The Last Post About the Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash, I Swear (with my fingers crossed behind my back)

In 6 short days, I will hop on an airplane, fly over the Rocky Mountains, and land in my homesweethome.  I will hop in a cab at Denver International Airport, haul ass downtown, curl my hair in the bathroom of a wine bar, slip on some fishnets and throw the best party the world has ever known, or ever will know.

Or something like that.  I swear I'm bringing a toothbrush.

Anyways, The Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash 5000, Donkeys Over Denver, is August 28th at 7:30 pm at the bar I worked at for, like, FOUR years, Trios Enoteca.  There will be food.  There will be booze.  A lot of that will be free.  F-R-E-E.

You can thank,, and my personal soft spot, for getting me drunk and probably knocked up providing all those amazing bloggers with a few break-the-ice drinks and some snacks.

Please, if you do nothing else today, click through to those links.  You can totally turn your girl scout pin if you do.  They are SAVING MY ASS, yo.  I love them all more than chocolate.

If you're feeling really crazy, you can throw our little animated gif (thank you RWTY Sam, Will @GamingWith Baby, Ender @RedMonkey, Ryzun13, Matt @RedSparks, Justin Rummel and BusyDad for helping and/or offering to help me with that) (my friends ROCK, yo) on your sidebar. 

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If you happen to be in Denver next Thursday, pleasepleaseplease come by, grab a beer, and say hi.  I am missing the birthday party of the dead sexiest man I've ever met in my whole life to throw this party; I will need distraction. *wink*

And yeah, let's take the White House back, shall we?  GO BLUE.

Killing Me Softly With His Room

Both of my boys slept in our bed with us until they were right around 4 months old.  You will never meet anyone in your whole life more against the concept of co-sleeping, but come off it.  Those first months don't count, AT ALL.

Anyway, they slept with us and when 2of3 was 4 months old, making 1of3 27 months old, they embarked on the great journey called SHARING A ROOM.  Bunk beds are as important in our world as toilet paper.  Maybe more so.  I won't elaborate.  You're welcome.  When they were 1 and 3, we moved into a house with 3 big ol' bedrooms, and we offered them their own rooms.  They declined, loudly.  We continued to offer them their own rooms until we scaled down to a 2 bedroom apartment, and they had no choice.  Sucks to be them.

They've never been bothered by sharing a room; I don't think they can imagine it any other way, really.  I shared a room with both my brothers until I was 6, and I LOVED it.  Excepting the occasional sleepover, they have bunked down together for every one of the past 2,972 nights.

Tonight, we're resetting the counter.  Tonight, they sleep in separate rooms.   And not just because I chained one of them to the radiator in the basement, either.

We live in a 4-ish story townhouse, with a den/rec room/whatever at ground level, a main level with the living room/kitchen/dining room and-or family room depending, a bath on the next 1/2 level, the upper level with 2 bedrooms and the master suite, and then another bathroom on the top 1/2 level.  Long story short, we have three bedrooms.  The boys share the middle one, and that's fine, but they're getting BIG.  Their stuff is getting big.  Their clothes are big.  Their shoes are huge.  And they're old enough that they need a little *cough* personal time every now and then.  The room they share isn't big enough unless I stack the bunks, and then only barely, and if I stack the bunks, I have to make the beds, and fuck that shit.

I decided yesterday to use the dining room as a den area, just like everyone else in my 'hood does, and clear out the basement.  And put my 10 year old in it. 2of3 protested wildly.  He said that it wasn't fair, that they had pillow fights every single night and how could I take that away from him?  He said he couldn't sleep alone because the closet scared him.  And then tonight he saw a room with none of his stink-ass older brother's crap in it, and he promptly sold the fuck out.

Guess who is currently freaking out?  Me, that's who, and it was MY idea.

My baby isn't 20 feet from me anymore.  If he wheezes at night, I won't hear it.  If he has to pee, he'll have to climb two flights of stairs.  If he has a bad dream, he'll have to climb three flights of stairs IN THE DARK to get to me.  If he wanted to sneak babes in, I'd never know.  When the zombies come to eat our brains in the middle of the night, they'll get him first.

My basement is not in any way set up to be a bedroom.  We're going to have to get a room divider and a wardrobe, and he's going to have to use a space heater in the winter.  That is, of course, a really old woman's perspective.  All he sees in his own desk, his own bookshelves, his own crap on the walls, and his independence.  He sees privacy, and I see a growing man in a little body that used to sleep, happily, curled up in one of my arms in the middle of my bed.

