Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Cures for Morning Sickness

OK, so I recently found out that my dear cousin, Emily and her husband Mark are expecting their first......and second. Yup, it's twins!!!! She's apparently had some serious morning sickness going on and is wanting some ideas to stave off the nausea.

Now I know every pregnancy is different, and some things may not work as well for people as others, but here are a few things that I found to be a Godsend when I was pregnant -- and I've done it a time or thrice. Here are my top 5 suggestions:

1. Drinking Sprite, Ginger Ale or Lemonade or peppermint herbal tea

2. Eating Salt & Vinegar chips -- apparently, nausea can be caused by excess saliva, and the chips help dry up your salivary gland.

3. Buy a small vial of lavender or lemon oil and dab it on your wrists whenever you start to feel sick.

4. Sometimes morning sickness can be caused by not having enough protein in your diet.....so load up a little more. -- and carbs too.....crackers, dry cereal and toast are great nausea cures

5. Stay well hydrated.....morning sickness can be brought on by dehydration

Monday, September 28, 2009

Happy Birthday To Me

Webster's Defines Mid Life Crisis as "a period of psychological doubt and anxiety that some people experience in middle age."

In my callous, ego-centric and myopic youth, I often chuckled at the sight of a balding fiftiesh man, nattily attired and driving a red hot muscle car down the ineterstate with the top down, heedless of his comb-over flapping comically in the wind; a banner proclaiming his dotage to the world. "Get a Life, Grandpa" I would mutter, more shaken than I cared to admit at the glaring reminder that youth is fleeting and mortality looms. I have death issues, you see.

If I had looked more closely, with more experienced eyes, and without the self absorption that is the hallmark of youth, I would have seen his smile of utter contentment and confident indifference. I would have seen someone high on life, and quite clearly not searching for his lost identity or mourning his misspent youth, but rather, enjoying the just rewards for a life of hard work and sacrifice.

In other words...that car is not a metaphor for anything other than the fact that for the first time in his life, he has no children bleeding him dry, his mortgage is paid, and his nest nicely feathered. He can afford what he wants, and he has the chutzpah to drive it with no excuses or apologies.

As I edge ever closer to forty, a prospect that would once have had me curled up in the fetal position with my thumb in my mouth, clutching a jar of Creme de La Mer to my breast, I realize that it isn't middle age that's a time of crisis. On the contrary...as I get older, the easier things become. If I am honest I have to admit that while I certainly don't relish the thought of growing old, nor would I voluntarily return to those years of twenty something angst and uncertainty.

Its been a long time since I had to survive on condiment sandwiches and kool-aid until payday. Or wonder if that guy I'm seeing is going to disappear like a fart in the wind at the mere mention of committment. Or ponder why my new infant takes more comfort from the roar of the vacuum than the beat of his mother's heart, and why that feels like my fault. Undoubtedly, such tribulation built my character and forged me into the adult I am today, for which I am duly grateful.

But ya know...for the most part, I'm liking where I'm at. And I most assuredly am not experiencing any psychological doubt beyond whether I really have the butt for low rise boot cut jeans.

For that reason, I am submitting the following for the kind people at Webster's:

Dear Sirs:

I submit that the term "Mid-Life Crisis" is an egregious and misleading misnomer. I would like to respectfully request that it be revised as follows:

"Mid-life Respite"


I introduce the following visual aid to illustrate my point. Dude looks pretty happy to me.




Thank you for your kind consideration of this matter.

Sincerely Yours,
Mayhem Momma

(Dedicated to bloggers compelled to lament ad nauseum about getting old.

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul." ~Samuel Ullman )

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Ready, Aim......Misfire



Are we all in agreement that men are the lazier of the two sexes? The slightly less competent, less capable versions of women? Yes? Yes.



So, why is it that God decided to gift men with the piece of anatomy that requires precision and effort while urinating?



It’s just not right, if you ask me.



Now, don’t get me wrong: I am very thankful to have been born with a vagina. There has never been a single moment where I debated pulling a Chaz— I’ll gladly take the aches and pains of menstrual cramps, childbirth, and leg shaving for the trade-off of donning lipstick, birthing children and adding an extra few inches to my frame with heels. Plain and simple, I enjoy being a girl.



