Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Mijnheer Rock en het Haar van het Broodje

Note to self: Do not attempt to write an entry while your friends are over it is a) rude and b) a prime example of multi-tasking gone bad.

So yes, as I was saying, this week has been traumatizing in the phone realm. I had to talk to the Club Mom people prior to our meeting on Tuesday and it is official, I am not smooth at all. Toward the end of the meeting somehow I blurted out, "Yee Haw! You know, I'm just a stay at home mom!"

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? When we finally hung up I stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, berating myself for being so stupid.

I told Logan about the conversation and I told him how the meeting itinerary asks that we think about how to introduce ourselves including why we blog and how we started and what we hope to do with our blogs. He said about 25 intelligent sounding and also entirely true things about why I write this website and what I'd like to do with it and he sounded smart. Never once did he sound like a turd.

Of course when I try to say the same things he said, I still sound like a turd and I sound conceited or 'high on myself' so this meeting is going to be awesome. Instead of playing a dolt on speakerphone with a room full of executives, I'll be playing a dolt live and in person! Wooo!

I hope there is sun, maybe the vitamin D will suddenly make me sound intelligent.

A while back I got an email from a nice man named Justin wondering if I would be interested in a trip to Holland in exchange for advertising on my site. Of course I said yes.

But then, I realized I needed to deal with passport things. So I wrote back and said, "You know, you shouldn't hold a spot for me."

I told Logan I'd done that and he said, "What the fuck! You can get a passport fast! Write back."

So within 8 minutes I said, "Yes!" "Never Mind." And then, "Never mind the other never mind."

He put a note next to my name: "Going off her meds."

Then a few weeks later, someone, with a nonsensically named website, emailed me and said "Ahhhhhh. I'm going to Amsterdam."

Which, I would love to go with this person. So I emailed the nice Blogads man and just subtly let him know I'd still love to go in spite of my manic actions when he'd asked. But, no, he'd filled all the spots and I was on a waiting list. Which was a nice thing to say but who the hell wouldn't go to Amsterdam?

I was dissappointed but oh well. Finding coverage for the kids is kind of a pain and Logan's really busy at work right now and also here's the real reason I was relieved.

In 1991 Logan attended a month long design program in Rotterdam. I know I don't need to remind you what Logan's hair looked like in 1991.

Okay fine, I will remind you.

1991 was the height of the Rock and Roll hair. I was sort of relieved I wouldn't be going because I didn't want to face Holland after what Logan put them through with his hair. Also his glasses. The weight of his glasses sunk the entire country by about 6 inches.

A day or two later, I was making dinner and an email came through and guess what? They're willing to forgive Logan for his hair and allow me to enter their country.

But then came the next thing. I had to call a nice man in Holland to arrange my travel dates. You know I hate talking on the phone, but talking on the phone with someone who I'm worried isn't grasping my language because I use so much sarcasm and a fair amount of slang. Let's say I'd rather be fitted for a thousand bras.

By the end of the conversation I was curled into a fetal ball in the corner of our bedroom.

So if you call me for the next six months, this is why I'm not picking up.

So yes! Amsterdam! With Alice! We'll be spooning....internationally.

I asked Heather if she was one of the people going and she said yes, she and Jon get to go too. (But not at the same time as us.)

Mostly I think it's good Logan doesn't have a website. Logan's good at everything he does and if he wanted to have a website I would support him and be happy for him but it's nice that I'm better than him at something.

However, I would love to go to Holland with him. Also it would be nice if he could answer to Holland for that hair all by himself.

February 23.

Dear God I love the internet.

*Translation Here.

Coming soon....pictures from Logan's trip to Holland. Holy. Shit.

My beans have spilled all over the internet.

This week has been absolutely devastating for my phone issues. I think, in order to recover, I am not going to talk on the phone for at least 6 weeks.

I wasn't sure how to bring up the Club Mom meeting in California next week because there's been a lot of talk about last year's Blogher Circle Jerk around the internet and if I talk about being excited to see my favorite internet people am I performing a circle jerk? Hey! Go fuck yourself!? but then Mrs Kennedy did complete with Pantyhosen even. Which, FYI, is my sister's term because she can stand neither the idea of Pantyhose or the word Pantyhose. My sister is funny.

Moist Pork Pantyhosen. The perfect word. (Read the comments on this post.)

Now I'm going to talk about the Club Mom thing and it makes me uncomfortable because I think essentially I am a follower.

