A New Year.

I hope you are all having a stellar new year!

Mine has been pretty great so far. I mean, I haven't showered or washed my hair all year, but I am pleased to say, I have remained sober, and only had 6 brownies the entirety of 2009...which is an improvement from last year.

Holla!

Did you all make your mandatory, unattainable new year resolutions yet?

I didn't.

My 2009 resolution? Continue to eat.

Lots.

Yup, that's right, I am resolute to always get seconds, hell, thirds if my pants allow it.

Annnddd...that's pretty much it. I could list some other feel good, random crap, like losing weight, saving money or giving more of myself to others, but why bother. I don't keep those resolutions, so why set myself up for another year of underachieving?

But, eating lots of food? Um, I am pretty sure I can do that for, like, an entire year, no problem.

Hell, I am already in overachiever mode, as I sit here cocked back in my chair, with my shirt pulled up over my belly, and my pants slouched down to my hips, so as to allow for a prime, easily cleanable surface to rest my reheated bowl of last night's mashed potatoes, sauerkraut and pork on.

Besides, I have other life goals and obligations that I wouldn't really dub resolutions that I'll be busy with this year.

Like...giving birth to a happy, healthy baby. Sending my oldest to preschool (sob!). Writing a book. Inventing a lasagna I can eat with out gagging because I absolutely hate ricotta cheese (hello, looks like a yeast infection). Getting a bigger house. Growing my hair down to my butt. Finally meeting my three hawt ass BlogHer roomies in Chi town. Strike it rich in the always controversial Nigerian lottery. Convince Oprah I would be the best guest ever. Make the Top 50 Blogs in 2008 list...oh wait...I did!

HERE, CLICK HERE, NOW!

Holy fuck! Thank you so much! Leaves me completely speechless! I would still, at this moment, be squealing and jumping up and down, it's just that, you know, like I said, big bowl of food on the 'ole belly. But, I am totally still giddy and dancing on the inside!

And, lastly, I need to just get myself, my couch, my DVR and my stretchy pants ready for another kick ass year of trashy tv. Gossip Girl, Big Love and The L Word (January 18th!), American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, ANTM, and, finally, the long awaited Dead Like Me movie (February-ish). Really, just too many gems to mention, but all equally important, none the less, especially as I am sure to spend all hours of the night awake, and burping a nocturnal baby on my knee.

Happy 2009!

I need a shower...or at least a baby wipe.

Another one for the books.

Christmas '08 was the balls.

I loved it, the boys loved it, even my scroogey hubby loved it.

The gifts were amazing, the family wasn't smothering, and the food was to die for.

The boys got completely spoiled, and it was the first year they really got the whole Santa Claus delivering gifts thing, so it was absolutely a blast. So many toys, books, movies, an outdoor play set, even little robes that they refuse to take off, and spend the day running around like little Hugh Hefners.


I didn't even mind that my mother in law bought me some bejeweled Dolly Parton looking maternity jeans that had a sticker on them that said Plus Size. Plus Size? Really? Ummm...is it the giant plate of ham and chicken wings I just ate that is throwing you off? I mean, what the fuck...er...I mean...thanks...for the thoughtful gift...I'll be in the bathroom listening to the Cure and cutting my wrists. After I finish my cake.

But, other than that, I was totally cheery and festive. So much so, in fact, that I am allowing the publishing of this horrific belly shot, taken first thing Christmas morning, with my Pam Anderson boobs, and my hair all skanky and still smelling like the 3 pounds of ham I ate the night before.


Hot.

Amazing. My tummy right now looks as big as I did at 9 months with my first. Turns out, after you have one, from your nipples to your labia, things go to pot.

Which reminds me, take a moment to click my ads, I need to save up to get things tucked, lifted, saline filled, and sucked out.

Anyways, a plus size time was had by all, and the first year of us implementing our one side of family per day rule was a smashing success. Sure, they were a touch pissy about it, but less time in the car means more time I can stuff my face and open gifts.