But, I often marvel at the fact that my husband seems incapable of replacing the roll of toilet paper correctly or mastering the simple recycling process. He can’t seem to do anything with precision, so why expect him to master a bull’s eye with his penis? Especially at two o’clock in the morning… in the dark? It seems an awful lot to ask, doesn’t it?



As I weaned the last of my boys off of diapers, I wondered if I should have saved years of frustration for both myself and my children’s future partners by insisting that they pee sitting down. Masculine, it’s not, but the trade-off may indeed be worth it. Because, really, I’m just not sure men are cut out for something so complex. And I can think of far better ways to spend an afternoon than cleaning up mis-aimed pee pee.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Advice for First Time Mothers

When you’re pregnant, people are filled with unsolicited advice for you: What you should eat. What you shouldn’t eat. How to sleep, how to exercise, how to tell what gender the baby is, how to do everything. And it doesn’t stop once the baby arrives. People love to offer their two cents, but I don’t recall receiving much advice that was actually helpful. In the least. Here’s what I wish I’d been told:

1. Don’t rush home from the hospital. You have nurses waiting on you, room service, clean linens appearing without you ever having to load the washing machine… It’s a pleasure cruise compared to what’s waiting for you at home. Milk it for as long as possible.

2. It’s a baby, not an alien. In other words, don’t stress yourself out with fancy baby crap. I shopped around for changing tables for months. You want to know the only place all three of my children ever got changed? The kitchen counter. It’s the perfect height, requires no climbing up the stairs and diapers easily fit in a drawer below. The fancy stuff is fun, but most times unnecessary.

3. Accept all babysitting offers. People love new babies and will be thrilled to hold your little one while you shower, cook a meal or take a nap. Holding a newborn is a joy. A two year old? Not so much. Take people up on their offers now, they have a very limited shelf life.

4. Point the penis down to prevent leaky boy diapers. (Why on earth does nobody tell you this?)

5. Don’t buy infant clothes. You may not be able to resist a few pieces, but don’t go crazy. People will be giving you plenty and you will most likely just use the same few pieces right out of the dryer. And don’t take the tags off of anything until you absolutely need to. Before Drew came home from the hospital, I washed every item through 6 months and folded them in his drawers. He never wore three quarters of them and I couldn’t return or regift a thing.

6. Resist anything with a million snaps or buttons. As adorable as they may be, they’ll bring you to tears at three o’clock in the morning. Elasticized layettes will be your best friend for the first few weeks.

7. Keep an emergency diaper kit in the car. I remember showing up for our first pediatrician appointment with no diapers, no wipes and no change of clothes. It takes getting used to schlepping around all of that crap, and newborn diaper blow-outs are inevitable. Be prepared.

{But when in doubt…}

8. Ask for help. Once you’re a mom you become a member of “the mom club.” We’ve all been there before– I’m never ashamed to ask a stranger with kids if she can spare a few spare wipes should mine run out and am happy to give that crying kid at the park some goldfish. We’re all human, you know?

9. Enjoy it. Not because it goes by so fast (and it does,) but because as exhausted as you may be, the first few months are truly the easiest. If you should have another child, you will wonder why you thought a single newborn was so tough. But you’ll never believe it until you’re there.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

OK....Seriously.....What Happened to all the Spoons

So last night I had these weird dreams and they were kind of all over the place but one thing I do remember really well is me punching Jay Leno in the face because (a) his new show sucks EXACTLY the same amount of ass as his old show, it’s just on earlier so it’s harder to avoid and (b) that was totally messed up for him to ask Kanye West about his mom and make him cry because I wanted to see D-Bag Kanye, NOT Sad Tortured Kanye, and basically with that one question Jay RUINED my whole Well-at-least-I’m-morally-superior-to-SOMEONE vibe.

When Kanye jumped up on that stage and yanked that microphone from the hands of that poor little crazy-rich country girl (known only to me as “Eat a Sandwich”), he more or less handed me several days’ worth of feeling like I’m NOT the biggest ass on the planet, and I had every intention of channeling that feeling into some kind of big confidence boost while I pimped myself out for a promotion at work. "So Erin, tell me, what would you say are your biggest strengths? Well, I’m definitely NOT the biggest ass on the planet, Dave), but then he had to go on Jay Leno’s crappy new show and be all regretful and apologetic and everything, and THEN freaking JAY had to go and ambush him with that question about his mom, and Kanye just sat there all sad and grief-stricken and DAMMIT I DO NOT WANT TO FEEL SORRY FOR THIS GUY. I’ve always really enjoyed hating Kanye, and the stage-jumping-mic-stealing thing was this awesome excuse to hate him even MORE, but then stupid ass, and completely NOT funny Jay Leno, had to go and make me feel GUILTY for hating KANYE WEST. Dammit.



