Hey! Did I mention I’m guest posting at Glamour.com today?
That’s weird …
Hey! Did I mention I’m guest posting at Glamour.com today?
That’s weird …
A few weeks ago, Christine Coppa, the single mom blogger from Glamour Magazine’s Storked! blog emailed and asked if I’d be interested in guest blogging.
Um, CHAH. Waddayouthink?
So, my guest post, it’ll be up tomorrow (Thursday). But don’t worry about that now, because I’ll definitely be reminding you again TOMORROW, APRIL 30. My guest post. Up tomorrow. At Glamour.com.
1. Join Swap Mamas. If you’re already a member, you’re ahead of the game.
2. Invite every single person you know to ALSO join Swap Mamas. Just click the INVITE tab at the top of the landing page.
3. Harass, intimidate, annoy, promise sexual favors — whatever you gotta do — until they actually DO join. Okay, maybe don’t harass or intimidate.
You have a month to get as many friends to join as you can. Come June 1, if you’ve referred the most new members, you’ll win Christine’s fabulous new book, Rattled! A Memoir. Wait, I’ll up the odds … how about the top TWO referrers will each win a copy? Woot woot!
Here are a few reviews:
“Sex and the City crashes into reality at taxicab speed. Coppa is engaging, honest and, ultimately, inspiring.”
–Louise Sloan, author of Knock Yourself Up: A Tell-all Guide to Becoming a Single Mom
“Neither fairy tale or cautionary tale, Rattled! is both a brave, bittersweet memoir about the life that happens when you’re busy making other plans and a hilarious, heartwarming love story about a mother and her son.” –Matt Sullivan, InTouch Weekly
“Even if you’ve never found yourself single, pregnant and headed back home to the burbs, you will relate to this true story of life gone wrong-and then oh so right again.”
–Susan Goodall, Executive Managing Editor, Glamour
Oh, and my fave:
“Christine Coppa is a potty-mouthed, modern-day Holly Golightly. May she steal your heart as she’s stolen mine.”
–Genevieve Field, co-founder, Nerve.com
A potty-mouthed, modern-day Holly Golightly. If I had a left nut, I’d totally give it to be described like that. However, I’m guessing if I suddenly DID have a left nut, I wouldn’t need much incentive to let it go. ‘Cause Mama ain’t givin’ up the skinny jeans. And I’m not into duct tape.
And THAT attractive visual, my friend, is on the house.
Oh yeah. All those peeps you’re going to send to Swap Mamas? Make sure they say YOU sent them. Otherwise, fun as it may have been, all your unseemly behavior will be for naught.
It dawns on me that I haven’t posted about last week’s trip to Connecticut to see The Boy. Despite the fact we were both sick at one point or another during our seven short days together, I can still truthfully say it was wonderful. Nothing like projectile puke at 4 a.m. and a day long bout of diarrhea to test the staying power of romance.
Happily, we passed. (Get it? Heh.)
So, I come home and MP is 25. Suddenly she’s all Sheldon-y. All Big Bang Theory. All “Mother, did you know that an isotope is a nucleus whose chemical properties are almost identical to the original one having the same number of protons but different number of neutrons?”
Grammy’s the same. Perhaps a little tired is all.
The dog’s the same. Happier than ever to rub her filthy self all over the carpet. Happy to lick my feet with her poo mouth. Perhaps shaggier and with more knots. But still, the same.
I, on the other hand, am clearly dumber. Evidently, a few brain cells went missing when I contracted the Dengue Fever because I swear my daughter has aged dramatically overnight. Suddenly she’s READING. Complete BOOKS. Go, Dog Go!
GO, DOG GO!
The Preschool equivalent to War and Peace.
I leave for a week and my Baby, she’s all grown up. Next time, we’re packin’ up those footie PJs and she’s coming with me.
Today I turned 41. Which I suppose means that, between the passing of another year and getting engaged for the first time EVER, my inner 11-year-old boy has probably matured to … 12? Call me a late bloomer.
