Only Flickr addicts will understand the excitement.

Little Hands, Little Feet
This photo made the front page of explore and also #1 for 4-13-06 for interestingness.
Not many of my photos get recognized in Flickr, because there are so many incredibily talented photographers out there, and, well, you know, I’m not one of them. So, to say I was happy about the reaction to this picture is an understatement.
This is ALMOST as great as getting recognition from my Aerobic Dance Instructor.
But not quite. Because, like Sara said, THAT is the ULTIMATE.

The one in which I leave you a gift at the end as my reward for reading all the way through my weirdness. (But you can totally scroll down and not read it, because what’s important is that you watch.)

When The Queen of Everything (And fellow Meat Club member) tags you to do a meme, you do the freaking meme.
So, I’m supposed to list 6 weird facts/things/habits about myself. I could only think of 3, which in itself is weird, so I asked my husband to help me out.
“If you had to make a list that included weird facts about me, what would be on that list?”
Here are his answers and I am not making them up.
a) You don’t like peas.
b) You won’t use sponges becaues you’re afraid of germs (which, TOTALLY A LIE. I will use sponges, but only ONCE, then, I trash it.)
I think his list of things that make me weird actually make HIM look like The Weirdo. Not liking peas makes me WEIRD? I thought that made me Very Normal. Who in the hell LIKES PEAS?
So, because he was of no help whatsoever, I have been forced to come up with my own list. Here goes it.
1. During an earthquake, my first reaction is to run to the toilet to pee because OH MY GOD, what if the toilet system breaks and we are unable to use them for days? I MUST GET THE PEE OUT NOW! Obviously, now that I have kids, the first thing I do is check on them, bring them to a “safe place” and THEN I go pee. But, before kids? Straight to the bathroom I’d run. Infact! In 1992 there was a pretty large quake and I was on the toilet through most of it. PEEING!
2. I am scared of raw chicken. Any raw meat for that matter. I hate touching it and sometimes I’ll dry heave when cooking it. I am also very paranoid that the meat isn’t “cooked enough” and almost ALWAYS end up overcooking meat. For instance, last night, I cooked meatloaf. The instructions said to cook for one hour. I cooked it for 1:45, JUST TO BE SAFE. It tasted like Meatloaf jerky. BUT NO ONE DIED FROM ECOLI, SO THERE.
3. I HATE the taste of beer, BUT! The smell of beer? Makes me horny.
4. I am overly concerned with “Safety Issues” and whenever I am out in public, I am always “planning an escape route, just in case of emergency” and am also “scoping out possible safety hazards.” Example: when me and my sister went to see my brother’s group perform, I noticed there were candles on the tables, right next to dried out flowers. I panicked inside and started asking the people to a)either blow out the candles or b) move the dried flowers away from the candles because HELLO PEOPLE? Fire hazard. Another example? The club we went to on Saturday night was packed out and all I kept thinking was “OMG. What would we do if there was an earthquake?” I asked my sister if I was the only one worried about such a thing and her response was “Um, YES.” I played it off like “haha, I’m not really worried” but I secretly had scoped out the table in which I would dive under to “duck and cover.”
5. I’ve never admitted this one out loud to ANYONE. Oh man. Ok. Hello, my name is Y and I am afraid of wearing sunglasses when I drive because what if I get hit and my air bag goes off? Will the force of the airbag not push the sunglasses deep into my face, possibly pentrating my skull, leaving me a huge ass gaping hole in my face, or quite possible DEAD?
6. I take videos of myself doing aerobic dance moves named “The Monkey” and then add a little of my own choreography called “Da Butt” because I think I am such a great aerobic dancer (even though, haha, I really am a horrible dancer) and then POST THAT VIDEO ON MY BA-LAWWWWG for The Internet to see just to prove that I would SO BEAT YOU in a dance off.
I almost forgot! I am supposed to tag 6 people and I’m SO tagging people.
KristyK
Tipsy.
Aj
Debbie
Itchy
Daniel

Taking back The Titties.

My daughter has always been The Perfect Sleeper.
I’ve not talked much about it, only because I have friends who have problems with their children sleeping and I didn’t want to come off as bragging or rubbing it in their faces. I’m sensitive like that.