I even went against my own judgment to never bake anything ever again and made beer bread. With beer. Mmmmm. Beer.


Psych. I dumped the leftovers.

This one's for my homies.

And, unlike anything else I bake, ever, it was edible. Down right delicious actually.

A Christmas miracle.

P.S. Can't get enough of me today? I know, right, kinda addicting. I am also stripping over at Tales from LaLa Land, today.

P.P.S. Ok not stripping. Just posting. But I wouldn't rule it out. For the right amount. I'm not keeping my belly ring in for nothing.

Edit: Just to clarify, I don't really have a belly ring, if I did have one, it would literally look like a door knocker right now.

Lemons into lemoncello, a Christmas card story

Once upon a time, my home was filled with cute, adorable, saccharine filled Christmas pictures. The likes of which made for the types of Christmas cards one would keep displayed year round.

Giggles. Babies in oversized Santa hats. Puppies hiding under the tree.

It was a gay time.

But this year, with the biting winter winds, change was in the air.

No more smiles or cheery holiday posing. In it's place came pug wrestling, and poking, and tears.

Lots and lots of tears.

Try as I might, every semi-professional, sheet backdrop, dangling snickers over their heads photoshoots I set up ended in disaster.

What was I to do?

Abort my holiday photocard tradition for the boring old generic Walmart bought Christmas card?

Probably.

But wait...I'm resourceful!

I once made a beer bong from an old tire liner and a maxi pad from teddy bear stuffing. Surely, I could make this whole fiasco work to my advantage.

So, here we are. The three volume series of photo Christmas cards that left my house this year.

Ho. Ho.

Ho.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Merry.

Holy balls.

It's freezing.

After a full day of last minute shopping, I am frostbit and chapped in places I have never been frostbitten and chapped before.

But, it's Christmas time. Always a cluster fuck, eh?

I mean, don't get me wrong, I completely love it. The pretty snow, the cookies, the food, the presents, that weird, tingly magical feeling you get this time of year.

Lovesit!

It has it's downsides, like crowds, and cold leather seats in your car, and ridiculous online shipping charges (That means you, Target!), but the worst part...ugh family get togethers.

And, kids make it even worse.

You know, in theory.

Kids are GREAT at Christmas...in your own home. But once you have to factor in the 293495756438 fucking places you have to cart everyone around to, loading your car with presents, empty dish to pass plates, bundling and rebundling your kids 80 effin' times, and not sitting and or drinking yourself into the holiday stupor you totally deserve because, JesusfuckingChrist, your kids aren't allowed to touch anything in your great aunt's old person smelling house, because it's all 800 years old, and she refuses to put it up, and your kids won't stop poking her half dead, hairless, one eyed cat with candy canes for onefuckingsecond because they are bored out of their minds, and and you just want to go home where it's ok to sit on the kitchen counter drinking beer and eating cold spaghetti in your underwear, and your kids are allowed to re-break anything of value in your home for the 6374940 time, because, hey, at least they are being quiet...until the batteries of one of the blinkyblinky-talkytalky I can murder you in your sleep robot toys dies after a full 3 hours of use, and you rip your house apart wondering what the fuck you can steal D batteries out of, and then you totally realize the only other electronic device in the whole entire house that functions on D batteries is your ultra special....um....massager, and you totally make up a new house rule, right there and then, from this day forward, your kids are only to receive toys made of felt and wood, because it's Christmas, and there are some things you just shouldn't have to sacrifice.

Even for your kids.

On Christmas.

4 years ago today.

13 years ago, I met him. He was quiet, played golf and liked to wear shoes.

I let him kiss me and be my boyfriend anyways.

We fell completely in love.

He asked me to marry him.
(I said yes.)

It was a fabulous evening of dancing, drinking, chinese food and poker.

Complete bliss.

4 years have passed, and we've had laughing, and crying, and houses, and overdraft fees, and vacations, and surprises, and promotions, and babies.