Last week I had a conference call. If you can imagine how much I hate the phone, imagine that anxiety multiplied by talking to five people at once. On speakerphone. As I spoke I tied a rope around my neck and contemplated ending my life because who knew I could sound like such a total fucking TURD on the phone?

When talking to one person I can, and often do, sound like a turd. But when I'm talking to business type people? It was so horrific the only way to describe it is to share with you the disjointed email I sent to Mrs Kennedy and Heather while I was on the phone.

conference call

dying

andrew shue we get to meet

help.

And that is pretty much what I sounded like on the phone. He asked, "Why do you blog?"

I replied, "I don't know. I just thought. it. would be. you know. fun. to do."

When you read what Mrs Kennedy had to say about why she started her blog, you'll realize how annoying. Which brings me to my anxiety attack about how I'll present myself at this meeting.

Damn it. I wanted to write this all out but our friends are here (as I type) (I am so fucking rude) and I don't want to write anymore.

Tomorrow though you'll get the rest of my turditude and also the other thing i want to tell you.

It's like a comedy of errors, except more tragic

My computer freaked out on me today and so I spent nearly 2 hours at the Apple Store trying to figure out what the ever loving fuck was the problem.

One minute everything was fine, the next I couldn't get Mail to start.

The reason I bring this up is that Mail was holding all my orders for the notepads.

So, can you do me a favor? There were 5 orders in the 'To Contact/Invoice' folder and that folder is now missing. Can you email me again if you placed an order in the last 3 days? Thank you so much.

I'm not pawning you off, just sending you somewhere else

I want to write something but every time I sit down I'm compelled to tell you about the color and consistency of my phlegm. Which no one wants so let's move along.

The notepads are filling up my time lately but once we get all the kinks in our system out it won't take so long. In the meantime you should know that Logan has lovingly christened each and everyone of your orders with "Shits" and "God Damn it's". Hopefully this will not affect the quality of your product.

He bought a heavy duty stapler which was, as it turns out, out to get him. He spent nearly an hour at the dining room table screaming at it everytime he tried to use it, "YOU PIECE OF CRAP!!!!!"

This is the funny part though, then he'd try again and shockingly it would do the same thing. "You PIECE OF CRAP". The best part was when Maddie walked into the dining room and non-chalantly said, "Is that the Piece of Crap?"

Instead of correcting her and saying, "That's not a very nice word, I'm really frustrated and I'm sorry."

He said, "Yes. Yes it is. This is the Piece of Crap."

Why did he do that? Because he wanted Madison to be his partner in the undying rage he felt at that GOD DAMN PIECE OF CRAP STAPLER!

Believe me, I have several things I'd like to write about but projects are breathing down my neck and also 11 kids are coming to my house in 1.5 short hours so I'm going to have to direct you to Flogging Baby.

There have been some interesting discussions over there in the last couple days.

You know, I've been angry with the internet a lot of times since I started this website. But I've never wanted to punch the internet as much as I did following this post by Sarah Gilbert at the Baby Flog.

Sarah was discussing the simple things she missed about her pre-kid life. Things like sleeping in, spur of the moment travel, stopping at the market for just two things. This, according to far too many of the 107 commenters, means she wants to give away her kids just so she can enjoy after work happy hour.

You see the connection don't you?

Right.

PUNCH.

So I spent an evening pretty much livid. I couldn't sleep I was so mad about this mindset I thought was dead, but apparantly it's alive and well with the general population (Sarah's post was linked from the AOL homepage, general population stomping grounds) and that is both good and bad news for us, fellow parents who write honestly about the experience of raising children.

To me the idea that you love your kids AND hate things they do, or miss old parts of your life or wish for more free time is all a part of the experience. To me, there's no reason to hide those realities.

In fact I've become so used to reading about the realities of raising kids, I actually find myself yawning when a newspaper article says something like, "Parenting is hard! You can love your kids and accept that."

I mean, duh.

But Sarah's post and the response to it, "You selfish women!" "You shouldnt' have had children!" Tells me that perhaps the idea behind this website won't be dying out anytime soon. Because if there are people hurling those kinds of judgements and insults at women who dare to say, "I'm not a robot, I'm a human being who gave birth!", then there are women who are believing what those assholes say.

That hurts my soul. I am totally guilt ridden about so many things about parenting Max and Madison....to have the fact that I'm human and I like my husband and I miss our life when it was just the two of us almost as much as I love the family we've created thrown into the pile of how I'm a 'Bad Mother'?

