Now This is What I Call a Mother Truckin Tablescape!

Some people are born to shop, eat chocolate, be wild, etc. (or so I read at a tee-shirt stand in Tijuana back in ‘’95… Okay, so I have never be to Tijuana.  Certainly not in ‘’95, I was 12 at the time.  I just thought it sounded tough and complemented my bad-ass title.  Thoughts?)   I was born to tablescape.  As many of you may have guessed, I’ve dabbled in tablescape architecture a time or two before with an occasional cloth napkin.  Perhaps even a pillar candle.  On special occasions, I’ve even been known to jam a post-it into a pine cone and call it a place card.  I realize now that those were just cheap imitations of the real art of tablescapery- Behold, my masterpiece:

I call it:  Ladies who Lunch

This tablescape was inspired by my dear sister-in-law, Diana.  Her best gals and I threw her a surprise ladies tea to celebrate her engagement.  She is getting married in August to the love of her life!  And I am so touched that she asked me to be her maid of honor!  (I know I should officially by called matron of honor, but yikes!  That sounds frightfully old and dour, so I think I will just stick to maid of honor, thank you very much!)  I had so much planning her fancy tea party and leapin-lizards (I mean damn-it-all-to-hell! Bad-ass theme, you understand.)  we are going to have fun at her Hen Party in May!  I am planning on riding our fat hogs up and down the coast, hitting every biker bar between here and T-town (Tijuana, my second home) and stopping for some arson and vandalism along the way… AKA: we are partaking in a lovely wine festival followed by a day at the spa!  Should be divine!  Ta ta!  I mean, perch and rotate, mother truckers!

I Have A Famous Pachina

I know, Dad, I promised to quit talking about my pachina on public forums, but I am sorry, I simply cannot resist.  I love the attention; I am a middle child- you have only yourself to blame.

 

(http://community.thebump.com/cs/ks/blogs/birth_stories/archive/2009/11/25/mrs-wubbins.aspx)

I’ve been at it again- chatting about my nether regions to anyone who’ll listen.  After scaring the crap out of a newly pregnant woman I met in line at Trader Joes (why does all my inappropriate social behavior happen at Trader Joes?) I made a resolution to get the pachina talk out of my system once and for all!  I decided to rewrite my birth story and submit it to the bump.  I figured, that if it got posted, I could go there and re-read it every time I got the itch to chat about ginas and hopefully that would meet my need and I could leave the poor pregnant public alone. 

I submitted it right before we moved last November and I recently discovered it is going to be published in The Nest magazine!  Apparently I am not the only one obsessed with my pachina, she is getting quite a fan-base.  I am thinking about setting up a Facebook page and a Twitter account for her.  She is currently interviewing publicists.

Dad, are you proud?

My Apologies

Sorry for the long absence, folks!  I would like to say I was traveling the world, discussing the various merits of drop-cloth decor (that’s right!  I have gone so far beyond windows) and educating people about the many, many uses for this generation’s most underrated fabric.  But alas, I wasn’t.  My only excuse is that my sweet BABY turned one and I was pretty much obsessed with that the entire month of March.  Poor Brakes got so sick of my daily, “Remember this time last year….” marathon.  He finally drew the line when I took him and Weezy on a walk through the park with the specific intention of paying homage to the porta-potty I was standing next to when I had my first contraction.  I may have wanted to take a picture.  My nostalgia had reached new heights, people.  I was out of control. Way out of control.  Brakes had to set some boundaries.

So after a firm talking to (“Gas, there will be other birthdays…”) I am back; birthdays are so yesterday’s news (See, Brakes?  I’m learning.), and we’ve got all sorts of fab stuff to discuss in the B&G household. 

• Weezy’s birthday breakdown (Last time, Brakes.  I promise.)
• House updates  (You never said I couldn’t talk about drop cloths!)
• Some life-changing new products to review! (Some may have been purchased for events that we will no longer mention. Cupcake stand.  What?!  Hunh?!Who said that?!)
• Bachelorette Party madness in May (which happens to be my birthday month.  What, Brakes?!  You said nothing about my birthday!  You just said I had to quit talking about Weezy’s birthday!).
• Tablescapes (You know, table decor for a party.  Like maybe for a birthday party.  Oh, crap.  I did it again.)