I can almost not even picture that baby anymore, and I rejoice for him, but it's kind of killing me slowly.  I'm just not ready, yo.  I'm starting to think I never will be.

No, Really. I'll Take a Cab. Thanks Anyway.

Um, dudes?  You people be nasty.  I knew I liked you.

Jill and I asked for gross car stories last week.  I expected rotten milk stories.  I expected spilled drink stories.  I figured someone somewhere would find a way to drag some poop into the whole thing.  What I got is not AT ALL what I expected.  What I got was 60 people who made me feel way better about myself.

The whole point of this blog is to make YOU feel better about YOURSELF as a parent, a spouse, a human.  Call us even, I guess.

There are so many really, truly horrifying entries to this thing that I have no idea where to start.  Every one of you needs not only a lifetime supply of Febreze but a maid service, one of those people that come to your house and organize it for you and a therapist.  Again, my kinda people.

Alas, there can only be one winner, because we only have one prize to give away, but before we get to that, let's cover the runners-up.

Our very scientific, educated judging system came down to how vividly we could still picture what you told us a week later.  Basically, the better nightmares we had, the better your chances were.

Anne's story of stalagtites in her car maybe didn't stink, but it's totally something I would do, and it cracked me the hell up.  Honorable mention, yo.
When I was a kid, we moved to the upper midwest. The first winter we were there, my mom left a six pack of Diet Coke in the passenger’s side seat of our car.

Not only did the fierce cold cause all six sodas to explode? But stalactites. Massive, frozen, hanging, cave-like cones of of diet cokecicles from the ceiling of the car. Like seriously scary six inch ones. We didn’t even know how to clean it up - the car was already in the garage.

Oh dear god in heaven, oh sweet little pink baby Jesus, Sara made me want to D.I.E.  Also honorable mention.
I found my cat in the car once. With his four-inch tapeworm buddy hanging out of his mouth.

See, my cat had been diagnosed with tapeworms, and we were treating him with tapeworm tabs. We’d been keeping him inside (even though he’s normally an outdoor cat) because the tabs can cause the cat to vomit up the tapeworm sometimes (if the tapeworm has migrated to the cat’s stomach, which hah! who lets their cat be wormy that long? NOT US, NO WAY), instead of passing it the other way, and we didn’t want him to choke without us around to help. Also, keeping him in just seemed like The Thing To Do. He didn’t like it, and one day he managed to get outside (after several days of frantic meowing, bolting whenever the door was opened, and clawing madly at the walls and carpet).

When we couldn’t find him in a couple of hours, we just figured he’d taken off to sulk in a tree for a while. Apparently, though, he’d jumped in our open car window and curled up for a “ha ha, I’m outside, bitches” nap. Aaaand… the tapeworm chose then to dislodge from my cat’s stomach. Not his intestines, where he would be all dead-ified and disollved, oh no. His stomach. Where the tapeworm was, um, not dead, and not dissolved. And then? My cat took a nap with the tapeworm mostly out but apparently, er, still attached, and the tapeworm died.

What did I find in mycar? I found a sleeping cat and a pile of cat vomit with a shriveling tapeworm on top. All great Neptune’s ocean will not wash those stains clean from my hands.

Ah, the poop stories.  MommyCosm's husband thought it would be heee-larious to throw a diaper in the back of a buddy's car.  I'd have KILLED him.   Jim left a whole potty chair, a FULL potty chair, in his car.  That's hot.  Simply Anonymom left a poopy pull-up in her car.  For a week.  Heather B's nephew left her a little brown present under her couch.  That's mah boy; HIDE THE EVIDENCE.  Zak tried really hard to recycle his cloth diapers and be a good dad, except that he left that $18 diaper in the back of his car for god knows how long.  That'll teach him.  Elizabeth had cat pee, which may actually be worse, I dunno, but I'm lumping her in here anyways.  And then I'm showing you a picture of us, all sloshed drunk.

That's just how I roll.

I don't give a rats ass if he is my brother, I'm giving Gnilleps 3rd place for his dead cat in the car story.  Not because the rats that got chopped up in Sandy Shoe's car's fan or Liz's dead bullfrog or Redneck Mommy's baked snake or the mice who died in Juice's and Melanie Dawson's heaters and just rotted there all summer weren't more gross, but the detail, lordy the details.
Well, it’s not food, in this country anyway. So I worked for the cable company and used my own van. (Read : Blue Bunny, really, kids always asking if I was selling ice cream) and one day I notice a cat jumped in my van and pee’d. Yeah, that sucked, middle of the summer it was terrible. One might believe this to be the end of the story, but oh no, it’s not.