Fuck you General Population.

So there. I wrote about this briefly (and with less swearing) (like none) at the Flog, here.

I also started to think how I hate sticky sweet proclamations about what we love about our kids.

"When Junior says, "I wuv you" all my old life just melts away." (Gag)

Or

"Butterfly kisses ..... that makes it all worth it!" (Barf)

I could write gay things like that about my kids and why I love them and while they'd be true and would make me gag, sometimes I think those kinds of statements sound so canned. This is what a mother says, so I'm saying it.

But at the same time I thought, gee, my list of things I missed about my life before kids is pretty darn long. Is there anything I don't miss about that time.

And you know what? There are things I don't miss. There are things I love about being a mother that are not related to my kids wuving me.

So I wrote about those things there too. There were a few I left out to fit our six item list format but I can't write about those now because in an hour there will be 11 children in this house....wooo Tuesday Playgroup (now with way less drinking....I miss summer.)

Along similar lines, you should also take a look at Felicity Huffman's interview on 60 minutes. There's a link to the video at Salon.com. You have to view the ad to get access and then you'll need to browse through a few pages of archives to get to it. But it's all worth it just to hear Lesley Stahl say "mommy" in maybe the most condescending way I've ever heard.

The Happy Hour Shoppe

First, Lori, sent me an email the other day. I haven't responded to it because my email is a ridiculous mess. I've tried starting a ton of folders. One for Flogging Baby, one for Flogging Baby Comments, one for Suburban Bliss Comments, one for people I have an easy time replying to quickly, one for things I'll need to think about and get back to. The one where I have to think? Is a huge mess and my system has fallen apart about 14 days after I started it.

Anyway, Lori has is the foster mother to a dog who lost his people in Hurricane Katrina. He came to them in horrible shape. He was covered in cuts and those cuts were terribly infected. He's worn down his teeth attempting to chew through the chain which held him in his yard. Not broken, worn right down. He's doing great but needs more care than Lori can give him, but there is a place which can help him. Go see Lori's site to see how you can help.

Next up.

Remember last year at Valentine's where Logan showed me up with his great Valentine's day gifts?

We had great response and Logan made up a few for people who emailed asking about them, so this year we decided to put them up for sale.

I made the Happy Hour Shoppe and you should go take a peek around. We'll be adding more items over time and I'll be sure to let you know when that happens. But for now. Go on. Go look!

James Frey and his 999,998 pieces of things you can believe in.

I would like it stated that, although I have read about the lyrics of My Hump, or is it My Humps? See, look how uninterested I am. I would like it noted that I have no idea how one would hum that song. I have no idea what the words are. I have heard it twice and each time I have been able to shut it out of my mind. It does not make it's way into my psyche.

The only explanation for this is: I am a Jedi Knight, because there is no way to resist the "unfiltered evil as we are likely to see in this world" that is My Humps. The Force is strong with me.

The James Frey thing has also been on my mind lately. Last week we had a Girls Night In (as we often do when a spouse is out of town)(Thank Fucking God), and we watched James on Larry King all together because we were all interested and/or touched by the book.

Two of us hadn't read the book but were interested. Two more of us had read the book and were interested because the story touched us. Then there was me, who was interested because the story touched me but also because I couldn't help thinking, "Wow, this was published and Oprah picked it?" because a lot of the writing struck me as something a whole lot of bloggers could write.

He wrote like I write when I'm trying to convey how things feel.

After listening to Mr Frey on Larry King and doing some reading about the issue, we all seemed to come to the same conclusion: the story was still compelling in it's own rite, even without the extra, what? 20 pages which are now up for debate.

I left after our night in believing that. But something still didn't sit right with me. So I kept reading because on the one hand, does reading other people's opinions create your opinion? Or, does reading lots of opinions give you the information you need? I'm not sure.

However, I read one piece on Slate, about James Frey and "Why his fakery matters".

After I read this piece I realized how sad I was for James. The idea that James Frey couldn't admit to himself he was a victim, a victim who was not so tough. He was a child of a western Michigan town who could not find his way in spite of a relatively good upbringing. He was a victim of nothing but himself. He was not the hard core drug addict who punched policemen. He was the polite boy who was arrested for drunk driving, and who could not control his addiction.

Why did he go so much further than what you'd expect from a boy from a good small town family?

That's the story I would have liked to hear. That's the story I'm not sure publisher's were willing to tell. What upsets me about this story is that I really don't believe the story would have changed that much without the "lies" James Frey told to make the story more interesting. Would that story have been published though?