Lots of babies.

And I am so very lucky he still lets me love him.

Because Lord, I am a fool for this man.

Batting 1000

You know when your kids totally do something new and shocking, like, oh, I don't know...let's say pull a dining room chair up to the kitchen counter and start playing with the knife block or dick around on the stove.

And you are all like, where in fucks sake did you learn that shit?

And they are all, "Gamma wets me do it."

And you get all pissed and think to yourself that grandma can suck it...only you don't think it, you totally say it. Like, out loud.

Then, you spend the next 2 hours before your husband gets home from work trying to get your boys to stop saying that gamma sucks it.

Even though she totally does.

And then your husband comes home, and you try to distract him from interacting with the kids by flashing him your boobs.

But, it turns out you don't even need to flash him because he is already too distracted by the all the cleaning you didn't do all day because you were too busy watching Law and Order SVU and eating your feelings because you feel like complete crap that you have spent 2 years mocking your super weird neighbors, and you awoke at 8am this morning to the sight of a limo in front of their home, and driver holding a banner that says, Make-A-Wish Welcomes *insert name of what I thought was a totally healthy looking tween neighbor who endlessly tries to scam me out of money by offering to do things around the yard because she realizes I am clearly a lazy fat ass* on her trip to Disney World. Seriously.

SERIOUSLY!?

I am a douche bag.

A sentiment clearly shared by Santa and Baby Jesus, becasue I totally haven't gotten as many Christmas cards this year as I have in the past.

So, it looks like I may need a new way to evalute my self worth.

On the plus side:
1. Gossip Girl was ridiculous good last week.
2. Thanks to some Blagojevich inspiration, I got myself some kick ass bangs.
3. My belly popped out, so now I don't just look chubby, but more like I have a Modonna-grade rock hard pot belly. Waaay better for setting plates of food on and itching in public.
4. One of my BFFs may totally be knocked up, and I am super excited, because like a Jehoviah's Witness, us breeders are always looking to recruit. Two more and I get a free plasma tv, a Snuggie and a year supply of Omaha Steak. Yummmmm.

My breakfast of champions.

Best breakfast ever?

Cold pineapple and green pepper pizza with thick crust.

I have been dreaming of it all night.

I woke up at 6am drooling for it. Literally...wet pillow.

I get to the kitchen, and I see it...on the counter...in the box it came in last night.

COME ON!

HUSBAND! The deal was, I get the boys to bed, you clean up dinner, aka put my pizza in a sealed baggie in the fridge so I can devour it while I sit on the kitchen counter, drinking out of the milk jug, before anyone else gets up the next morning.

I wish I lived in his alternate universe, where things like milk, lunch meat and sour cream don't need to be refrigerated, chips and bread can sit open for days.

And, I am no snob, I've eaten my fair share of pizza out of the box the next day. I can recall many a morning in college, stumbling out of bed in a foriegn pair of boxer shorts, crashing on the couch to watch my stories and diving into a questionable box of pizza. I didn't see it so much as old, but rather aged...like the dusty bottles of Strawberry Boone's Farm I stole from my cousin each time I went home.

But, the thing is...I am growing a person! A person with dietary needs that don't include listeria or samonella. Needy, I know, but never the less, I am now without my morning cold pizza breakfast, and now I have to eat something lame like cereal, or toast, or 2 day old spaghetti.

And yes, about that person I am growing (you folks are amazing btw, the comments made me totally tear up!)...turns out, yes, it is a girl.

A girl.

Girl.

Pink.

Nail polish.

Barbies.

Cabbage Patch Dolls.

The Jonas Brothers.

Holy fuck!

So stinkin' exciting! Had no idea my womb was even vagina friendly, but my ultra sound (sweet baby Jesus be correct) says otherwise.

The amount of pink, purple, frilly and non weiner friendly stuff I have already purchased?

Ridiculous.