Sarah went and called me out to do a meme. So as not to be called a “stuck up blogger”, I will do it. And also? Because she once used a gift certificate she had to buy me a E.E Cummings poetry book (that I STILL love to this day). Do NOT click the extended entry if you hate The Meme’s.
7 things I plan to do before I die:
1. Lose The Fat
2. Put MY PICTURESin photo albums. (that’s not even all of them, people)
3. GET MY FILM DEVELOPED! (those disposable cameras are from the early 90’s.)
4. Visit New York City again.
5. Watch my children get married.
6. Hold my grandbabies.
7. Learn to Salsa dance.
7 things I can do:
1. The Worm, bitches!
2. Push babies out of my vagina
3. Make tittymilk!
4. Clip coupons whilst taking a dump.
5. Make people laugh.
6. Comfort my children.
7. play the guitar, but only if it’s songs about Jesus.
7 things I can not do:
1.Whistle! ‘Er since I got my new teeth, seriously, I can’t.
2. Stop myself when I get too excited.
3. Save money.
4. Keep plants alive
5. Speak Spanish
6. Stop talking
7. Poop in public restrooms.
7 things that attract me to other people:
1. A sense of humor!
2. Sensitivity
3. Compassion
4. A smile
5. Wit
6. Did I say sense of humor? Because, sense of humor.
7. Money. (if you have a sense of humor, you’d know that was a joke)
7 things that I say most often:
1. Boobies
2. Vagina
3. Fart
4. Oh hell no
5. Step off!
6. SNAPS!
7. Tomorrow
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Kevin James
2. Todd Glass
3. Judge Mathis
4. Leah Remini (only because I want to be her friend!)
5. Steve Edwards
6. Gary Busey. (DO NOT JUDGE ME)
7. Jimmy Smits
The last one was supposed to be “7 people you’d like to do this” but I don’t want to call people out LIKE SARAH CALLED ME OUT. ( I kid, Sarah, I aint mad ‘atcha.)

Last week, I took “using my time wisely” to an entirely new level because last week, I actually clipped my coupons while taking a dump.
The funny thing? It didn’t even feel weird. It felt completely normal and I found myself somewhat proud, even. In fact? I kind of felt like “Woman of The Year”.
Hey, when you stay home all day long with THREE KIDS, you have to find pride in the “little accomplishments”, even if those “accomplishments” involve scissors and your ass.
(p.s. G is doing better. Still sick, but at least she can breath now.)

I’ve changed hundreds of poop diapers.
I’ve had to wash sheets that had poop from a leaky diaper.
I’ve washed dirty chonis with poop-streakmarks.
I’ve looked in the toilet to see the color of my kids poop.
But never in my life, EVER have I had to HOLD A CUP UNDER MY SONS BUTT TO COLLECT HIS POOP and then HAVE TO USE A LITTLE SCOOPER TO DISTRIBUTE THAT POOP INTO TWO SEPARATE CONTAINERS.
He hasn’t had to go since we’ve been home, and I’m thanking God for that because Tony isn’t here to help me because OH MY GOD I CAN NOT DO THAT. I mean, if I just had to put the poop in the container, fine. But to have to actually PUT A LITTLE SCOOPER IN IT and SCOOP IT and PUT IT IN LITTLE BOTTLES?
But it’s my SON’S poop! I should be happy to do it! Because he’s my son! And it’s HIS poop!
It doesn’t matter. It’s POOP. And I’m going to have to GET CLOSE TO IT. And SCOOP IT.
S-C-O-O-P I-T.
I used to be a teachers aide in a kindergarten class. This one time? A little girl threw up during the class, and I, the ADULT in the room, screamed and ran like hell out of the room. I literally screamed “OH MY GOD! SHE JUST PUKED” and I bolted.
I got busted and was given the speech about how “I was the example to the children” and when I “run out hysterical, it makes the children hysterical” and I was paid to make children “feel safe.” Not “Scared.”
I bring that up because, I can not handle bodily fluid issues.
Ask Tony. I’ve never ONCE had to clean up a throw up mess in this house. He’ll do it everytime because I cry and gag and he yells at me “GO AWAY I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT!”
I can honestly say that this, this catching and scooping of the poop, is going to be the hardest, most challenging thing I have ever had to do as a parent.
But I’ll do it because I love my son, I’m worried sick about my son and I want more than anything to know that he is going to be just fine. And when I DO find out that “everything’s fine”? (Thinking positive thoughts, people, because thinking bad thoughts makes me cry) I WILL NEVER, FOR AS LONG AS HE LIVES, EVER!! LET HIM FORGET WHEN I DID FOR HIM THE DAY HE HAD BLOODY POOP!

Dear Internet,
I used to collect Beanie Babies.
And when I say “collect” I mean I’d spend an entire day going from one hallmark store to the other trying to “score” the “good ones” and by “good ones” I mean “the bears”.
“Well, don’t be ashamed, you were young!”
No, Internet, I was like, in my late 20’s and I would say I was “collecting them for my kids” which was funny because a) they never aksed me to collect them b) they would cry when I’d say we were going shopping for beanie babies. c) they pretty much hated them.
I stopped collecting them a couple years ago, but that didn’t stop me from crying when a rat chewed through one of the big bags I had some of my favorite “large sized” bears in and tore them to shreds.
My addiction was so bad, that I actually befriended the cashiers at the Hallmark by my house, and they would CALL MY HOUSE when a new shipment arrived and ask me which ones I wanted so they could put them aside for me. And then, I’d walk into the store like some kind of gangster and give “the look” because NO ONE IN THE STORE COULD KNOW ABOUT OUR SECRET OPERATION!
I still have storage box after storage box full of these things and sometimes? I secretly think that I can make lots and lots of money if I try to sell them on ebay because “HELLO! I HAVE PRINCESS DI! And PEACE BEAR!”
I feel good about the fact I was never One of Those Women who would knock children down to grab the one they wanted, but I feel ashamed that I COLLECTED BEANIE BABIES IN MY LATE TWENTIES.
People tried to help. My sister would say stuff like “That’s just stupid. You could be saving for a house with all of that money!”
I should have listened to her because I don’t have a house, but I sure do have boxes full of really cute beanie babies that me nor my children will never use!
It feels good to get that out and come clean with The Internet.

