clarisonic

His face really IS 800X cleaner.  Anti aging can't start too soon.

I also said to him tonight, "griffin!  You have to be careful when you're naked.  Write that down."

Rules to live by.

Home alone and NOT eating cereal.

Ben is gone and I've actually made dinner--not just relying on my old standby of honeynut cheerios (organic, duh.)

Tonight I made this. Bacon, fig and goat cheese pizza's.  Now, keep in mind... I fried the bacon so perhaps my weight watchers numbers are a bit off.  I also used fig preserves instead of figs.  I should have put that on before the goat cheese.  And I cooked it too long.  And the arugula was amazing.  And I forgot about my honey and balsamic vinegar concoction  while it was heating up.  Because I was reading blogs.  In a quiet house.  

It's delish.  I totally recommend.  

(also note, that if you buy the pepper bacon as I normally do, your child may gag at the spicyness.)

Think back one year ago

The party was planned.  I'd had the invitations for months.  Lets be honest, I probably already had my house decorated and the party table set up with the bowls exactly where I thought they should be and I was ready.  READY for that first birthday party that was at our house.  The one that had a million people.  And a full house.  And magnum bottles of wine.  And intoxicated friends.  And a tired mama.  And it was hot.  And I was SO ORGANIZED.

Yah, well fast forward one year and you know what?  I just booked a place today.  That isn't my house.  And requires zero decorations.  And wine after the party.  And isn't at my house.  Have I mentioned that it isn't at my house?

It's at this gym.  It's an amazing deal.  It's 1.5 hours.  DURING NAP TIME.  EFffffffffffffffffffff. So the place is ridiculous (but $100 cheaper than the little gym--and not at my house, mind you.)  However, they are dumb.  And make me want to be ugly.  They have party times at 1:30.  3:30 and 5:30.  I called over a month ago, requesting 3:30.  PERFECT.  Except, they only book in order.  So someone else would have to book the 1:30 first.  What the what?  I said as much to the lady and I asked her to pencil us in.  Called last week.  No one.

Called today and decided to give in.  When she stupidly told me that someone else called about the 3:30 and was really hoping I'd take the 1:30.  This makes me irrationally angry and hateful to whoever that lack of planning mom is!  mama bear.  unleashed.

I hope these kids are awful.

It's full.

My iphone.  I can't take any more pictures or videos.  which is ANNOYING AS ANYTHING.  You know what I realized as I started deleting pictures?  I take a lot of dumb ones.  You know what I continually take pictures of?  My afternoon drinks.  Or any time G sleeps in the car.  Which is never.  So like 5 pictures of that.

So I like to text to people to cheers them.  Usually other moms who I know are home at 3 pm-ish.  You know, as like inspiration.  For day drinking.

Cheers.

Want in on the party?  Let me know your digits via email.  obvis.

Almost 2.

Griffin is almost 2.  23 months.  And no one has planned his birthday party.  Another story for another time.  Because SOMEONE tried to plan but someone else got in the way.

You are a mess.  I spend my days making sure that you make it.  It's exhausting.  You make up for it with lots of sweet smiles and hugs.  You even give devilish sweet smiles when you do something you aren't supposed to.  You do not like the banana strings.  You give them to me.  You like original lambie the best.  You say blanket and it sounds like bunt cake.  You ask where everyone went.  You ask, "where mama go?" when I standing there with you.  I made your day when I bought you a new toothbrush as a surprise.  You terrorize Gizmo (ta-ta.)  Daily.  You love him.  You love to say "no" to him and wave your arm.  You love big trucks.  Tractors.  Firetrucks.  You got 99% of the time.  You LOVE a snack  You would love to eat snacks for all meals.  mostly applesauce and gummies.  You want a "bite of coke."  I'm counting down the days until you climb out of bed. You are happy.  You say things like, "You guys siddy.  Biffin siddy, too."  Everything is "too."  You love Dad.  Until the minute it's time to go to bed.  You pretend to call people on the phone.  You can work the computer.  And my iphone.  You still love driving.  You like to go "unner."  You like to go under the covers.  Play peekaboo.  You love your bath.  You want the water to be green.  You pick out your shoes.  You say "swim-soup."  Your hair is wild.  WILD.  You like to  cheers my glass during dinner.  You make me giggle.  Your favorite book is the truck book and The Very Busy Spider.  You say cockapoo for cockadoodledoo.  You sing your ABC's.  You sing You are my sunshine--and ask for more.  Your favorite part of twinkle twinkle is to sing "up above."  You like to yell, "GO RUNNERS" when we see people running.  You say, "mama's a runner."  You say, "I hear meemic" when you hear music.  You can point out shapes and colors.  you like watching "team umizoomi."  You share.  You say please and thank you.  That makes me the most proud.  You call me "mama" and say it after lots of sentences.  "I like it too, mama!"

I love you.  More than anything.  Ever.  I can't fathom loving anyone more than I love you.  I'm pretty sure it's impossible.  And you're cute.  So that helps with the messiness.