She started sleeping through the night at around 4 weeks old. At 5 months old, I stopped rocking her to sleep and let her cry it out. It took exactly 2 days and after that? I could lay her down, kiss her goodnight and within 5 minutes she’d be out for at least 9 hours. (I know people like to get all “high and mighty” about letting a child cry it out, but the way I see it? I did my babies a favor, by letting them learn how to go to sleep on their own. End of discussion.) She’s been sleeping through the night ever since AND she still takes 3 naps a day (at least an hour each).
BUT THAT ALL OF THAT HAS CHANGED.
And I blame The Bobs.
When I lay her down now? She starts screaming for me.
“MOM. MOOOOOM. MOOOOOOOOM”
Followed by “One More. One More.”
Followed by “Please? BOBS. BOBSBOBS PLEEEEAAAASE.”
The first night it happened, I made the mistake of going back into her room. As soon as she saw me, she started LAUGHING! Like, “haha, sucker, it didn’t take much to make you cave, did it?” Then, she reached for my boobs.
“One more?”
I gave in because, well, I was tired of the screaming.
Big mistake.
Last night, she pulled that crap again. And this, I put my foot down (and The Bobs away) and refused to go in there to get her.
Man, was she pissed. She screamed at me for a good hour. Then, she started screaming for dad. Then, for brubers. At first, it was funny. I mean, my baby girl, screaming for “One more Bob.” But, as 11 approached and she was still screaming, it wasn’t funny anymore. I began to feel desperate and it became very clear to me that “It’s time to stop breastfeeding.”
I don’t like the way she is demanding that I give her more and then holding my sleep hostage if I do not meet her demands.
I admit a big reason that I’m still breastfeeding her is due to my emotional attachment and very little to do with her needs. Knowing this is my last baby, that this is the last time I’ll ever be a “nursing mother” is hard for me to accept and deal with, so, I continue to nurse her.
But three nights of very little sleep due to a child who thinks SHE OWNS MY BOOBS AND THE MILK THEY PRODUCE and I’m thinking I may be ready to quit and to let The Tittymilk dry up for good.
I’m just not sure I’m prepared for the HELL that Gabby is going to put me through once I make the “No more BOBS for you” decision.

Slapping Leather Belly Dancer

Guess where I went on Saturday night?
Let me give you a hint.

Give up?
Well, then let me tell you. I went dancing.
Line dancing.
Jealous?
It’s been years since I’ve gone line dancing, so, when my sister invited us to go in honor of her birthday, I was like “I’m SO there!”
I almost flaked out at the last minute for stupid reasons, such as “I have nothing to wear!” “I’m fat! Which means I can’t wear jeans! Which means I can not wear MY JUSTIN ROPER BOOTS, which, HAHA, yes, I own Justin Roper Boots!” But, I did not let the stupid voices in my head win and I got my ass in the shower, put on the same outfit I wore when we went to The Improv to see Jay Mohr, (which officially makes that my “going out” outfit) hopped in the van and drove myself to Da Club.
Da country western club.
Within the first 5 minutes of my arrival, I got asked to dance, which I do believe means that “I’VE STILL GOT IT”. Sure, the guy had a speech impediment, a limp, was wearing a belt buckle the size of God and a cowboy hat, BUT EVEN STILL.
I was amazed at how quickly I remembered all of the dances I had learned “back in the day”, but more amazed at the large number of grown men who live in southern california who honestly believe that they are “cowboys.”
Hey, if wearing a cowboy hat that you bought at the mall whilst walking around with a beer in your hand mouthing the words to the country song blasting from the speakers makes you a cowboy in your mind, more power to ya, partner.
During one of the dances, this short, older woman (and I only point out that she was short AND old to be catty) approached me with this nasty attitude and started yelling at me.
Yelling! At me! On the Line Dance Floor!
“Those are not the right kind of shoes for this kind of dancing. Those shoes are bad, not good, very bad.”
Part of me wanted to show her how wrong she was by KICKING HER IN THE STOMACH with my shoes and showing her how, sure, they may be bad for linedancing, but they are TOTALLY AWESOME for knocking the wind out of your “I’m the line dancing shoe police” ass. But, I took the high road. I made a face, put my hand up in the “Shutup and quit talking to me” position and shouted back “I KNOW THAT.”
Seriously, I hate people like her. I totally should have kicked her.
I was a little disappointed that we had to leave before they did the “Freestyle” dancing, because I was really looking forward to busting out some of my Aerobic Dance Class moves. Specifically, The Monkey. I did, however, get a chance to show them off in the parking lot on the way to the car.
That was a special moment, because one girl actually said “Wow, that was a cool move.”
We aerobic Dancers live for that kind of praise. It’s like “In saying that, you’re acknowledging that I have paid close attention in class and that I have, indeed, mastered That Move.”
Speaking of Aerobic Dancing.
Last night, we learned “Belly Dancing.”
Let me just tell you that when the word “Belly” followed by “dancing” came out of her mouth, the excitement that came over my body was almost too much to contain. Have you people seen my belly? I don’t have to do much to make it move. I mean, I sneeze, it dances! I cough, it dances!
I was tempted to grab that sack of fatty goodness and scream “I’VE GOT THIS ONE MASTERED, BITCHES. Y’all might as well just leave now!”
I don’t know why I’ve gotten all cocky about my aerobic dancing, but I have. When I come home, I talk nonstop shit about a few of the wimmins in the class and my husband, God love him, had to stop me the other night and said “Do you ever stop to think they probably feel the same way about you?” Which, HELLO? WHO’S SIDE ARE YOU ON ANYWAY, DEAR HUSBAND? But, he’s right. They’re probably all “That fat girl up front thinks she is THE SHIT, someone needs to tell her that she’s not. We should totally trip her on purpose next class!”
Which, if they did trip me on purpose? I’d be like “Bitch, let’s settle this with an Aerobic Dance Off. OR ARE YOU TOO SCARED?”
At this point, I have no idea where I’m going with this because, I do believe I started this post talking about my night out line dancing and somehow, it’s deteriorated into a fake fight with Aerobic Dancing WANNABES.