I am obviously working on letting go, readers.  Have patience.  While you wait for me to get my act together, feast your eyes on this sweetheart who I think (I can’t quite recollect), may have possibly, perhaps, celebrated an important event recently.  Or maybe she has cake mashed all over her face on every plain ole regular Saturday night! And yes, her onsie is bedazzled.

An Unhealthy Obsession

So you may be wondering why Brakes has taken over the majority of blogging responsibilities as of late- he’s a control freak, he needed a hobby, he’s stealing my thunder, I have succumbed to an unhealthy obsession.  Drop cloths.  As in painter’s drop cloths.  As in oatmeal colored beauty with ebony flecks big-ass, heavy cheap canvas fabric used to protect floors when painting.  You can get them at Lowes for like 10 bucks a pop.   I buy them in bulk, but I am pretty sure you can buy one at a time too.  I wouldn’t know.  Anyways.

The obsession began innocently enough.  When we moved in I could not get Pago’s 30 year-old-likely-never-seen-the-inside-of-a-washer-drapes down fast enough.  Literally, our realtor was ripping them away as Pago pealed (I’m guessing he knew about the skunks and wanted to make haste before we realized we’d been conned) out of the driveway after the final walk through.  For awhile we made do with satin bed sheets stapled over all of the windows (why do we have 6 different satin sheet sets?  Wouldn’t you like to know!)  but after awhile our “whore-house chic” look grew a bit stale (gross) and I was ready for a change.  Unfortunately this itch (to continue with the stale-whore-house theme) coincided with Brakes’ tabulations of the budget.  After his sketchy number-crunching (pretty sure he secretly loved the satin sheets) he said there was no moula for new window treatments, or as I like to call them, curtain-scapes.  Sadly I packed my Restoration Hardware and Anthropologie catalogues away in my “someday box” and tried to squelch the vision of custom panels dancing in my head.

It kept me up at night.  I could not sleep from the glare of the alarm clock bouncing off the shiny polyester adorning my window.  I grew desperate.  After unsuccessfully trying to piece together a couple of nice wholesome cotton pillow cases in a faux- patchwork look and a failed goth-inspired moodboard (I may have been watching Vampire Diaries.  Don’t judge.) which prominently featured a tin-foil valance, I grew desperate to solve this window covering conundrum!  I promised sexual favors to clip coupons and forgo wine Puffs if it meant I could buy some proper curtains!  In the end, Brakes and I reached a compromise: I could get new curtains but I would have to do it on a very slim-budget. 

Off to TJMaxx, Ross, JoAnns, and Ikea I went.  I scoured dozens of different fabrics and materials and I just could not find anything that made my heart skip… until I happened upon the drop-cloth aisle!  My mental computer raced as it tried to remember some of the blog posts I’d read about drop-cloth DIY.  I examined the color and realized it was just the rich cream that would perfectly complement the cool tones of our new paint job!  I started slow and gently put two drop-cloths in our basket.  Brakes  congratulated me on my ingenuity and self-control.  If he’d only known…

Now every window in the house is dressed in a different varietal of my drop-cloth mania and I am busily trying to figure out how to hot-glue together a slip-cover for our padded headboard (satin sheets and a padded headboard!  Do you feel uncomfortable yet?)  When I resurface from the heady cloud of creation, I’ll try to post some pics!  But until then………….. Hellooooo, Gorgeous!

She makes my heart sing!

Puff Parenting

So we were all hanging around chatting at my Grandma’s wake, a traditional Irish shindig complete with whiskey, music, and laughter, when my cousin Steven, whom has an adorable daughter (LJ) 5 days older than Eloise, walked in a stared in horror at what I was about to do.