And now I’m NEVER going to get my promotion. Dammit.

Jay Leno is SUCH a dork.

So in my dream I punched him and stole one of his eleventy-billion cars. What? It’s not like he’d ever miss it.

Also, at some point in this dream I realized that Michael Jordan has been sneaking into my house and stealing my spoons.

Have I mentioned that we’ve lost all our spoons ? Because we have recently. I don’t know how or why but we have about half as many spoons as forks and, inexplicably, a TON of butter knives. I could swear we started out with the same number of them all but maybe we didn’t; I never really paid that much attention to how many spoons we had until we didn’t have any. But now we constantly have to grab dirty spoons out of the dishwasher and *gasp!!* HAND WASH them so we can pretend to be civilized while we dine instead of eating with our fingers or stabbing at our food with one of our hundreds of butter knives.

Every night one of us washes the spoons for dinner and we just look at each other with question marks like “What the heck, dude?” but none of us has any answers, because it’s not as if we’re finding them in weird places, like under the fridge or between the couch cushions or in the backyard or something. They’re just… gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Vaporized. No mas spoonas.

So freakin weird.

The truth is, it took us a while to notice the spoon depletion because we’ve never been too matchy-matchy in the eating tool department — our utensil drawer’s always been a kind of mish-mash of stuff we either started out with or was given to us or we grabbed from the mouths of homeless people or whatever. And now that I’m typing this I’m realizing that probably all of YOU have beautifully shiny matching sets of forks-knives-spoons-etc. and by divulging our “shabby chic” (WE don’t live in squalor – WE’RE “shabby chic”!) approach to silverware, I’m probably also revealing some really devastating deficiency in my psychological makeup or something. You know, like those tests you had to take in high school to determine what kind of career you were most suited to, and they told you there were no wrong answers but later you found out that if the results said you should be a florist that really meant you were TOTALLY MESSED UP IN THE HEAD and should probably be in an institution or something. But you didn’t know that until you compared results with your friends and they were all “FLORIST?!? HA HA YOU FREAKIN' NUT JOB!!” and you were embarrassed and sad and felt like blowing them all away with some kind of automatic weapon but you didn’t because (1) you didn’t actually HAVE an automatic weapon and (2) that would just prove them right. And obviously practicing that kind of self-restraint meant you were NOT a nut job after all and you thought to yourself “See? I’m not crazy! But look how pretty the daffodils” and then you spent all afternoon looking at the pretty daffodils.

Anyway in my dream Michael Jordan was responsible for the Great Spoon Shortage of 2009. After I punched Jay Leno, I drove home really fast in my new car and caught Jordan red-handed, all hunched over in our tiny kitchen with a fistful of spoons. At first he looked embarrassed and started to apologize, but his apology quickly turned into this long speech where he told me what a bitch I was because I never really believed in him, and really I deserved to have my spoons taken away because I couldn’t recognize greatness when it was standing right there in front of me.

And now that I’m typing THIS, I’m realizing that between Kanye West, Michael Jordan and that tool Joe Wilson (who was also in my dream but just on the peripheral, giving cocaine in the corner to a line of Republicans waiting to get high, so he never actually said anything), it’s kind of like someone opened up a big can of Douche Baggery on the entire world recently. What the heck's going on here?

It’s like that book Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, where it rains food for breakfast, lunch and dinner and everybody walks around with their forks (or spoons) in their pockets to catch the stuff as it falls from the sky, but in our case it’s not raining food, it’s raining ASSHOLISHNESS and all the men are catching it right in their mouths.

No spoons required.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Enough with the Vampires already


Vampires. They're everywhere lately; I can't seem to turn on the TV, pick up a magazine or surf the web without being bombarded by them. The entire world seems to be under their bloody spell, and I just don't get it. Their recent resurgence in popularity started with the "Twilight" series, which everyone was (or is) completely obsessed with. It was like the Harry Potter phenomenon with a dash of blood and a heap of sexual chemistry (or so I gather). Then HBO came out with the show, "True Blood" in which vampires live among the rest of us, slurping manufactured blood. It's hard core, hard to watch television that would freak even Buffy out. I couldn't get through a single episode.