God wouldn’t have given you maracas if He didn’t want you to shake ’em

Thanks to Melly, I now know that Jada Pinkett is in a band.
I think “something inside of her is pissed.” But I’m not too sure because I was too busy laughing hysterically to understand the lyrics.
HAHA. She thinks she can sing.
And that she is “hard core.”
And that The Internet isn’t laughing at her.
Man, I love Celebrities.
But not as much as I love my Aerobic Dance class.
Last week, I had an appointment with a dermatolgist to see if he could figure out with the HELL is going on with my skin (Confession: Doc put me on antibiotics for the Bloody Rash, but, um, you know how G-Unit is still Partaking of The Bobs? Yeah, well, I’d rather deal with The Rash then with a Toddler crying for The Bobs.) and I cancelled that appointment because it was at 6:00, which happens to be the same time as my dance class.
I thought about skipping class and going to my appointment, but, then, I closed my eyes and could hear my instructor, in her beautiful russian accent shouting “MORE HEEEP, MOVE YOUR HEEEPS!” and I was like “There are hip thrusts and pelvic grinds to be learned tonight! Bloody rash can wait!!”
I do believe I am officially “obsessed” with my dance class. I think about it all of the time. I pratice the moves for my family (which, can an aspiring aerobic dancer GET A LITTLE RESPECT? All of the eye rolling and “Ok mom, we get it, you learned a new dance.” and the “HAHAHA, that’s a dumb move” comments aren’t necessary. Don’t hate me because I’m an aerobic dancer.)
My obsession with dance class may or may not have something to do with the instructors buttocks. They are perfect. They are bubbly and soft, completely Lump Free and just… mmmmmm…Perfect. I’ve been known to stare at them during the “floor exercise” portion of class. If her ‘Tocks could talk, I’m pretty sure they would tell me that I was making them uncomfortable and that if I didn’t stop looking at them as though I wanted smother them in BBQ sauce and throw them on the grill, they may very well have to get a restraining order.
Grilled Buttocks… it’s what’s for dinner!
This is the way the class works. Every Friday night, she teaches a new style of dance. Then, she continues that dance on the Monday and Wednesday night class. So far, we’ve done Riverdance (HELLOOO Bouncies Titties!), Salsa (Discovering your “White” is more more dominant than your “Mexican” in front of complete strangers is great fun!) Jazz (NAILED IT) Hip Hop (Nailed it. Because thrusting hips is My Thang) And this week? It’s Funky (There’s a move called “The Monkey.” HAHA. I laugh through most of this one. Which, also means, I Rip’Em too. Which, means, I laugh even more because HAHA I farted doing The Monkey.”)
Do you see why I LOVE this class. We do “The Monkey”! And I fart freely! Without fear of judgement! Because, how could anyone know it was me, what, with all of the fans blowing! Seriously. It’s like I’m at a bar and the bartender is all “FREE DRINKS FOR YOU!” Only, I’m at a gym, and there are no drinks and the only thing that’s free is the air that I just expelled from my ass. But, you know what I meant, right?
Oh my God, I’m so excited just talking about it that my mouth is watering excessively. I need to swallow.
I’ll end this by sharing something with you that has nothing to do with my dance class whatsoever.
The other day, I “happened” to come across a list of symptoms of “colon cancer”. (Don’t ask. I won’t tell.) One of the symptoms was “Your stool is thinner than usual”. I wish to GOD I had never read that because, well, let’s just say I’m obsessing over the “width” of my stool.
And let me just say, I’m convinced it’s “thinner than usual” and well, how do I bring THAT one up to The Doc?
I should have ended it with something dance class related, no?