I had already noticed Sara, Steven’s gorgeous wife and one of my favorite cousin-in-laws, politely averted gaze, as she had been watching me “parent” Eloise all afternoon.  However Steven was raised in the same opinionated family I was and it did not even occur to him to refrain from commenting on what may be an unusual behavior management strategy I was employing to distract Weezy from both my chi-chis and my liberally-laced traditional coffee;  I was spreading out a line of Puffs a-la-Hansel-and-Gretel style, so that Weezy would crawl along and eat them.  Off the floor. 

So, not only was I bribing my child with food  so that she would leave me alone (to drink), but I was also letting her eat off the floor in what is arguably the worst flu-season since the times of the plague.  (Hmmm, when you put it that way, I can see where S&S may have been less than impressed.)

But try to look at things from my perspective, we had just finished ripping off the paneling in the bedroom when we got the call about my Grandma’s passing.  We left nails, dust, and wood shards all about and high-tailed it down to LA for her services.  I had a cranky, tired, bedraggled husband (I wish Brakes liked Puffs!) and my baby wasn’t any great-shakes either.  We slept in a tiny, creeky turn-of-the-century bed and Weezy slept in the closet (I realize S&S would never let their baby sleep in a closet.) because we learned the hard-way that if Weezy can see me, smell me, or hear me at night; she wants, nee needs, to nurse.  I am surprised I had any boob left at the end of our first night.  I skipped 1/2 my public Hail Marys at the Rosary and Weezy burped twice at the funeral.  Loudly; like the priest paused and excused her loud.  (S&S’s perfect girl sat primly on her mother’s lap and I swear she rolled her eye’s at Weezy’s antics.)  In summation; I’d had it!  I needed a break and if scattering Puffs on the floor while Weezy dove for them like a trained sea lion got me one!  So be it.  Don’t judge-- you would have done the same things.

It did make for some cute pictures though.

 

Yee Gads! I’m an All-Star, Folks!

Okay so confession on a confession time: This morning I received some surprising/embarrassing/secretly thrilling news… a comment I made over at one of my favorite funny blogs (Martinis or Diaper Genies) achieved All-Star status on the confessional Friday report. It involved my favorite subject childbirth and what I may or may not have mistaken for my sweet baby during the pushing stage. Anyways. As I’ve NEVER been an All-Star before (see this post for more elaboration) I thought I should take advantage of this title and prepare a short acceptance speech. So, without further ado:

Oh my gosh! I am so shocked and flattered! I never imagined I would achieve such a status! I really don’t know what to say! I guess I should start off by thanking my parents and my Catholic-school sex education; I apparently skipped the chapter detailing the various holes located in a lady's nether-regions. I would also like to thank my adoring husband, both for impregnating me, thereby providing me with the opportunity to push until my blood vessels burst while staring at my rear-end in a mirror, and also for strategically pointing out the correct anatomy during those intense moments of Eloise’s birth. I should also thank Mari Winsor; I have no doubt that the month I spent doing her 20-minute workout on a vaguely regular basis back in 2003 gave my abs the strength to propel my baby (and other various matter) out of my pachina as effectively as I did. Finally, I would like to thank my pachina; I am sorry I did not recognize you in your time of need, ole'girl! I promise it will not happen again… next time, there will be no mirror.

Old Navy Brings out My Competitive Side

Warning: my inner-braggart is coming out.  I am a fairly talented person.  I swam competitively  from ages 5-18, I was on the speech and debate team in high school, and in college I briefly dabbled in beirut (who didn’t?).  In general, I have many gifts.  However, these gifts have never amounted to much because I lack one very important characteristic; a competitive spirit.  I was always too busy chatting with my opponents to really care about the outcome of the competitions.  This character flaw has been a major source of frustration to various teachers and coaches over the years… not to mention Brakes, who would cheerfully shove a Grandma out of the way if she were blocking his path to the finish line. 

Well, this morning Eloise and I happened upon the key to unlocking my competitive spirit; it all started with an innocent trip to the mailbox.

Several days ago, I received the newer version of this coupon.  It came in a packet with other advertisements.  Tucked away on the last page, I spied another deal.  It said, “Whopping 50% off total purchase for the first 50 customers at participating stores!”  I immediately called my closest store and confirmed their opening time and participation, then Eloise and I sat down and began to plot strategy.  Would you think less of me if I confessed that I was tossing and turning all night with excitement?

