Again, why we do marry?

She's got an Oscar, two kiddies, a billion trillion dollars, and yet, it was just announced that her marriage to Ryan Phillippe has gone KABOOM!
Add Reese Witherspoon to the separated list.
You can have it all and yet have absolutely nothing, I guess.
Tell me again why as little girls we dream of getting married? (See earlier post, I Now Pronounce You Marriage Obsessed.)

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Sarah Shares With Rebecca Eckler

If you've ever read The National Post, or The Globe and Mail, you probably know the name Rebecca Eckler.

Well, the other day on her site, she asked her readers to comment on the five most romantic things their boyfriends/partners/lovers/girlfriends have ever done for them. If you want to see la list, visit www.rebeccaeckler.com, go to her post titled Who Is The One You Trust, and click on comments.
Here's the five I gave her. I have enough ego to say my comments, (my man), win.

Maybe the two of us should have a comments posting contest? Loser buys dinner?

So, my loyal, lovely readers, let's see how a real battle royale would go, shall we?

As a trial run, give me your top five romantic things your man/gal has done for you.

(Rebecca's got 20 comments. On your mark. Get set. Comment!)


Sarah said...

1. The other day I went to a new mommy power walking group. Not so much for the exercise but to meet new mommies. I told my boyfriend I wanted to meet a new best friend, someone with a baby I could gab with, cry to, relate to. Within seconds of being there, I realized these women, as lovely as they may be, were not going to fill the position. I told the BF "I need a new best friend!" He looked at me and said: "Sarah, you already have a best friend right here."

2. He hung a mirrorball over our heads in our bedroom so that we can always live under the stars, the most magical place in the world.

3. Seven weeks ago, when we brought Little Man home from hospital, I got in the car and discovered he'd hung a baby mirrorball from the rearview mirror. "I want our son to always live under the stars, too," he said.

4. The other day at Costco, we walked past a salsa music display. The BF put down our 80-pound brick of cheese, 100-pack of NutriGrain bars and the scone samples he was holding, and started spinning me around the store. (That's huge because he loovvess the free samples!)

5. He had a baby with me at age 47, so he has one child going to university next fall, one child going into high school and one child going into day care. And maybe there are more to come ...

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I now pronounce you marriage obsessed

When I'm nervous, I spin my ring around my finger.
I remember reaching down to play with it and it wasn't there.
Yes, it was a cheap silver ring I'd bought myself at Sears, but I wore it all the time.
It was always on my ring finger (but on my right hand.)
This was back in university days when I lived in an apartment the size of Nicole Richie. It wasn't a big place, which meant it should have taken no time to find it.
After hours of looking behind sofas, in dirty laundry and in the trash, I came to the only logical conclusion: My boyfriend had obviously swiped it at some point so that he could use it to determine what size of engagement ring to buy me.
For days, I walked around elated. I'd check out the rings on other girls' hands at the grocery store. I thought about how I was going to tell my parents. I laughed at myself for thinking for weeks that our relationship was going down the pooper. Obviously, he'd been distant, cranky and uncommunicative because of all the stress on his shoulders about giving me the perfect proposal.

A few days later, I found the ring in a pile of stuff on my kitchen table.
I must have taken it off before I washed dishes.

Soon after this Oh-my-god-I'm-such-a-loser moment, we broke up.

And I was back to hunting for a husband. Did I say husband? I meant boyfriend.

I forgot about how marriage obsessed I was until this week when I went out with some gals, and inevitably, the conversation turned to proposals and weddings.

Why is it that for so many of us women, being with someone isn't enough?

Why do we have to have the ring?

I think a lot of girls want The Day, a whole Cinderella event with confetti, doves, white satin gloves, hundreds of people, The Macarena, The Chicken Dance, The Achy Breaky Heart dance and all eyes on them.

I just want to be able to say "husband."

There's something really juvenile about having to call your significant other "boyfriend" when you're 29 years old and you have a family together.

The other option seems to be even more confusing. More than a few people have thought I am a lesbian because I sometimes call my man my "partner." Apparently, if you have short hair and you use the p-word, some people will assume you're gay. Hey, which is A-Ok, it's just not correct, 'tis all. (My Grade 7 teacher used to say when you assume you make 'ass out of u and me.'

I just want to be able to say, "I'm sorry. My husband's not available right now. Can I take a message?" Or "Have you met my husband?" Or, "Hey husband, we need to buy some toilet paper today."

When we were in our 20s, my friends and I were naive. We thought that a ring would keep our husbands faithful.
We know that's not true.

Christie Brinkley = Married. Now divorcing husband over alleged affair with teen.
Sara Evans = Married. Now divorcing husband over alleged affair.
Leanne Domi = Married. Now divorcing husband over alleged affair with Belinda Stronach.