I have a dilemma.

August 3, my daughter turns a year old. August 8, my husband turns 40. Two very “big, important” birthdays. I want them both to be celebrated, but not sure how to make it happen.
Here’s what I’m thinking about doing.
Combining them.
Like, inviting all of our friends for Tony and all of the family for Gabby (and Tony, of course) and having it at the park with music and games (horseshoes, volleyball etc for the adults) then, having a cake with a picture of the two of them on it, saying something clever about the two of them on it (but, not being clever, I have no idea exactly WHAT it would say)
Is that stupid? I mean, is it mean to not let them each have their own day? I think I could make it really special, but then again, I think I’m funny and most people don’t agree.

When grilling burgers, is one supposed to put barbeque sauce on the patties while they’re grilling so as they are to absorb the flavor of the sauce, or after they have cooked all of the way because they don’t actually absorb the sauce and all it does is make a huge mess all over the grill?
Prove me right, Internet.

SJ asked The World Wide Web if she should circumsize her potentially male baby.
Oh my GOD.
The Militants came out and are saying things like ““cutting off your baby’s eyelids because you think it looks better that way” and “mutilate” and “DON’T DO IT YOUR BOY WILL HATE YOU YOU PENIS MUTILATOR!!”
I made that one up, sort of.
But again… OH MY GOD.
We decided right away that we would have our boys snipped.
Yeah, that’s right, I mutilated my children. I AM A PENIS MUTILATOR! HOW CAN YOU STAND ME, INTERNET?
I understand being passionate about issues. I used to be an anti abortion advocate. I would protest, I would sit on the curb of abortion clinic driveways and pray for the babies that were going to be sucked into a sink that day. I would cry for the women who were going to be laying in a bed bleeding that night, crying for the “blob of tissue” they just had sucked out of their body. I would carry petitions to stop the murder of unborn babies and ask people to join me in the fight.
Then I grew up and I realized that it is not my place to tell other people what they should do. That people will make the decisions that they make and they have reasons for making them. I’ll never agree with abortion, you’ll never convince me it’s NOT the ending of a life, but I’ll never feel it’s my place to tell another woman what she should do with her body. It’s not my place to judge.
So, I understand people feeling so strongly about something that they feel the need to say things like “MUTILATE THE PENIS” or “WHY STOP THERE? WHY NOT CUT OF THE BABY’S EYELIDS TOO?” to make their point, but what’s with the overdramatics when it comes to FORESKIN? (yes, I know there are risks involved, but as parents, you consider the risks and you make the choice that YOU FEEL is the best one.)
It’s almost worse then the breastfeeding militants. “If you do not breastfeed your baby, your baby will BE SKINNY AND UGLY AND SICK ALL OF THE TIME AND IF YOU LOVED YOU BABY HOW COULD YOU STICK THAT BOTTLE IN THEIR MOUTH?”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a breastfeeding advocate, but I don’t get trying to SCARE women or intimidate them into doing it.
Nor do I get people trying to scare people into not clipping their potentially male baby’s penis.

“You’ve got so much shit in your head that you just need to get over.”
That’s what my friend told me this morning.
Or something REALLY close to that, because, I wasn’t paying attention.
That’s another thing she said.
“You don’t pay very close attention to things.”
Both statements are completely true.
The gym we recently joined has tanning beds and offer one free tan. She suggested we try it after our workout. I immediately began to freak out at the idea of getting into a tanning bed. “I’m claustrophobic.” “I’ll panic” and most importantly? “I’m not getting naked!”
You see, one of the biggest reasons I’ve never tried a tanning bed?
The whole “naked” thing. I don’t get naked anywhere but in my bathroom, and only after checking to make sure the door is locked and Tony’s not hiding behind the toilet to Sneek A Peek.
As I was standing there, trying to think of a way to get out of it, I made a decision to stop listening to all of The Shit in my head and just DO IT.
“I’m stepping WAY outside of my comfort zone. I just want that to be known!” I said to my friend as I signed the waiver form.
I did panic a little once I shut the top of the bed, but I closed my eyes and tried to think “happy thoughts” only, it didn’t really work because MAN, all I could think about was “What if my nipples burn? HOW WILL GABBY LIVE because aint NO ONE sucking on them if they burn!”
Other than worrying about my nipples, I LOVED IT. The heat felt great and I walked out of there with some color on my Germanly white legs. I now plan on doing it at least once a week.
Had I given into all of The Shit in my head, I never would have tried it and I’d not be sporting a sweet lil’ tan on my not so sweet, not so lil’ body.
I love this whole new world of mine, in which I tell the paranoid voices that live in my head to “SHUT IT” and I listen to the voices of the people who love me and promise me they are not going to let anything bad happen to me inside of the tanning bed.
Life is much better this way. Much better.

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