This morning, despite Weezy’s double late night feedings, I got up when Brakes did.  I splashed cold water on my face and dressed in comfortable clothes made for quick movement.  I ate a high protein breakfast of peanut butter toast and Halloween candy (I needed the energy!) and waited for the Weez to wake up.  Eloise takes after her mama and she typically likes to ease into the day.  So you can imagine her disconcertion when she was whisked out of bed, popped into a clean dipe, had an orange bow jammed into her hair (being rushed is NOT an excuse to not accessorize with Fall decor!), and scooted into her car seat where I booked it to the nearest Old Navy. 

After much debate, it was decided that a stroller would just slow us down, so away in the Ergo Weez went, down the escalator to join the other bargain hunters patiently waiting in line.  I eyed my competition; mostly other moms with babies in strollers.  “Fools!” I thought as I practiced my hip pivots with Weezy securely attached to my chest.  “Try navigating tight corners with that boat!” I silently berated a mom with the double BOB. 

After a few hours about 20 minutes, an ON employee came out and explained the rules.  The first 50 people in the store would receive a complimentary tote and anything they could shove in the tote would be marked 50% off.  Elbows started snaking out to the sides and one woman kept tripping people with her foot as we all inched forward trying to be one of the first 50 in. 

Eloise and I were lucky #17!  Over the next hour we raced, jostled, tucked, and rolled our way to the check-out counter.  At one point Eloise wanted to abort our mission and go home but I simply latched her on in a side carry and put the sun shade up for privacy, and kept marching on.  (I do realize I have no shame.) 

In the end, for $311.22 I got almost $800 worth of merchandise (most of my purchases were already on sale) for the family.  We got:

29 shirts, 11 pants, 2 jackets, 2 packets of socks, and a pair of shoes.

It was a valiant victory and now the family won’t need any clothes for almost a year (although, Brakes, I make no promises.  There will be some incidentals that pop up, I’m sure).   Now I am exhausted but content in my glory.  If bargain-shopping were a sport, I would have a full-ride scholarship at an ivy league school.  Who knew it was the thrill of the hunt that would finally wake up my competitive drive?

Grown-up

(Blog Challenge #3: When did you know you were a grown-up?)

You would think I would have realized I was a grown-up in moments like these:

*Pushing Eloise out of my pachina. (Am I obsessed with child-birth? Maybe. I just can’t stop marveling.)

*Doing the Heimlich maneuver on one of my preschool students. (Little turkey had swallowed a penny. Thank God, I’d gotten CPR certified the week before. The Heimlich is different for little ones, people. Take a class if you don’t know how to do it.)

*Signing my name on the marriage license that legally committed Brakes to me forever. (Yikes!)

But in all honesty, in each of those circumstances, I was faking. I am no more grown-up now then I was when I felt oh-so-grown-up as a hot-shot sixteen year-old tooling around in a beat-up convertible. In fact, I used to worry that my boss would one day realize he’d hired a child to shape young minds, or that it would suddenly dawn on Brakes that his wife spent an inordinate amount of time day-dreaming and playing house.

Now, I don’t worry so much; I quit my job (so no boss to concern myself with) and it occured to me that Brakes knew exactly whom he was getting when we wed. I am the girl who throws tantrums during long-car rides, thinks her birthday lasts the whole month, secretly still believes in Santa, and loves him with the intensity that only the un-jaded can manage. It is okay that Brake’s wife is still not a grown-up because he has been a grown-up since he was born. With my imagination and his sense of responsibility, Eloise should make out just fine!

(Oh, no! The above sounds awfully introspective; is that the wisdom of years talking? Nah! I’d better go though; it's way past my bedtime.)

Here I am with my favorite playmates:

My Blog World Has Been Rocked!

Okay people, as my less-than-stellar camera skills hint at, I am not a technological genius (insert your best Ross impersonation here).  In fact, I had to trade smooches with my high-school boyfriend so that he would make me an email account.  I needed it to apply for college- I was that far behind the curve. 