We thought a ring would give our relationships permanence.
Also not true.

We thought a ring would mean we had true, pure love.
So not true.

If my girlfriends and I took back all the time we'd spent talking about marriage over the past decade, we could have solved world hunger, or an even bigger conundrum: The Madonna Malawi adoption fiasco.

It's not just us young gals who want to be married. "Married" gazillionaire gals also want to be married. Kiss bassist Gene Simmons recently told the world that he still refuses to marry his longtime love, Canada's Shannon Tweed, the mother of his two teenage children and a former Playboy playmate. (You know when a man refuses to marry a buxom blonde with big, ah, bank accounts, he's got a major hangup about saying "I do.")

The 57-year-old musician said marriage, for men, is like quicksand.

"You women should grow up," he told The Canadian Press, complaining that women are always trying to rope men into a marriage.

"You have to get over that stuff, because it will drive men away. And then you wonder why he's mounting your sister instead of you."

Simmons said that he knows the reason studies say married men are happier than their single counterparts.

"Because if they say otherwise, their wives will kill them," Simmons said. "Do you know why men die before their wives? Because they want to."

The sad thing is, after 23 years together, Tweed still wants to marry her suga-suga.

It's an ongoing theme on their A&E reality TV show, Family Jewels.

Simmons rolls his eyes at her when she walks around their mansion subtly humming the Wedding March. If they've been together for more than two decades and they have two children together, what's putting a ring on her finger really going to do to their relationship? All of a sudden, she's going to let herself go and start wearing mom jeans, dickies and sweatshirts?

It's sort of a Kiss off, don't you think?
And here is the rest of it.

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Sarah Crosbie on the Boob Tube

First, Katie Couric lands the anchor job on CBS, then Rosie O'Donnell turns up on The View, then Megan Mullally from Will & Grace gets her own daytime gig.
Next thing you know, little ol' me, Sarah Crosbie, will be on a talk show ...
Oh wait! I already am!

If you happen to land on Men TV, channel 163 in Kingston, at 2 a.m., 6 a.m. or 10 p.m., you may just catch me, chatting up a storm on topics such as: Whether It's OK for Men to Cry; Embarrassing Buys at the Drugstore; Are You Ready for Death? and Teenage Talk (Why do Children Freely use MILF and DILF? It just ain't right) on Guy Stuff with John Moore.

I taped five episodes of the show this summer in Montreal (when I was six months pregnant) and they air repeatedly on the specialty station.

It's hard to tell if the camera did add 10 pounds because there is a baby in there. The pregnancy thing is important to remember so that you know that, no, my breasts are not usually that large.

I have no idea when I'll be on next, so I guess you'll just have to watch the show every day until you see me (except you, Mom and Dad. I don't want you hearing some of the stuff we talk about it. Some of it is naughty!)

Here's a sample from one of the episodes, a segment on gaming.

(This one is PG. No MILFs here.)

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As Grissom says, follow the evidence

Seeing as us folks here at Sarahcrosbie.com are big fans of CSI (ah, Nick Stokes), we decided that you, the people, should be given the evidence in the Did-He-Or-Didn't-He Peter MacKay and Belinda Stronach affair.
To recap: The foreign affairs minister allegedly referred to his ex lovah as a dog.
Now, everyone in the House of Commons is up in arms about the whole thing, Belinda wants an apology, Jack Layton wants MacKay to resign and us folks here? Well, we'd like all of our ex-boyfriends to send us pints of Ben & Jerry's frozen yogurt to compensate for their discretions and bad behaviour. (Half Baked is best, svp.)
OK, ladies and gentlemen, we present to you the evidence: Mr. Peter MacKay's bark.
Be sure to listen very, very carefully: It's very, very quiet.
We can't actually hear anything.

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What have my exes called me?