I've joked often, I wish I had a past drug problem. Like a woman I know through the internet got an agent and actually had a story to tell in book form (Imagine that! A book!) did.

If I were to write a book it would be a memoir, and that memoir would be about my life. I'd like to say I wouldn't embellish the unpleasant things which happened to me, but I also know how much I would like to have a book published with my name on the cover. I can understand the desperation which might come with spending all that fucking time writing a fiction book, and being told it can't be sold. But if it was a memoir. A memoir to fill the bottomless bucket which is the public's need for 'reality'.

Never mind that Reality TV is anything but reality, it's a story which is told to fit into what people can relate to. I'm not even knocking that but let's call it what it is. It's a story which is told to fit into a model of dramatic television we've always been exposed to. Life doesn't generally work that way. Life isn't linear.

A few years ago I spent some time in a hospital on the mental health ward, I haven't talked about it but that's because it's awkward for people who love me to talk about. I had a book on my nightstand before I ended up in the hospital, it was called 'The Liar's Club' by Mary Karr. I do not remember how that book ended up in my hands but the irony could not be more dramatic if I was James Frey trying to create drama from real life.

So today I read a piece in the Christian Science Monitor about this whole issue, I was especially happy to hear Mary Karr check in on the topic.

But first, because Logan said as I was writing this post, "Maybe you need to see it from both sides."

I think I do. I know that if I one day write a book thing will be mostly true. I will write about the events of my life as honestly as I am capable of. Will it sell? I'm not sure and that's why I haven't written about the bad things that happened in that house I grew up in. 

I will write about the events as I experienced them. I do not think I will create things that never happened. I do not believe I will tell untruths to sell my story, but frankly I may tell things as Melissa and not as a journalist or biographer. I will tell my stories from the point of view of a 6, 8, 15 year old Melissa who lived those stories. Will my 'Essential Truth' come into question as I write my experiences? I don't know.

In that Christian Science Monitor article Lili Wright wrote, "You're taking the highlights of your life. It's a work of art, it's selective, it's subject to memory. A memoir is art, it's literature. It's not journalism, it's not a documentary."

However, with all my empathy and belief in James Frey's 'Essential Truth', the quote from Mary Karr speaks to me most clearly.

"My experience is there's no way you can manufacture events and find the truth," Ms. Karr says. "Great memoirs don't take bizarre experiences and make them more bizarre and outrageous. They take bizarre experiences and make them familiar. That's the power."

I hope to one day take the bizarre experiences of my life and make them familiar. I love that people relate to me and what I write here. I think even the ugly things I haven't talked about here, I think I can make those things relate to a lot of people.

1743

Last night Logan and I went to dinner at a restaurant in Milford. Milford is a very small Michigan town but apparently people in small towns like to eat food. Very good food. Joe turns 35 this week and when you're 35 it's time to put a lamp shade on your head and have fun.

There were no lamp shades at our restaurant, only scallops in a balsamic vinaigrette on a bed of green beans and rice simmered in a blue cheese sauce. I love blue cheese as if it's Barack Obama, so my meal was orgasmic.

I discussed yesterday, as I faced getting dressed for our birthday celebration, how I hate my clothes. I hate my clothes. I'm very uncomfortable in my skin and while I'd like to say the issue is as simple as my body. It's not.

But anyway I didn't show up to dinner naked. I wore a shirt which made me want to rip the skin off my face, but you know, at least I was there. Cari, who I mentioned in my last post, was of course wearing a very cute leather jacket. And lovely cowboy styled boots. Oh yes, and also a large belt over her size 0/1 hips, because when your hips don't exist you need a belt to hold your pants on.

A dear friend told me just before we left, as I was debating cancelling all our plans due to my body image, just get there sit your ass down and get a drink. You'll be fine. (IN LIGHT OF JAMES FREY, you should know she didn't say that exactly as I wrote it. She said it in a more polite and, yes, less interesting way. Damn you Smoking Gun.)

And yes, once my middle and losery clothes were mostly hidden by the table I felt comfortable. Comfortable enough to talk to the other couple Joe and Cari invited to dinner. We'd met them once before at a New Year's Eve dinner two years ago but I'd mostly forgotten about things we'd talked about.

I said, 'Oh, do you live in Royal Oak?'

They said, 'We live in Birmingham.'

I said, "Oh! I grew up in Birmingham! What area do you live in?"