On the nest, my online community when I am not traipsing around in blog-land, (and can we just note, how random it is that I even have an online community?  As stated above; I am NOT a web-savvy-gal) it was proposed that we have a weekly blogging challenge to keep things interesting and to get to share each other's fab blogs.  Now that I know there will be people not related to me (or people that I stalk and then guilt into “following” me. Just kidding.  Anyways.) looking at my stuff, I decided it was time to change things up a bit.  Plus it is finally officially Fall and, as you know, I’ll use any excuse to have me a little Fall Decor (FD!  SO EXCITED! OMIGOSH). 

After exhaustive Google searches (Windows Live Writer is my new best friend) and a couple of practice efforts I managed to change my background, design a new (massive, I’m working on that) header, up-load it all, and change my format so my pics don’t publish all hinkily spaced.   (How did I, a busy new mother, have time to rock my blog you ask?  One word: Ferber.  Don’t judge- we did what we had to do.)  Hopefully now Brakes and Gas will be easier on your eyes (though I make no promises as far as the content).  So without further ado:

Challenge #1: Why do you Blog?

I started a blog for several reasons:  

• I had a lot of nervous energy during my pregnancy.
• I suspected that B&G spawn would be so precious, I knew it would be a disservice to the public to not broadcast her to mass audiences.  I was obviously correct in this assumption.

I still blog today for several reasons:

• I am a closeted ethnographer; I believe in the value of documenting lives. 
• I imagine that somewhere along the line, Weezy will look over funny (or completely harrowing) tales of her youth and really comprehend how much she is loved and wanted… and the wretched pain that is childbirth.
• Making the decision to have a baby and then making the very difficult decision to take a break from the profession I love was a lot of changes for me to take on in one fell swoop.  I think the blog gives me an outlet to express myself in an independent way.  It helps me feel connected to the world beyond my little bubble and it gives me much-needed satisfaction outside my roles as a wife and mother.  I think this is important. 
• Lastly, I blog because I require a lot of attention (and you may have noticed, I am quite verbose) and even poor Brakes needs a “break” sometimes.  And blogging is more socially appropriate than having conversations with my imaginary friends in the bathroom.

I’ve Been Put in My Place

So I was feeling mighty proud of my latest creation for Miss Eloise and I decided it was just the thing to wear to our baby sign language class last Friday. I’ll be honest; I may have had fantasies that the other mothers would writhe in jealousy and demand to know where I had happened upon such an elegant creation. At which point I would humbly, yet breezily, say: “Oh that old thing? That was just something I whipped up in my free time.”

As I sat on the floor with the other babies and moms, I patiently waited for the first exclamation. As I was waiting, I began to smell an odiferous scent. I sniffed. And sniffed again. I determined the smell was a soiled diaper. As my sweet Eloise had already pooped this morning (and what a poop it was!) I was quite confident that the offending stench did not come from my daughter’s adorably clad hienie. I jiggled Weezy on my knee and made small talk with the other moms.

A few minutes later, the stink still had not dissipated and I thought to myself, “Good Lord, these women really need to check their kid’s pants!” I jiggled Weezy some more. Just as class was about to start, I shifted positions, which required bolstering Eloise’s bottom with my right hand. As my palm curved around her tush I spied the telltale feel of wetness seeping through. I froze, looked down, and much to my horror, my fabulous onesie now sported two baby-poop yellow halos around the inner edges of each thigh. And now my hand had joined the fray. Nice.

As I dug around the bottom of my purse, finally uncovering a tacky-too-small-emergency-onesie mixed in among the gum wrappers and hand sanitizers, I knew that this was the universe knocking me off my high horse and putting me back in my modest place. I rejoined the sign language class, not as a triumphant baby-onesie-designer-genius, but as a simple mom with her robust daughter positively bursting out of a dingy and wrinkled body suit rescued from the depths of her very humble handbag. Nothing like poop on the hand to bring you back down to earth.

Floor It!