I enjoyed the TV show called "Moonlight" that was on a couple of years ago. But it wasn't really because I was excited about vampires. It's because I had a bit of a crush on the shows main character, Mick St. John (sexy Aussie actor, Alex O'Loughlin -- yummy)

But for some reason, I just can't get into these pale, perverted anemics that everyone seems to adore. The frail, fanged look just doesn't do it for me. I prefer my men with a little more meat on their bones, and I'm a bit of a stickler for good dental hygiene.

So help me out here; am I alone in wanting my heartthrobs mortal? And if you are counting down the days until the New Moon release, what's up with this fascination? I doubt I'll join you on the dark side, but I'd sure like to understand it.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

I was gonna write a kick ass post about zombie dogs, but Demi Moore sucked it out of my brain

So last night I was in bed almost asleep when I suddenly had this great idea for a blog post; but I knew I'd forget it if I didn't write it down, so I left a note on my dresser and went back to sleep. But when I woke up this morning I found it and all it says is "DOG ZOMBIES" and I have no idea what the heck that means. I don't know if I was planning on writing a post about dogs that chase zombies or dogs that are zombies, or what..... I'm totally disappointed because a post about dog zombies sounds AWESOME. I feel like I've let the whole world down.

I blame Demi Moore, because I dreamed last night that Ashton was beating her and it was my job to save her from him, but she wouldn't listen to me because she was really in to astrology and I thinks horoscopes are a load. So I had to convince her that I believed in them too. I was all, "Demi, Murcury is in retrograde right now, and that's the best time for a Scorpio like you to seek help".

And she was all, "Well, if Murcury is in retrograde....."

And I was all, "It is....it IS". Even though I have absolutely no idea what that means. But, I guess I was pretty convincing, because she let me help her back her bags and drive her to the shelter. Ashton tried to follow us, but I got all up in his face and screamed, "YOU LEAVE DEMI ALONE, DUDE. SHE'S A SCORPIO AND MURCURY IS IN RETROGRADE, YOU ASSHAT!", and he backed off like a scared kitten.

I have no clue what that dream meant.

All I know is that it was enough to knock the memory of whatever awesome dog zombie idea I had right out of my head; lost forever. Now the world will never know my brilliant thoughts on zombie dogs, and I blame Demi Moore. (Come on, Demi. Don't know that horoscopes are complete B.S.? Join us here in the real world, okay babe?)

Anyway, here I am just coming off a summer of pretty slim blog posts, and a bunch of people wondering and asking me why I don't blog so much anymore. And all I can say to them is, "Sorry. Apparently I had a kick ass post about dog zombies, but it was erased from my head by Demi Moore".

And they're all like, "...???..."

And I'm all, "Do I have to explain EVERYTHING to you people?"

Now, this is important, so pay attention. Some crazy force took over my body and made me look up Demi Moore's birthday and it turns out SHE TOTALLY IS A SCORPIO. JUST LIKE IN MY DREAM. I am now a believer.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Random Blah Blah: Facebook Edition

  • Facebook is the latest in a long string of things that I’m fascinated by and totally overuse until the novelty wears off. One look at my profile, and it’s obvious how obsessy I am.

  • Both Twitter AND my blog have suffered as a result of my obsess-i-ness. (And by “suffered,” I mean “not had many posts, which nobody has noticed or cared about but me.”)

  • I post status updates multiple times per day, upload excessive photos, comment on other people’s posts, hit the “like” button a lot, etc. etc. etc. etc. I think it is ALL awesome and I just KNOW that everybody else thinks it’s awesome, too.

  • When I see other people who post status updates multiple times per day, upload excessive photos, comment on other people’s posts, and hit the “like” button a lot, I understand this means they are losers and think, “Geez, get a LIFE already.”

  • Some article recently made the rounds called “The 12 Most Annoying Facebook Users” or something like that, and I refused to read it because I was certain I’d be at least four of them.

  • When I see people with more friends than me I understand what that really means — they are liars and posers. NOBODY really has that many friends.
  • When I see that I have more friends than other people, I’m proud of myself for being so incredibly popular.

  • For this reason, I’ve only “un-friended” two people since I started using Facebook. They both hurt my feelings and it was my way of giving them the finger.