So I get back in the van on Monday and goto work. I smelled Chinese food all the way to work, but thought nothing of it. (Hit Panda Express that day, cause something drove me to it) Then the next day, it smelled like bad Chinese food… man it smelled, but I am a guy and am impervious to rotting food I leave in the car for weeks on end, so I push on. By the end of the week I am DYING, even I can not take it.

So I start cleaning out the van to locate the smell… can’t find it. WTH?!?! So I go into the back and start looking and then I take the Gorilla Racks out cause I HAVE to fix this and there, trapped in between two of the legs is the cat… That’s all I got.

You had me at Panda Express, brother.

There are so many milk and chicken and pork and cheese and pasta stories, I'm A) going vegan now, thankyouverymuch and B) not even going to try to link to all of them.  But even though you all are forgetful as all get out, none of you accidentally made your child consume your rotten food.  Well, none of you except Ali.  Really, dude?  If I ever come over, I'll have water, thanks.

PS: FlickrLovr?  I JUST started liking salsa, like, this year.  And you RUINED IT for me.  Fuck you.

Adriane takes second place (and sister, you totally would have had 1st had you included one tiny little element to your story, which we'll get to in a minute.)  I loved this not just because it's totally horror-show disgusting, but because she had so much stuff piled in her car for so long that it masked what I can only imagine was the smell of pure death.  Kudos.  You can ride in my car ANYTIME.
For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to unhook the baby’s seat so I could get at the real mess, the floorboard at the foot of her seat. (my theory is that since no one’s legs hang down there- there is more room for junk to accumulate). I sat down and started taking things out. Mismatched shoes, board books, happy meal toys; The deeper I dug, the worse it smelled. Moldy smell. Gagging moldy smell.

At the bottom of the pile was my old black hoodie that I keep in my car for chilly emergencies. Just looking at it, I knew what was inside. I flashed to a field trip I had chaperoned for my son’s class to the U-pick pumpkin farm in October. He was cold after the hayride. I went to the car to get my hoodie. He wore it for a little while.

Then he zipped up his small-ish (re: 3 lb or so) pumpkin in the hoodie to “make it easier” to carry. He put it in the back seat, zipped it up, tied the arms together and promptly forgot about it. So did I. Bad Mom. I know.

Now it is February. 5 months of putrefying pumpkin wrapped in what I am assuming to be an amazingly cryogenic scent sealing hoodie. I unzipped. I was attacked by a smack of mold funk smell, and the pumpkin IMPLODED. It literally went from a orb shape to a caved in gelatinous goo puddle.

What would have pushed you over the edge, the Pièce de résistance?  MAGGOTS.  You say maggots, I die a little inside.  Lattemommy has the best maggot story ever told in the history of maggot-story telling, but I'll leave that up to her.  Maybe someday, if we get her drunk enough.  StPaulSlim, however, DID share her maggot story.  The best part of the story, shockingly enough, isn't the maggot infested cheeseburger, it's what they did about it.
We found it several 100 degree days later, promptly lysol-ed the hell out of the van and drove it straight to the dealer for a trade in. When the used car manager inquired about the smell, I told him than the girls’ grandfather had died in the car and we needed to trade it in because the trauma made it impossible for the kids to ever ride in it again. He took pity on me and gave me $500 over book for the trade.

You're going to HELL, dude, and I want to have the locker Right. Next. To. You.

But nothing, nothing, could touch the 1st place winner in this little contest.  Dear god, I think you have actually traumatized me, Kris B.  I know we asked for details, but YIKES, yo.  I am scarred for life.
Umm… stray dog vomit. Piles of it. In the loopy carpet found on the back of my folded down car back seat. After said stray dog has apparently eaten a Jed Clampett sized bowl of cheap cat food and . . . are those Ramen noodles? Oh shit. Unless Dr. Frankenstein has used his talents to animate pasta, those are. . . TAPEWORMS!!! OMFG, the mass of orange, slime covered goo was positively seething with live, and dead, intestinal parasites. Ever smelled partially digested, warm, cat food turned to dog puke full of worms on a hot day? No? Well, if you own a cat (and you feed that cat an unnamed brand of cheap dry cat food) soak about 4 cups of that food in just enough water to make it look like ploppy cow poo. Then dump the mess back into the bag, close the bag securely and let it ferment for a few hours.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Take your fermented cat food, in it’s closed bag, and microwave it on high for a minute or so. Got it? Okay, now, open the bag just enough to toss in some old cooked ramen noodles and some of that slimey, gooey, jelly looking stuff you get when you refrigerate chicken that’s been cooked a certain way. Give the bag a little shake to distribute the contents. Now, stick your nose in the bag. Smell that? The actual pile in the back of my car smelled worse than that. Let’s move on. Go toss your bag full of foulness onto a piece of loopy carpet (the kind you have at the office should do nicely). Make sure to spread it around. Now here’s a pair of old underwear (don’t ask) and McDonald’s napkins to clean it all up. Oh and make sure you don’t touch any of it because the feel is even worse than the look and smell. Trust me on this one.