In typical Gas fashion I rekindled an old passion this weekend and I am pursuing it full speed ahead! After a fight heated discussion this week about alone time, I determined that since I threw a tantrum to get time sans baby, I had better use it in a creative, stimulating, and productive way. So, as I half-watched Real World Cancun, I also perused some new crafty blogs. After soaking up some mega online inspiration, I created a PowerPoint presentation full of inspiration pics, made an excel spreadsheet cataloguing my craft supplies, and alphabetized my shopping list. Finally, with Miss Weezy's babbling echoeing in the background reminding me that time is of the essence, I dug down and began crafting... or as I like to insist: pursuing my art.
I've been hot-gluing, spray-painting, and embellishing my fanny off. I will post some pics of my hard work soon but until then gaze at the declicious man who made it possible for me to pursue my art today. He is pretty dreamy. The Weez thinks so too.

Lots (and Locks) of Love

Friday was my birthday. There are a few things I take very seriously in this life; my health, my family, and my birthday. Ask anyone who knows me, I start anticipating my special day at least a month in advance and in the days leading up to May 22nd poor Brakes is bombarded with questions (nags) about my gift and what fabulous event he has planned to celebrate me (I've never claimed humility). It must be spectacular and it must be a surprise. Needless to say, Brakes somewhat despises my birthday and likely the whole month of May. Around May 18th I begin having an irrational middle-child-esque fear that people will forget my birthday or that it will not be a big enough deal. By the time my birthday eve (which I absolutely do celebrate) rolls around I am practically in a frenzy of worry and anticipation; excited yet scared all at the same time...
Well, this year (and to be honest, every year before this year too, I told you my concerns are irrational) I had no need to fear! My husband came up with the most special, most thoughtful, most fantastic birthday present/event ever! He got me a... MAKEOVER!!!!!!!

I love makeup and I am especially vain about my long and luxurious hair however as of late I have been feeling a little lack-luster about my appearance. Call it the baby weight or maybe it is the lack-of-sleep induced black circles under my eyes, but my self-image has shifted slightly since the baby was born. I no longer pass each mirror with a wink and a smile (to my reflection: "loooookiiin gooooood!") and I'll admit there has been some swearing in the bedroom when I try on yet another pair of pre-baby pants that don't fit anymore. Apparently Brakes noticed my sentiment and decided to do something to address the problem head-on. He instituted: Project MILF (Mom I'd Like to Flirt With (I am a nice girl after all). He called his sister, Diana, (who happens to be my BFF and a total beauty guru) and said, "Make it happen!" She planned a fabulous day in the city complete with a trip to my new Mecca, Sephora, and an overhaul by Miss Sarah Mya (http://misssarahmya.com/).

My look, while formerly fabulous, was in definite need of an overhaul! I've had the same hair and make-up routine for the last 9 years; it was time for a change.

Lovely Lena at Sephora gave me a new face (which includes covering up the dreaded dark circles) and taught me how to use make-up brushes, primer, and bronzing shimmer. I now have a day look and night look! Who knew all this fabulous stuff existed? Diana and Lena threw stuff into a sack and Brakes, or as we called him all day, Money-Bags, footed the bill! It was so cool to be spoiled like that and I walked out of Sephora feeling like a million bucks (and it only cost Brakes a couple of hundred, what a deal?)!

Then after a quick stop at Westlake Shopping Center (Diana, Miss San
Francisco, coyly informed me it is a shopping centre, not a mall!) to nurse the Weez, we headed over to Sarah Mya's new salon, Ketér.

My haircut was the cherry on top of my birthday surprise sundae because it gave me the opportunity to do something I have been wanting to do for ages. I donated all of my hair (which is extra thick and healthy thanks to all the pregnancy hormones) to Locks of Love (http://www.locksoflove.org/)! Sarah Mya cut 2 ponytails off! I was not the least bit nervous and it really makes me feel good to know that my hair is going to help make some little kid smile and wink at their reflection in the mirror! It doesn't get much better than that!

Lena, Diana, Sarah Mya, the Weez, and Henry did an amazing job on my birthday surprise makeover and lets just say, I've got my swagger back! I had so much fun being spoiled and pampered; I feel like a better version of my old self again and that is the best birthday present in the world. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go kiss my husband and then put my face on, dahlink! I use bronzer you know? Muah!