They said, "The exact same area you grew up in!"

I said, "What street?"

They said, "Your street!" (They didn't say any of this, I feel I should say in light of the James Frey thing.)

I said, "I lived at 1743."

They said, "We live at 1742."

Which is right across the street and also where the crazy lady of our neighborhood lived. The woman with the Russians in her pipes.

The good news is, I've been trying to peek in the windows of the house I lived in as a child. But people are so paranoid they do not make it easy for you to peek at them.

I told a realtor friend I have to keep my childhood home on their watch list because I want to look through the house when it's up for sale.

The new friends we met last night said I could probably walk through the house when we come to visit them sometime in the summer.

The thing is, seeing the house I grew up in is very important. I always believed the house I grew up in was a good house. I used to have dreams where Logan and I bought that house (though I would never in a million years raise children in Birmingham) and made it into a house where bad things don't happen.

From my brief peeks into the windows from my car, the house is well loved and well appointed. I just need to see it all for myself.

Last night when I told the couple we were out with which house was mine, she said, "You mean the house with the Japanese Maple?"

My parents planted that Japanese Maple the year after I was born and we have a picture (I'd love to show you buy my mother is holding all our family photos hostage) of me as a 3 year old with a small tree coming up to my three year old chin.

Today that tree is almost as tall as the house and it's nice to see something growing out of that house where so many bad things happened.

Update: The restaurant was Gravity. We were guests of Joe, who'd done all the pictures you see on their site.

Something different.

Why is it every time I go shopping I tell myself, 'This time you're not going to buy the same old boring things."

Then I walk out of the store with a zip up cardigan and a long sleeve t-shirt.

These are not the same old boring things though. These are new boring things.

I wanted to go shopping because tonight we're going out to celebrate our friend Joe's birthday. I've mentioned Joe and Cari before and you may remember they're stylish. Very, very stylish. In fact Cari is so stylish, she writes about it for Lucky Magazine and has a syndicated column too. She also works as a stylist which means she makes sure people look nice when they have their picture taken.

Of course, Cari is dealing with models who are already beautiful, they don't need her help. I do.

I've been trying to figure out what it is I want to wear, which I can also afford and looks good on my expanded figure. One of the problems is I have zero imagination when it comes to dressing myself. I tried looking at some of the pictures Cari's styled, but I don't know, this seems like a bit much for dinner out with friends.

So I head into Nordstrom with enthusiasm and hope and I walk out with a cardigan sweater and a long sleeve t shirt and a sense of impending doom as I face my sparse and boring closet to get ready to go out tonight.

I don't want to be a frumpy stay at home mother, but it seems I'm doomed.

I have to make these so long since I suck.

Most of my life lately doesn't make for good stories. There are these things that happen that are so hilarious but then they're over and the story sounds so stupid.

On a related note, when you tell a stupid story to Logan, he says, "That was absolutely riveting, please tell me again." This makes me love him more, which hardly seems possible. The only other thing he does which makes me love him more is stating the obvious in moments of extreme frustration.

"GOD DAMN THIS STUPID MACHINE!!!! It keeps freezing and ARRRRRRRRR."
"Did you try restarting?"

(((Swoon)))

So it looks like the week for medication updates.

In my medication world things are looking nice. I'm down to what I can approximate is half of half of half. I'm very bad with numbers you see, but I bought myself a pill splitter and resisted the urge to buy myself one of those plastic SMTWThFS pill holders. And Ben Gay. And Metamucil. And talk about those purchases loudly with the pharmacist like every old person in line at CVS every single time I'm there.

The withdrawal with this method of cutting half every 8-ish days is going much better than the Christmas Eve debacle. Oh! Another thing which makes me love Logan more than ever before. I'm withdrawing from medication and I tell him, "I am so grumpy. I'm sorry."

Then the next time I act grumpy he says, with wide eyes, "God you are so grumpy!"

At first you may think this makes me love him more because I'm being sarcastic. But no! Actually I love him more because he must love me so much to say something like that just to give me content for my website. It brings a tear to mine eye.

The halving of the pills has been going great. I rarely if ever feel even the slightest twinge of illness. In fact, I've been taking my Allegra-D and a B-complex and also a magnesium pill everyday and I feel really good. (Maybe I should go back and get that daily pill holder.) In fact sometimes I catch myself grinning, even though there's nothing particularly funny happening. So I guess I'm going insane.