But our little experiment isn’t over yet! Now, to truly understand the horror, miss a pile between the car seats. Find it only after it’s been percolating in a closed car that’s spent 2 days parked in the Oklahoma summer sun and high humidity. The good news is the worms were at least dead by then.

Um, hold me?

Thanks to everyone who bared their souls and stepped into our little confessional. My ego really needed this boost. *wink*

It's About Damn Time

Well, wasn't that special?  Let's talk about something wholesome, shall we?

Like, 8 million years ago, the kids and I went to a birthday party for a little girl who was turning two.  A bunch of her friends came, including the Terrible Two (who aren't terrible at all, btw.  In fact, they're sorta angelic.  Just sayin')

There were insanely fancy cupcakes, and when I say fancy, I mean THEY HAD COCONUT CUPCAKES and I almost left house and home and ran away with one and married it and had little tiny coconut cupcake babies with it.

And if you remember the post about that day, which you don't, because you still weren't born when I wrote it back in Paleolithic times, you'll recall that we stayed after and hung out at the beach. But not before we had us some Fatburger, (who's cups saved our asses bladders later that night) which 2of3 said was "A'ight."

once he was allowed to see again, of course.

And then, we were off to English Bay to wait for the Celebration of Lights. (Read: Big ass fireworks show set to start 15 gazillion hours after we got to the bay) Our wait can be easily soundtracked as follows:

Blowin' in the Wind

Castles Made of Sand Castles Made of Sand

I can dig it, he can dig it... I can dig it, he can dig it...

Baby, can you dig it dig it? Baby, can you dig it dig it?

Ghost in the Machine Ghost in the Machine

I Fall To Pieces

That last one is getting submitted to this, BTW:

And then we watched the boats come in, and the tide, too.

It was seriously, like, the most excellent night ever. We made friends with a bunch of stoned, homeless dudes, some drunk suburbanites, and a couple of grannies, none of which who were together, but all bailed us out of our freezing cold, no-blanket, sopping wet state by sharing coats, chairs, blankets, glow-sticks, and even one of them manned up and peed in a cup so my proper as all get out 10 year old could find the courage to do it, too. They hugged us when it was over, all of them, told us how glad they were that we sat with them, and carried my stroller up the beach to the sidewalk for me. God, I love Vancouver.

And so concludes round one of Mr Lady Finally Dumped Her Memory Card. More completely untimely photographs coming soon to a blog near you.

I'm Still Not Exactly Sure Where I Was Going With This

I leave for Denver in 10 days, and I'm struggling to pack. I'm a historically bad packer; I either bring 257 outfits too many or I bring only a wife beater and some yoga pants. I'm shooting for just a carry on bag, so I'm carefully negotiating what exactly I bring. I can live without the Keen's, I have to bring the Crocs (shut up, Kelley, it's Colorado. They kick you out if you don't wear them in.) I am bringing the hothothot jeans, but I'd better bring the jeans that fit perfectly now fat jeans, too. The cardigan comes, the hoodie stays. You get it.

I decided a few weeks ago to leave the mustache at home.

Normally, I'd do what I always do with my awesome goatee and massacre that fucker in the privacy of my bathroom. I have, however, had mixed results with this tactic in the past. Because I'm going home for 4 days all by myself, and because I'm hoping to look even slightly like a girl, I decided I'd get a professional wax job.

I have never been waxed before. There are a small handful of tortures I'm willing to pay for, and having tiny little baby hairs ripped out of the most sensitive spots on my body just didn't make the list. I can shave my legs, I have tweezers, and as for the rest of it? Well, I do believe that it is written somewhere in Leviticus that I am biblically obligated as a dutiful wife to make my husband's life as hard as is humanly possible, and so if he has to bring a weed wacker, a garden trowel, some flour and a Mag Light into the bedroom with him just to figure out where he's supposed to land, that's just me making him work for it. I'm pretty sure that means I'm getting into heaven.