SYTYCCT

I have become aware that the only thing holding me back from being on So you think you can dance dance dance is my dislike and refusal of a camel toe.  Why do dancers appear to love this?  The other thing I notice is that I'm not really comfortable with dancing in a tiny bra.  Well, and I don't have a 6 pack.  And I really love wearing flats.

Well, and I'm not in my early 20's.  And all of my dance moves are of a cheerleader from the early to late 90's.  So I'd probably make it to vegas, but then fail once I got to choreography, except they would have totally been impressed by my group dance scene moves (ps.  group dance scene is required at my funeral) so they probably would have kept me.  

But mostly, I think I wouldn't make it because of the camel toe thing.  And my lack of bra dancing.  

But mostly the CT. 

SYTYF.

So you think you're famous.

Remember when you starting reading my blog?  And you were all... wow, this girl is totally going to be famous if she can figure out spell check and how to get her life together?  And how you wouldn't be surprised if I was in a fashion blog and featured as amazing--and really fit--and really thin.  And you probably wanted me to have your babies because I mean, why not, great genes and I don't have hips and my body will bounce back like a high schooler.  And that I probably wouldn't  and have an almost 2 year old who would make me want to google "how to deal with a toddler who is losing his shit and making me drink during business hours."... then after business hours and he would totally not wake up in the middle of the night randomly screaming for NO REASON.

And then you were all yah, she'd totally be famous, but in a down to earth kind of way.

Except that I kept forgetting to blog?

And I was out of town for one night (excuses) and I drove back home today and was home with the hubs for one hour before he had to leave for the airport and so I'm single momming it (aka drinking wine alone.)

but that really doesn't make up for being a slacker.  So here are some father's day pictures.

stolen.

So I've stolen these 2 posts.

The first my seester sent me.  She said that this girl and I have similar reasoning which I find to be completely preposterous.  I mean... as if I'm THAT neurotic?  (I am.) Or as if I would wear a head lamp to bed?  (I would.)  Ok, so the ridiculous part is that clearly my husband is awake after me and HE needs the head lamp.  Though I used to wear one when drinking in college because well... it was a head lamp.

Also, there is my irrational fear of random catastrophic things like SARS.

And then there is this one.  which I think is well written... because I think parenthood--especially momhood is hard.  I also get irrationally angry when people pretend that unicorns and rainbows shoot out of their arses and that life is perfect and all is lovely and nothing ever ever goes wrong.  because, well... that's not real life.  Unless you are on a hallucination trip (is that a thing?) and you really DO have rainbows and unicorns coming out of your ass... at which point I think that turns scary and you're probably losing your shit and way more neurotic than me and with a slightly less positive outlook.

So what I'm saying is... drop some acid and wear a headlamp.
 

Just breathe.

Imagine me saying that all Drew Barrymore style in whatever that cheese balls movie was (Everafter?  I refuse to google because I'm above that.)  The one where she is all sparkly?  Just After?  Something?  Restricting my google searching....

I've been battling breathing probs for the last few months.  I will tell you that 100 degree weather does not help.  Getting to San Diego?  A breath of fresh cold air.  I am not sure I can get enough.  To top it off?  I traveled with some tie dyed lovelies.  Some of us came early, some of us came late.  The majority of us traveled together.  For Ruben.  It was actually his birthday.

I won't lie that a lot of airport patrons looked at us like we were part of some sort of high school team... yet, clearly older.

You know what else?  We won an award.  Well, maybe a couple.  One of them though... involved a research grant in Ruben's name.  It was kind of a big deal.  The 2500 TNT participants of the San Diego RNR raised over 7.3 million dollars.  MILLION.  In the name of cancer.  Finding a cure.

We're kind of a big deal.  That total is much higher now.

Jen, Ruben's wife, was also the second highest fundraiser.  I got to spend a good amount of time with her this weekend.  And got to hear more about her and Ruben.  And how they knew one another for three years before he passed.  

All I kept thinking was how I met my husband at age 18.  you know what else?  He's like my entire life.  We don't really have separate lives.  So everyone I know, knows us.  And then I think, it isn't fair.  That their love affair is less than we have even been married.  

So I'll continue.  Not because this is my story.   but because it's not.  And because it shouldn't be anyone's.  You know what else?  Because it IS someone's story, and hopefully it won't be someone else's.  

I'm still here... ish.

I'm in a funk.  Of no time.  And wasted time.  And traveling time.  running time.  sweating time.  complaining time.  you know, the usual.  I apparently rarely have time for capitalizing letters.  or planning for camp.  Or shopping on the internet.  Or stalking something I want.  Or probably shaving my legs.

Since I got home from San Diego I've also been cursing this hot ass city and how I think I'm genetically predisposed to cooler climates, jackets, the beach, and running.  It makes me a better person.  These are not new revelations.  Just ones that I feel I should share.

I didn't win the SD half.  I came in 3rd.  Better luck next year.

I kid I kid.  I came in... 6606.  But, the time on my watch was like 8 mins faster than the "official race time" (not that I'm counting either time as fast.)  What I'm trying to say is... I came in 3rd.  Or at least like 6599.  It's the little things.

Like stealing pictures.  Which I absolutely did NOT do... Amanoa did it.  That bitch be crazy.