  • I’ve recently embraced the “hide” feature as a wonderfully cowardly alternative to un-friending someone. Dude who tells inappropriate and totally not funny jokes about naggy wives? HIDE. Bible Passage Lady? HIDE. Super Duper Happy All The Time Lady? HIDE. I don’t have to read their annoying posts, and they have no idea how much I hate them. It’s a Win/Win, as far as I’m concerned.

  • I’m absolutely CERTAIN that a LOT of people have hidden my updates. I desperately want a Facebook app to find out who they are so I can hate them too.

  • I’m in a Mexican Stand-Off with at least three of the people who always appear on my “Friend Suggestions” list. I’m not sure if they know or care that we’re in a Mexican Stand-Off, but we totally are. And I’m winning.

  • I hate obvious fan groups. Why does anyone need to join a group to prove they’re a fan of “Movies”? Or “Sex”? Aren’t those things kind of givens? Do we really need a group of fans to show their support for “Sleep”? Or “Bacon”? Come on. EVERYBODY loves bacon! DUH.

  • However, the new group called “Fans of Erin” is TOTALLY OKAY TO JOIN. TOTALLY. OKAY.
  • Saturday, September 5, 2009

    Things you will never hear my husband say

    ~ "Let me hold your purse while you try that on."

    ~"I'll give the kids a bath tonight."

    ~"I can't WAIT to get started on these projects you have for me around the house!

    ~"Here, hand me the camera and let me take some pictures of you and the kids."

    ~"Julianne Hough from Dancing with the Stars isn't my type at all."

    ~ "While I'm up, can I get you anything."

    ~"What? Oh, the laundry? I already took it out of the dryer, folded it, and put everything away."
    ~ "You should go shopping."

    ~"I hate budgets."

    ~ "Here honey, you handle the remote control tonight."

    ~"You're right. And I'm wrong. Sorry, babe."

    Wednesday, September 2, 2009

    If you are expecting child #2, please take note.....

    OK, so as a mother of more than one child, here are some things that I have learned over the past 9 or so years:

    1.) Your car will become your safe haven. When the kids are going crazy and your nerves are shot, load everyone up into the car. You may not have a place to go, but who cares? With everyone strapped into car seats, you are know they are safe and secure, and best of all, cannot touch each other. Which means no hitting, punching, biting, or wrestling matches. (Be warned, however, you are not free from verbal fighting. Bwaha ha ha ha!!! YOU WILL NEVER BE FREE FROM VERBAL FIGHTING!!) Just drive and drive and drive. If you are lucky enough, they just might fall asleep. And that brings me to my next point.....


    2.) You will want to kiss the feet of the genius that invented the drive-thru. Drive-thrus will become your lifeline, your best friend, the reason for your existence. You will become FURIOUS that every establishment is not a drive thru. How do these people expect you to SURVIVE?! Do they actually think it is fun to lug two or more kids out of the car, strap them into carts/strollers, and run in to buy the baby wipes that you stupidly forgot to get when you went to the grocery store only earlier that morning?! No, it's unnecessary torture, is what it is!!


    3.) For some unknown reason, Child #2 is made of steel. This child will climb, leap, run, and fall harder, faster, stronger than you ever remember Child #1 doing. And what do they do? They get up, brush themselves off, and then start all over again at full speed. They are not known for crying. Laughing menacingly while jumping off the back of the couch, however? Yes. (Multiply this fact exponentially for each subsequent child).


    4.) It is perfectly normal to cry tears of happiness or go running through the streets leaping with joy when a friend or family member says to you: "Why don't I take the kids for a little bit?"


    5.) Getting a picture of your kids together AND smiling will become akin to winning the Powerball $250 million dollar lottery.


    6.) Getting a picture of your two kids together and smiling their "fake" smiles will make you annoyed. Because you've tasted what it is like to have that $250 million dollar lotto winner feeling. And now you want it again. With every picture.



    "No, please! Boys, can you do your real smiles, for Mommy? Please? Show me your best smiles! No! Not the cheesy smile...the REAL smile. PLEASE, I DON'T ASK A LOT OF YOU GUYS!!! JUST SMILE NORMAL FOR MOMMY!!!"

    Tis The Season For My Favorite Christmas Albums

    Martina McBride – White Christmas Let it Snow | Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas | Silver Bells | Hark! The Herald Angels ...