Back to the wax. I decided that I'd splurge a little and get the eyebrows, the lip and the chin waxed a week before I left for Denver because god knows the trip itself isn't a splurge of any sorts because I'm going on OFFICIAL BLOG BUSINESS involving throwing a party for a couple hundred people who won't even know I'm in the room and it will do nothing for my traffic and no one's paying me to do it and in fact it's kind of costing me an assload of money and my kids are pissed they're not coming, but that's not a splurge.  Waxing is a splurge.  This has entailed me not plucking anything for a few weeks to get everything nice and long for the impending carnage. This is not easy for me in any way. I am a picker, a plucker, a trimmer. I tend to go too thin with my eyebrows, and after a few weeks of planned neglect, here is what I look like as of this morning:

I am freaking the fuck out. But I want them to be full and even after they're waxed, so I'm letting it fly. We're not even going to talk about my upper lip right now, sufficed to say that I get to enjoy my chocolate milk longer than most of you do.

Anyway, I'm sitting on the couch the other night, kind of rubbing at my neck a little (it was hot, I was sweaty, and no, we're not getting all soft core right now) and I noticed something. There was the tiniest littlest sort of a bump.  I was all, "oh shit, do I have neck cancer?" because I always think I have cancer.  Like my Cherry Angioma that I have all over my damn body that are multiplying at at a rate that's making all the rabbits in my 'hood go, "Err?" and I know that they're genetic and unavoidable and totally harmless unless I've been exposed to mustard gas and OH SHIT HAVE I BEEN EXPOSED TO MUSTARD GAS but still I am constantly counting them and measuring them and they just laugh at me and grow, just like they do when I'm pregnant and OH SHIT AM I PREGNANT because these things only do this when I'm pregnant but since they tend to pop up in geometric shapes just like my zits do, I at least get whittle away 9 long, heavy months playing Tetris on my huge thighs, and was then I was all "Oh shit, do I have neck acne?" because yeah, like I need neck acne to go with the back zits and the chest zits and the left side of my nose zits and that one zit that I found in my cooch a few weeks ago and OH SHIT DO I HAVE GARBAGE DICK but I don't and really, people sometimes get zits in weird places just because there are pores there and I sweat like a stuck pig and people really do commonly get zits in girly places, you can google it, and SHUT UP I DON'T HAVE GARBAGE DICK but I'm pretty sure I was done with puberty when I was, like, 18, so I guess I'm just getting ready to make The Change and OH SHIT AM I MENOPAUSAL?

And then I remembered to take my damn meds already.  I kind of fiddled around with the bump for a second, and the next thing I know, I have

a wiry, gray, coarse, 1 1/2 inch long HAIR

in my fingers. There is a hair, a long ass hair, growing out of my neck. NECK. Not, like, just my lower chin; like, where my chin suddenly becomes my throat.

You. Have got. To be Motherfucking.  Kidding.  Me.

I ripped that sucker right out, but then I got all paranoid. I mean, it's not like subjecting my poor neighbors to my growing beard and my unibrow all these weeks wasn't enough, but how long have they had to look at the hair protruding from my neck? How long has no one around me been looking me in the eye because I've got an escape rope hanging out of my fat ass underchin even though I've been really good about putting on eyeshadow AND mascara every day for, like, a month that's obviously totally been wasted and I've even busted out my super hot smoky black eyeshadow and not just because I'm trying to cover up the goddamn cherry angioma that has appeared in the corner of my left eye and OH SHIT I HAVE CORNER OF MY LEFT EYE CANCER.  I started checking around the rest of my neck, and sure as hell is hot, I found another hair on the other side. It wasn't as long, and it wasn't as wiry, but it was THERE, yo. I couldn't handle it anymore. I ran up to the bathroom, and I busted out my wax.

Have you ever waxed your neck?

I think it would be a lot like waxing your nostrils. There are places you simply should not rip anything out of. I couldn't just stop at my neck, either. I HAD to do my chin, too. It's one thing to attempt to make my esthetician's job easier, but really?  Seriously?  Come on.  I can't walk around the rest of this week with a reverse landing strip on the bottom half of my face.

So, um, yeah.  Should bring the sensible, respectable dress or the red corset?  I can't decide.