I've also been working out three times a week plus a private pilates class at Chrissy's house once a week. I am trying really hard to love myself the way I am. Which brings me to the next topic I would like to discuss.

My belated New Years Resolutions. I've had such good success writing them out into the world I think it would be wise to do it again.

I have absolutely given up on the phone. I will never, ever call you. I could have every celebrity's phone number and I would never call them. If I had an email address yes, I'd write and say, "God you're getting chubby." or "Do you want to get lunch? Please. I love you." But the phone is the downfall of my stalker capabilities.

If you call my house you will have to wait for me to call you back for a few reasons;

I don't hear my cell phone in general, it's so small and stuffed into my purse.
It rings about 1.5 times and then goes to voice mail and I know my house is small but I don't feel the need to sprint everytime the phone rings.
Also I am afraid of you. Of course this means I have to call you back, which is even worse than just picking up the phone.
I am ill.

New Year's Resolutions 2006

*I will drink more water than Diet Coke each day. (1/11 update: Going well!)

*I will work out 3 times a week + my Wednesday Pilates class. (1/11 update: Going well since early December!)

*I will not stop caring about how I look simply because I don't like the number on a scale, or in the back of my pants. I will not fall victim to the 'Mom Uniform' (1/11 update: Orange wool fitted coat.)

*We'll recycle this year. We'd been totally lazy about it because we had no simplified routine for it. But now Madison is 7 and 7 year olds should scrub toilets, clean the litter boxes, do the family accounting and organize the recycling. Hooray! (1/11 update: So far, whiney!)

*Send birthday cards to those I love. Yes it's the digital age and who needs paper. But admit it, you know how nice it is to open your mailbox and find cards from friends in their own handwriting without gay emoticons telling you they're thinging of you. (1/11 update: Hey! Emmy! HAPPY 19th BIRTHDAY! I TOTALLY SUCK AT THIS!!!!!!!)

*I've been struggling with time management trying to have a life, Flog the Babies, take care of my house, write to all of you and love my children. Max's behavior is suffering because of this so I'm going to take 15-20 minute breaks to play with whomever is at home while I'm working. If the play involves pretending, I will bore the children to death and they'll behave from now on because if they don't mommy will force them to have a tea party where all she says is, "Hello, how are you?" Over and over. Games, playdough, reading and coloring. Daddy can pretend to be your dog. (Hot.)

That is all.

Water, working out, caring about my appearance, recycling, birthday cards and 'playing' with my kids. Hooray 2006.

PS: On Friday night my friend Andrea told me the book was in People. Here is a picture of the review. Wooo!

My White Trash Son.

Logan made this birthday cake for his friend Meg the other night.

This is Meg.

Meg loves dessert. A lot.

She also does a wicked imitation of Logan running. It involves running in place and waving at various neighbors, neighbors who don't exist. "Hey Marge! Nope, no meatloaf for me I've got a 50 miler tonight!", "Hello Jim! I'm on mile 32 and I haven't crapped my pants yet!" It's awesome.

All these pictures are from the Thursday before Christmas when we met some of Logan's co-workers at Buca Di Beppo. We've always had exceptional service at Buca but this night was different. We lost our reservation for the Pope room and had to practically beg for our waitress to speak to us. Even getting a drink involved a four step application process. Not good.

That night out was really nice of course but one of the people at the table announced she's pregnant. This isn't a problem but what is a problem is how I started to spew advice at her like some sort of Internet Troll. Except live and in person.

I'd say something, like, "I really hate all the advice you get when you're pregnant but ENJOY YOUR SLEEP!" Then I'd clasp my hands over my mouth, shocked at me.

It got so bad I left to go to the bathroom and I gave myself a talking to. "Shut up! People don't need unasked for advice!" So I went back to the table all set to keep my trap shut and after 2.3 seconds I couldn't take it anymore and I yelled like a tourette's sufferer, "I JUST HAVE TO SAY THIS! NEVER SAY NEVER BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW!"

Then I punched myself in the face. What happened to me?

****

Tonight my pretty husband and my questionably straight son went to the Monster Truck Jam with our friend Joe Vaughn and Joe's future stepsons. At first you'd think this was a little incongruous. Logan's a metrosexual ad agency art director. Joe's a professional photographer.

But I think when you see this, you'll realize it all makes sense.

Hold. Me.

Yo Sunny D!*

I finally went to have that bra fitting. Logan gave me the gift certificate in September for my birthday. There's a very well spoken of bra shop in downtown Royal Oak and I started to suspect my boobs could maybe not be on my stomach. (My friend Chrissy calls hers 34 longs...but they're not really).

