husband and asked him, "Did you just have a conversation in your underwear?" And he said, "Yup," and shrugged it off, like, this is completely normal behavior, talking to strangers in your skivvies.

I hope that my son inherits that kind of boldness and perhaps my sensibility that if you open the door, please have some pants on.

Halloween: 1, Mona: 0

Last year we skipped Halloween festivities because Nathan was sick. This year, we headed out to nearby shopping center called Westwood Village with our friends Lisa, Branan and Cooper. We weaved through the crowds and followed the throngs of ninjas, robots, pumpkins and spidermen. There were kids there, too, but I couldn't see them, except for the ones who yelled, "CAN WE GO TO THE RICH NEIGHBORHOOD NOW?"



It was kind of awkward because Nathan was in his stroller the whole time and could not care less that we ferried him from store to store. On top of his obvious ennui, I had to hold the bag out while employees dropped in one dum dum. Then to prove that the candy wasn't really for me, I would shake the bag at Nathan, yelling, "Yay! You got candy, Nathan! Yay!" But Nathan could see right through this charade because dum dums are the cheapest candy around and every time they'd drop one of these pathetic little sticks, he'd look at me like, "You gotta be kidding me with that crap! They charge how much for a cardigan sweater set and they're giving us this?"



We walked through Sleep Country and Mike yelled out, "Free futon with all candy!" and the employee retorted, "Free futon with every $500 candy purchase!"



When we waded through Dress Barn, Mike stopped by the mirror to tell Nathan, "Just so you know, your mother did this to you."

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This is my first post as part of NaBloPoMo. I can never spell that correctly. I want to put Mofo somewhere, because in my world, you can expect a mofo around, right?