Before

After

Knock, knock! (Who's there?)

I am fairly obedient. I generally follow directions; sometimes it just takes me awhile!
My daughter has apparently inherited my sense of timing. Eloise is finally listening to my orders from St. Patrick's Day! My water just broke! We are going to cool our jets for a little while then head to the hospital! We are VERY excited!
Also, FYI: the inappropriate laughter I experienced during the birth class has returned. So far I think labor is HILARIOUS! Lets hope the good times keep rolling!
We'll keep you posted!

WUBBIN!
HAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHAHHA!

Sláinte

Upon marrying Brakes it was not my freedom I mourned; the wild oats I never sowed, the carefree days of my Singleton youth. It was my last name I missed. Not that I wasn't thrilled to join the giant clan that accompanies my new, very common, last name, its just that I was sad to give up my Irish maiden name.

I am Irish. I identify culturally as Irish. I come from a big Irish-Catholic family. I've sung Irish songs on a bridge in Doolin, for goodness sakes! And I, of course, love St. Patrick's day.

When I was a little girl, I would stage elaborate Leprechaun hunts with the other neighborhood kids. We would spend hours building fairy-houseboats that we floated in the hot-tub and wrestling over imaginary pots of gold which were pretty difficult to find in the mostly dry and rainbow-less climate of Arizona.

As I got older I really embraced St. Paddy's day tradition and drank entirely too much green beer. I had a whole collection of jaunty green fedoras and I know a dozen Irish drinking songs by heart. (I've been known to Karaoke a few of them year round!)

As I've settled down, St. Patrick's day doesn't necessarily mean wild parties, and drunken parades anymore. Now I celebrate in simple ways: face-paint and stories with my students, gooning Brakes out by making dinner with a heavy-hand of green food coloring (who doesn't love green mashed potatoes?) , and my very favorite St. Paddy's day tradition:

Conference Call Irish Car Bombs (CCICB)

When Meghann (my sister) and I followed our men to Utah (where Irish Car Bombs are hard to come by) and Patrick (our brother, we really are Irish!) went off to college, it was tragic for our clan to be split up on our favorite holiday. My brother-in-law Scott, sensing our sadness, managed to score some Irish Whiskey, Bailey's, and some Guinness for our first St. Patrick's day alone. We called my dad on the phone and a tradition was born!

Since then, every St. Patrick's Day, no matter where we are, at a pre-determined time (It's always 5:00 pm in Ireland!) we draw a Guinness, poor a shot, and pick up the phone. Daddy says a few words of toast (generally in several different languages, he is also very cultured) and with a "Sláinte," we drop the shot into the Guinness and drink up!

Last weekend I optimistically bought some Guinness, hoping that Weezy would make her debut in plenty of time for me to get in on the CCICB action... so listen up, Weezy! Your Mov has not had a car bomb (nor so much as a wine spritzer!) in the last nine months! Cut her some slack and come out today!

Dad, Mov, Scott, Meghann, Jessica, Patrick; wait for me! If my daughter follows directions I may be able to toast St. Patrick's day ''09 with you yet!

Eloise, you have 13 hours... get going.

Body Dysmorphia

Brakes just reminded me of another interesting little tidbit we learned in birth class: I apparently am suffering from Body Dysmorphia. This is a serious psychiatric condition dealing with the way people view their bodies. Symptoms include having an inaccurate view of what your body actually looks like to other people. We discovered this condition at lunch when I casually mentioned to Brakes how amazing I think it is that, even though I was the first one due among the 10 women in birth class, I had by far the smallest belly. I went on and on about how "uncomfortably pregnant," those other woman look and how lucky I feel that I am likely going to skip that phase because Weezy's due date is right around the corner and my stomach is still so relatively small. Brakes looked confused for a moment and then quickly corrected me:

"Bug, you legitimately think you're smaller than those other woman? Umm, you're not. Definitely not."

I tried to disagree but he was awfully (yet gently) insistent. Apparently I do not see myself the way others see me (I think I am a lot thinner).

You be the judge:

I think I look very thin... or is that just the dysmorphia talking?