So, Peter MacKay has reportedly called his former sweetie pie honeybunch Belinda Stronach a dog.
Politicians have it ruff.
If my gal left me, and our political party in front of the whole country, I'd probably have some choice words for her, too.
(Although just who broke up with who has never apparently been established but the whole soap opera began when Stronach defected to the Liberals, setting this whole showmance breakdown into motion.)
Today, reporters are calling the slag sexist.
Was MacKay, the foreign affairs minister, being sexist or merely healing his broken heart? Name calling, mud slinging and revenge are just part of a healing journey.
The only thing MacKay did wrong was rag on his former squeeze in the House of Commons and not over a pint with his buds in a bar.
(I also think his ego is probably wounded if Belinda did indeed hook up with Tie Domi as Domi's ex-wife, Leanne, alleges in their divorce papers. He must think Belinda traded creme brulee for a Jos Louis.)
Sometimes, when breakups get so bad, the friends take part in the ribbing.
Once, after I'd been dumped, the ex debuted his new girlfriend at a bar to our mutual friends. I stayed home that night, hiding in my apartment watching Sex and the City reruns stuffing my face with nacho chips and liquid nacho cheese dip.
I was licking my wounds.
Later that night, around 1 a.m., my phone rang. I was so depressed I let it go to the answering machine. I couldn't bear to talk to anyone.
The next morning when I woke up, I listened to the message and my heart sang.
It was one of my friends (slightly hammered) calling to be a good pal.
"Sarah!" he screamed.
"She's a ....." and then he began the litany of insults.
He said she was fat, ugly, a she-male, and, yes, he called her a dog.
Even though I proudly think of myself as a feminist and I believe in girl power and women sticking together, I smiled.
And let's be honest here: I've called exes mean names. One of my favourite is dinkwad.
And I know I've been called a grocery list of names too. Perhaps the strangest one of the list is "Fat Spicegirl" but there are many others.
(I know some of you reading this right now would like to call me a thing or two.)
No, MacKay should not have referred to a female MP as a mutt but the guy's heart was broken. And, both MacKay and Stronach are guilty of mixing work with pleasure.
Tell me. When do office romances ever really work? (Wink, wink.)
Throw the guy a bone would ya?

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Operation Smokin' Body

I'm really, really glad that when I was a single 20-something with basically no cares in the world, I didn't go to the gym. I mean, why have a hot bod when you can have a rolly polly one?

Pretty much from the time I graduated university in 2001 until my life got pretty serious with the BF and our family in 2004, my day to day existence went something like this:

1. Wake up.
2. Shower, get dressed.
3. Bomb to work (because I was almost always late.)
4. Work approximately 8 to 12 hours.
5. Come home.
6. Watch Sex and the City reruns, CSI, Law&Order, Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, Survivor, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, Jeopardy, American Idol, Canadian Idol.
7. Go out for drinky drinks with the girls.
8. Come home.
9. Read magazines in bed.
10. Sleep.

You see, I really didn't have any free time to exercise. I was a busy girl. There was, obviously, not a free half hour to dedicate to exercise. (For six months, I had a personal trainer at Good Life and though I did work my butt off, it's hard to tone and slim when you're eating dinner and then having a McChicken and super size fries for dessert every night. Yes, every night.)

Now, life is crazy. Teenagers. Baby. House. Careers. Two cars. Household chores (um, theoretically I should be doing chores.) And yet, the BF and I are trying to go the gym.

On Monday night, I went to my first exercise class at our local YMCA. The boyfriend and I signed up and vowed we would go. He wants to go to maintain his health. He's 47 going on 36.

I want to go to the gym to get my pre-baby body back and maybe, dare I say it, even lose a few more pounds.

To use the most overused phrase of 2006, I'm trying to bring the Sarah Crosbie "sexy back."

Monday, I took the hip hop exercise class. Want a good laugh and a good time? Come check out a bunch of 20 and 30-something white ladies doing hip hop. So You Think You Can Dance dancers we ain't (no offence to any of the girls... )

Wednesday at lunch I took an "express" sculpt class, a 40-minute quick paced class that shoves mega muscle work into a lunch hour.

I started working with five-pound weights. A few minutes into the class, I had to drop to two-pound weights. Ow. It hurt. I'm sure by tonight I'm not going to be able to pick up my child. I've already got the arm shakes.

But we're five days into Operation Smokin' Body and I'm droppin' it like it's hot.

(That's what the cool kids who are versed in hip hop would say, right?)




For those of you who bothered to click here, I have a secret for you: I did work hard/eat right this week, except for the whole mushroom pizza I ate last night after a fight with the BF ... oops.

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Do you like to watch?

Watch me. See me. Hear me. SarahCrosbie.com now features new and improved multimedia posts packed with chewy goodness (oops, I was thinking of a tub 'o Ben and Jerry's half baked, low fat, frozen yogurt). But it is fun video. Really. It's Sarah, a camera, and simple secrets of happiness. Required viewing.

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Dinner for Two, and a half

It's quite possible that I never would have had a baby, had I only listened to "her."
One day, a few years ago, I was listening to a friend talk about how since she'd had her baby, she'd been confined to her house for a year.

She said once you had a baby, you were a prisoner to the poo, to the spitup, to the Barney videos, to the Tickle Me Elmos, to the Mother Goose nursery rhymes.

She said once she became a mother, she, the woman, vanished.

There's no "me" in teamwork, or baby, apparently.

I will never forget her saying that all she really wanted in life was just one day where she could leave the house - showered - and go for a latte.