I put it off for two reasons. What if I was actually a smaller cup size than I believed? This would throw my life out of balance completely. I also put it off because I only this past year learned to give hugs I'm not exactly ready to be naked in front of people while they wrap a measuring tape around my bosoms.

(This is the part where Logan says, "Did she wrap it around really tightly? Was she hot? Did she have to get a, you know, feel for your cup size." Maybe he's not gay after all. Maybe he's just a 14 year old boy.)

The thought of it really freaked me out but carrying around a hefty gift certificate in my purse for so long was really ridiculous and also, if you've gained weight it's probably a good idea to have your boobs in the right place at least.

I walked into the store and was immediately attacked by satin and lace and thongs everywhere. And women were all fondling the unmentionables in public and I can't explain why exactly this was so difficult for me but ever since I was a kid and had to get my first bra (I even hate the word bra) I made my mom get it and I made her tell the saleslady that training bra was not for her daughter, it was actually for herself and I stood way over on the other side of the store until she had purchased it.

I didn't exactly know what to do, I didn't want to be too forward. Maybe we'd want to flirt for a little while and go get a drink before she weighed and measured my breasts. So instead of just saying, "I need a bra fitting." God that sounds stupid. "I need to be fitted for a bra." That sounds like I'm a horse needing a harness.

Since I couldn't find the words to ask for someone to measure my breasts I stood at the counter pretending to look at the sachets like a fucking idiot. I was trying to what? Be coy for my bra fitting?

So finally one of the ladies said, "Can I help you?" And I tried to talk but no words came out and so she walked me to a dressing room and told me to take off my shirt and she'd be back.

Do you do this at the gynecologist? When the nurse leaves and tells me to strip and put on the stupid gown, the minute the door closes I race to get done. I live in utter fear that one day I'll be standing there in my black socks and nothing else in that horrible lighting and the doctor will walk in before I can get the gown on.

This felt sort of the same but I just had to take off my sweater so I stood there pretending to very intently read the return policy. Riveting. I could really have read it for hours, standing there in my jeans and old ill-fitting bra. In fact, it felt like I did.

She came back and I left my body and watched everything happening from overhead. If you thought my hugs were awkward you really should try to fit me for a new bra. It's a new level of awkwardness.

"Oh, do you want my arms like this?" "Oh I see uhm holding them up? Right? Like this. Okay...oh jees...you put the measuring tape right there. Ha ha. Oh wow. You know, I don't really even like to hug people generally speaking. Ha."

But wait it gets worse. So she tells me my size and gets three bras for me to try on. She leaves with the instructions to "Try each of them on but let me see them so I know if we've gotten the right fit."

Wha? "Okay," I said.

So I tried on the first one and she came back and eyed it and I dissolved into a pool of incredible awkwardness and this was just the first bra. She was eyeing it, I'm sure just looking at the fit but there I am practically nude, and she says, "What do you think?"

"About what? Oh the bra! Right the bra I'm standing in front of you in and you're checking it out. Right. Well besides the horrific awkwardness of this moment, you know it's nice."

Then we did that three more times and she asked if I'd like matching panties. I HATE the word Panties more than any other word in the world. So I said, "As long as I don't need to be measured for them and only if you don't refer to them by anything other than 'you know, those things'."

Once when Logan was on a job interview, he was walking with the hiring person into a building with a revolving door. He was carrying a portfolio with him and for some reason he will lay on his deathbed questioning, he decided to walk in the same cell as the woman he was interviewing with. The portfolio was bashing the woman in the ass and Logan was stepping on her heels and her face was pressed into the glass. That is one of the most awkward interactions I have ever heard of in my entire life.

Imagine if I had been fitted for a bra in a revolving door with Logan, his portfolio and the hiring lady. Awkward.

So finally I am released from the lacy torture chamber of the bra shop and I peek at the bra I got and I revel in the fact that I am NOT a cup size smaller but rather a cup size BIGGER than I thought. This gives me such a boost to my self esteem until my hateful inner voice says, "You have bigger boobs because you're fat you idiot."

Hey! Thanks for ruining my moment.

Fat or not, it is truly amazing what a pair of well placed breasts on your chest will do for you. For your quality of life. For your clothing. They're up high, they're seperated, they create nice long torso. I never knew they could look like this.  My new breasts really brightened my day.