I (we?) thoroughly enjoyed the night’s festivities. No drinking. No debauchery. Just one spring snowstorm, Grammy’s BBQ ribs, cake, and THIS.
Best. Birthday. Present. EVAH. My family, they know the way to my heart. It’s called, “As Seen On TV!” and there’s nothin’ better. (I’m totally dismissing the less attractive reasoning for the gift which leans more toward something like, “Mommy’s getting oooold and growing hair in funny places …”)
I have high hopes. This weekend, I’m fully expecting my legs to be as smooth as an Olympic swimmer’s. Or Lance Armstrong’s. Or any of those guys who regularly shave their body parts. Which I find curiously hot, in a metrosexual-type way, but I digress.
As for the absence of celebratory drink, I MAY get guilted into partaking tomorrow night — Queen Bee, she shares the day with me, and she’s tenacious. And in the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I shouldn’t tell you the hair removal device was the best birthday present EVAH, when I haven’t told you what The Boy gave me.
Which I’m not going to do.
12-Year-Old Boy yelling over my shoulder: Remember, the Boy’s a woodworker!
You’ll have to use your imagination.
12-Year-Old Boy jumping and waving behind me: A WOODWORKER! Get it?? WOOD?!?
Yeah, not gonna tell.
♫ Happy birthday to me … ♫
So I’m in Connecticut with The Boy. No time to talk (ahem) … let’s just say it’s AH.MAY.ZING. With emphasis on the ZING. Badabump.
In place of a juicy post, I leave you with this little scene from the car earlier last week, as MP and I drove to town. Because it so perfectly illustrates one of the BAZILLION reasons I love the kid so much.
ME: (Drive, drive, drive. Look into rear view mirror. Exaggerated hand waving.) PHEW! MP, was that you??
ME: PEEE UUU! What do you say?
MP: You’re welcome.
Oh yeah. LOVE. HER.
This Easter was a first. I took MP to church.
The morning was spent hunting for eggs … 63 to be exact. Sixty-three eggs means a LOT of photos. By my best estimation, MP had had enough of the camera and “Show me the egg!” around number 38.
An hour later, after each and every egg had been accounted for, we put on our best duds and raced into church — something, admittedly, I haven’t done … uh … in awhile. I think the last time I went was MP’s baptism at eight months, and that was in a different town altogether. Bad Mommy. At any rate, MP was crazy excited to dress up and go to Easter Services …
Which lasted about 10 minutes into the sermon. Much to the amusement of the parishioners seated behind us, MP occupied herself by practicing curtsies and bows in the aisle until a woman in the back delivered a Jesus Coloring Book and crayons. MP colored everyone purple and gave them green hair. Very Easter-y, if I do say so myself.
When she tired of that, she busied herself “reading” the Bible. Aloud. Dueteronomy. I had a hard time containing myself. Did you know Dueteronomy is all about fairies? I had no idea.
At one point, the priest was singing praise to God, and encouraging everyone to join in. Elderly people starting clapping, snapping, ringing bells and SHAKING KEYS. Yes, shaky old people shaking keys. Which, aside from those 20/20 reports highlighting people speaking in tongues, rolling on the floor and handling poisonous snakes, was just the weirdest thing I’d seen in church, EVER.
For a split second, MP freaked out. Covering her ears, she looked up and me, and with panic in her voice, asked what the noise was. I picked her up so she could see better.
“Um, that’s just people ringing bells,” I said.
“And … shaking KEYS?” she said. We looked at each other and cracked up. We decided God must be hard of hearing.
I thought we were going to get through it until she heard “Holy Spirit” and about crapped a brick.
Now she thinks God is a ghost.
Early last night, as is custom, MP and I dyed Easter eggs at Grammy’s.
Grammy got creative with her eggs, using paper towels and Pam Cooking Spray to achieve a sophisticated mottled effect. She’s so Martha.
I gave the tie dye technique a try. Apparently I’m more Woody Harrelson.
And MP, she named her eggs. Sam, Kamber, Taylor, Wyatt.
I kinda liked Vann. He was hot. For an egg.
MP preferred Bob.