Having a Girl is Scary
Yeah, it’s Dove. Which you may remember, I don’t like very much (I wrote about it here). But you have to admit, the marketing ploy is good. And scary. Especially if you have a daughter.
Wherein we spend the weekend arguing by quoting Knocked Up
“She goes apeshit over bubbles. I wish I loved anything as much as that kid loves bubbles.”
“You wanna have sex tonight?”
“Ugh, I dunno, I’m really gassy. Do you really want to?”
“Why don’t you just wake me up in the morning and we’ll do it then?”
“Whatever.”
“Fuck you, hormones!”
“Your face looks like Robin Williams’ knuckles.”
“You think because you don’t yell, you’re not mean. This is mean.”
“I’m going to murderball you!”
Colorado
A few weeks ago I headed off to Denver for a work conference, leaving Lu behind for the first time since she was born. I’d like to tell you how horrible it was, how I cried and bawled and changed my mind at the last minute, rushing off the plane to be with my little monkey. But, people, I didn’t. I sat my butt on that cushy Frontier Airlines seat and read me a magazine. An entire magazine. Do you hear the birds singing? The clouds parting? It was the most magnificent flight of my life. Then, that night, I drank cocktails with real live adults. Maybe one or two cocktails over my limit, but hey, what can you do?
And maybe, if I’d remembered that in less than 24 hours the rest of the family would be joining me for a long weekend, culminating with another flight, this one consisting of a toddler stomping on my lap and screaming and throwing toys at the poor lady in front of us, I’d savored those cocktails a bit longer….
Special thanks to Allison and Steve, who not only fed us and provided us with lots of beer and wine and a warm place to sleep, but acted like a Lu-tantrum was funny instead of exceedingly embarassing.
If you can’t view this show, click here or here. Or get a better computer. Or possibly a more advanced computer operator. That’s you. Yeah, you.
And now for something totally different
It’s another Space Camp Thursday, with absolutely no space camp pictures. Sorry folks, I figured you all needed a well-deserved break from all that zero gravity fun as too much of it may make you a bit loopy. Trust me.
So today, in honor of my 25th birthday, instead of embarrasing pictures of me at 13, here are some embarrasing photos of me from my formative toddler years.
This one’s a doozy…what the Fug Girls call “a scroll down fug.” At first glance, it’s just a cute baby picture. But then…
Yes, it says “Foxy.” And yes, it was prominantly displayed at every, single family get-together, graduation party, wedding or anywhere else where someone could say, “Heeey, foxy!” I’m not sure what the photographer at Sears or my parents were thinking, and I’m not sure I want to.
This one’s a great shot for three reasons. One, my older brother is looking studley. But it’s 1980s studley, which, let’s be honest here, isn’t so studley. Two, my dad’s haircut. And three, my younger brother in a sailor suit.
Here I am rocking the mullet that would later be passed on to my poor daughter. Again, note my dad’s haircut. Totally. Awesome. I think I’d like the bowl cut to be back in style. Can someone take care of this for me? Consider it a birthday gift.
And here I am practicing to be a either a Hollywood starlet or the winner of America’s Top Model.
See…
This one’s from my first birthday party. Quite the shindig, huh? My older sister looks so happy to be at such a fun event. Actually, she looks like she’s ready to bolt her 16-year-old butt out the door, into our 1980 Datsun and out to a high school party, which would probably have less cake and more keg-stands. I, on the other hand, look ecstatic. My first experience with cake…mmmmmmm. That’s still the face I make when someone puts a cake in front of me.
Actually, this picture kind of reminds me of someone.
Frightening, isn’t it.
Jetlag, Part 2
We got back from Denver last night, later than expected, with one crabby baby and way too much luggage. One of the most annoying things about traveling with a toddler (besides the brusing on your legs from getting stomped on the entire flight) are the people that come up to you with their double strollers and say, “Just wait until you have two.” Why? Just because I have one screaming kid I should thank my lucky stars that I don’t have another? Does it make the throbbing in my head any less painful because I only have one set of little hands poking at my eyes and ears and nose and pulling out my hairclip and dancing all over my lap?! My pain is just as real as yours, even if I’m only pushing one umbrella stroller through a foreign airport waiting for my late flight, damnit.
OK, so I’m a little, teeny, tiny bit grumpy today. Bet you couldn’t tell.