Miss New Booty

If you notice, I rarely talk about my “Parenting Style” here on my blog because a) who gives a shit, really. b) I don’t really have a parenting style.
I take a “Whatever works” and “Hey! At least I tried” approach to parenting.
I don’t read “parenting” books, nor do I read parenting magazines. I secretly kind of hate people who preach a certain style of parenting as if that’s “The Right Way”. I’ve never allowed other women to make me feel inferior because I don’t make the same parenting choices as they do.
I’ve been doing this “Parent Thang” for 13 years, (since I was 22 years old) and judging by The Greatness of my children, whatever it is that I’m doing is right because, man, I have some AWESOME children.
There have been times where I’ve felt at a loss for an answer to problems my children were facing. like the time my son had a cold and one night, felt like he couldn’t breathe and from that night on was convince he was going to DIE IN HIS SLEEP and, therefore, REFUSED TO SLEEP.
But, most times, I feel completely in control and know exactly what to do in any given situation.
“Gum in your hair? SHAVED HEAD FOR YOU!”
However, right now I’m facing a problem with my daughter and I’m at a complete loss how to correct this problem.
While I’m a little scared to ask The Internet for advice, I’m more scared of having to clean poop off of walls, so, I’m going to take the risk and ask for suggestions.
The problem?

Girlfriend likes to take her diaper off. And not just at naptime anymore! I’m constantly worried that she’s going to take it off when she has poop. So far, I’ve been lucky and I’ve caught her before she’s ripped off poopie diapers, but the girl is FAST and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. It’s like, I turn my back for one second and “Helloooo Pachina!.”
My first brilliant solution to the problem was to put a onesie on her anytime I was going to lay her down for a nap. It worked, until she figured out how to unsnap the buttons.
Now? There is absolutely NO keeping a diaper on her.
I’m THIS CLOSE to whipping out the duct tape because, remember, WHATEVER WORKS.
However, if you have any other suggestions, or, any theories as to why my child is doing this (because, surely it can’t be as simple as “She hates the feeling of the diaper and feels more comfortable naked!”) I’d love to hear them. None of my children have ever “played with poop” and I’d like to keep it that way.

Infectious Cheese

From above
My daughter has another ear infection and a touch of the flu. It’s obvious she’s in pain and uncomfortable by the way she’s clinging to me and letting me hold her in my arms. Normally, being held is torture to her, for there are picture frames that need to be broken, furniture just waiting to be scratched, dented and spilled on, there are toys that must be scattered in every room of the house and little objects to be placed into her mouth.
Not today. Today she wants “mama” to hold her, to cuddle with her and um, to give her The Bobs.
Yes, I’m still breasfeeding my daughter. No, not as often as I used to, but yeah, still doing that whole “tittymilk distrubution” thingy up in here.
DO NOT JUDGE ME.
Let me rephrase that.
Do not judge me as I have judged others, because you may say to yourself “I will NEVER breastfeed a child that can ask for it, but until you become and old, lazy woman who JUST WANTS TO SLEEP IN and you learn the way to sleep in is to bring your child into bed with you and let them drink of The Bobs, well, you really have no business passing judgement on others.
Long live The Tittymilk!
I feel badly for my little girl, I truly hate for her to be in pain. I’ll do anything I can to cheer her up, even if that means drinking excessive amounts of diet coke to WOW her with my contest winning burping skills. There really isn’t anything I won’t do to make her smile, because seeing her sickly breaks my heart.
Lucky for me, it’s not hard to get the girl to smile.

She is such a good natured little girl.
Do not mistake “good natured” with “Always happy and sweet” because Girlfriend is a Drama Queen prone to The Dramatics. However, she’s also incredibly affection, deeply loving and ridiculously funny. She’s a joy to know and a pleasure to care for when sick.
Well, except for the part where I have to take off her puked up jammies. That is definitely not pleasurable. Nor is the writing of checks for “named brand” prescriptions (thank you jackass urgent care doctor, seriouly, ammoxicillan would have been just fine, thank you very much.) But every other aspect of caring for Her Sickness is my pleasure.
Inspite of her pain and illness, she still manages to giggle at my silliness, to lavish my cheeks with her sweet little kisses, to wrap her tiny little arms around my neck and squeeze me tightly whilst telling me she loves me. The girl is an angel.
An angel who says “Shit” when pissed, but still, an angel.