Yes, yes I realize I had to go through hell to get the right bra but I'm telling you Oprah didn't call it a bra revolution for nothing.

I am a lunatic. Normal people do not have such issues with bras (hate that word) and breasts and people looking at their bras. I am not normal and that is okay because I have a bra which fits and I have the power and knowledge that my bust is bigger than I ever thought possible. I highly recommend you get yourself to a fitting. Stat.

Just try to be a tiny bit cooler than me.

*Logan's going to kill me if I don't stop making that little joke about my new cup size only I think is funny.

New Year 2006

I usually write a post each New Year's where I talk about the year. As 2003 winded down I reviewed my year, on New Year's Eve 2004 I made some resolutions and also drown my sorrow over my unemployable ass in a pitcher of Bloody Mary's. God that was awful. I intended to write about my New Year's Resolutions again because it seems that each year I say in this forum what I want to accomplish, I come really close to doing so. 2004 was about getting rid of debt, 2005 was about making more money and living within my means.

I did it. I work for Weblogs Inc now and I know it's made Suburban Bliss suffer but, guys, you have to understand how much it's helped my family live without soul sucking stress.

Last year my resolutions were:

• I will conquer my phone phobia, maybe I'll even start ordering pizza. Also I will answer the phone when my mother calls at least 50% of the time.

I have to admit I still suck with the phone. I just really, really hate the stupid phone. I can't break through that.

• I will never again live without a working internet connection for more than 24 hours.

I haven't!

• Eat all that mayo left over from Lice Fest 2004. I will have to eat all this mayo myself since mayo makes Logan sweaty with rage (!!!)

I did it! Yes I ate it all and so did Logan even though he didn't realize it! Ha!

• Force Logan to grow back his goatee. He's handsome all ways, but with facial hair he's just so hot. Without it, it's just way too reminiscent of Mr. Rock and Roll Hair, and come on.

Failed again. He's mostly been facial hair-free in 2005. Damn.

• I'm going to stop acting so horribly awkward when people hug me. I have come to appreciate warm people who embrace you just because they're happy to see you. I used to hate it and think it forward. But now I've become more continental and I like the hug. But I hug like a retarded and grandmotherly robot. Plus, I do this really annoying back tap while I hug. Tap-Tap-Tap.

I am no longer nearly as awkward a hugger. Thanks to my friends, they've broken me and now beg me to please stop hugging us! Leave us alone! Get away!

• I'm going to take an active role in adding money to our family finances and continue to live within my means. I will also continue to suck the life out of Logan insisting he sell his soul to the devil so I can have all my nasty material wishes fullfilled.

Thank you Flogging Baby and BlogAds!

• More friends who play euchre.

Stephanie and Greg play euchre!

I also promised to keep annoying the stupid MOMS Club and I haven't done that very much. But in a lot of ways I'm like an older sibling when your mom says, "If you just ignore him he'll stop bothering you!" I hate to say it but it's true.

So I wanted to write all of that yesterday, but yesterday I was busy preparing for a big fat New Year's Eve party at our tiny house. A party which included 11 children and 10 adults. In a 1200 square foot bungalow which is not laid out for entertaining.

Wow. Is all I have to say. Or 'Woo'.

But God it was fun.

This year has been so amazing. Yes there have been difficult parts and annoying parts and all of that because that is what life is made up of. But so many good things have happened to me this year and a lot of that goodness is a direct result of this website.

My Job.
That book.
The deepening of friendships which are so dear to me I cry when I think about them.

Thank you Internet, let's make 2006 totally kick ass!

PS: The paint in my living room is a really shitty Martha Stewart paint. It holds up over time just fine but God it's watery. It's called "Arts and Crafts". Andrea, emailed because she was planning to paint on New Year's Eve and that pained me since Logan's had two weeks off work and we completed Zero projects in that time and also started Zero projects in that time. She says she's found a Ralph Lauren paint which seems to be a match, it's called Khaki from their Urban Loft collection.

I have to warn you that Logan and I tried that color (I bought the little packet and put it up on the walls in patches and it stayed like that for, oh, 3 years) and it just wasn't right. We wanted a green which was less brown than the Khaki was. But the Khaki was a lovely color and you should try it. It gives you the same effect without the shitty paint.

On the other hand the Martha crap paint from Sears and K-Fart is watery and cheap yes but it's held up remarkably well in our bedroom, hallway, dining room and living room prior to the repaint. I'm just warning you this is not a Pratt and Lambertt paint.