One latte would make everything OK, she said.

It was then and there I decided that, hell no, I was not going to create some baby jailhouse for myself. How pathetic a life is it if you can't even go out for one damn coffee?

But, of course, once you meet your own McDreamy, you instantly want his baby, so ta da! – now I have a child.

But forget coffee with your girls, dinner with your sweetie, alone time strolling downtown, a half hour to watch My Fair Brady? I think not.

So, all you little 20-something ladies, who have sworn off babies because you've had some lazy twit tell you your life will be over with a baby, listen up.

Babies do cramp your style. They like to cry just ... as... you're ... about ... to ... kiss ... your sweetie (WAAAGHHHHHH! WAAGGHHH!) but it's possible to still have some style to cramp.

You just got to work a little harder, tis all.

The other night, the BF and I (that's him in the pic. Isn't he hot?) went out to one of our favourite restaurants, Amadeus Cafe.

We booked ahead and asked for table No. 1 (that's the sweet one up front in the window that overlooks Princess Street) and made sure we had some dinner for Little Man too - ah, the magic of breast pumps. You should go there, tell em SarahCrosbie.com sent you.

Over shared escargot (by far the best in the city), schnitzel and spatzle for him and filet of sole for me, and two glasses of red wine, we lost ourselves in our romantic dinner. Though the restaurant was packed, it felt like it was just the two and a half of us sitting there (and gurgling in our car seat).

It felt, dare I say it, like old times. Like when it was just us. Two fools in love.

Like old times, we eavesdropped on people, stared at others and tried to guess whether they were a) just friends; b) a couple with a listless marriage; c) siblings, and talked about the years past and the years to come.

And then, like I can always depend on him to do, the BF leaned in, whispered to me that I'm beautiful, (apparently more beautiful than ever) and told me that he had to kiss me right there and then.

No, we couldn't then go out and drink too many glasses of Shiraz like we used to, but we did linger a little longer and had a cup of coffee to cap off the night.

And guess what we did yesterday? We went to Starbucks and had - wait for it - lattes! (Yes, with Little Man in tow.)

I'm no superwoman. I have nailpolish on my toes from early August that's pretty grody right now. I haven't Windexed my house since the summer (or ever). I have baby thank-you notes to still send. But when something is important to you, you've got to work on it, work for it and what's more important than life?

Monday on Oprah, Jennifer Aniston was hyping her new short, Room 10, a movie that's part of Glamour magazine's Reel Moments series, where woman tell empowering, personal stories.

The story is about a nurse at a hospital who must confront marital problems.

She meets a man who's been married for more than 60 years. His wife is dying, moments away from leaving him.

The nurse, in the story, tells him he was a lucky man to be married, in love, for so long.

The man tells her luck has nothing to do with it. He said marriage, and love, is all about "staying in the room," meaning you've got to be there, you've got to fight, hold tight and never, ever for a second, take it for granted.

That's what motherhood, I think, is like (even though I've only been doing it for seven weeks.) You've got to live it, love the exhaustion and incorporate your new child, your new existence, into the life you already have.

And if you're too damn tired, worn out, gross, to go out and get a latte, tell your partner/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend to get off the tushie and go get you your grande, non fat, extra hot, wet, vanilla latte.

After all, we're the ones who pushed these kiddies out.

Surely, that's worth a steamed beverage.


And for you smart cookies who thought the BF looked a little familiar? Well, that's because this is my other squeeze, John Cusack, the actor who made me believe that life can be like a romantic comedy. I have no idea if he's a dinkwad in real life but in Say Anything, High Fidelity and Serendipity, and even the horrid Must Love Dogs, he's the guy who makes the girl feel like a princess, a princess who can have her latte and drink it too!

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Scandal update: Acrobatics on ice and in bed

SarahCrosbie.com has dug up some juicy video for you, a follow up to the Friday post about Lloyd Eisler and Kristy Swanson appearing on the Tyra show. Lloyd was all over the newspapers (The Whig, The Star) this weekened, the day after his appearance on Tyra (see post below). Lloyd, who has lived in Kingston and operated a skating school here, made headlines for being banned for a year from coaching by Skate Canada but us folks here at sarahcrosbie.com have found the really juicy stuff: Lloyd in a skintight leotard talking about his rich partnership with Isabel Brasseur in a 1991 interview and Kristy Swanson in an XXX rated scene from the 1995 John Singleton movie, Higher Learning. Yes, that's the stunning Jennifer Connelly she's doing the nasty with ...

And Kristy has been looking for a good woman, too, apparently.

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Hot Kingston/reality TV news

If you live where I do, in Kingston, ON, or you're a fan of reality TV, have I got some news for ya.

Just finished watching the oh-so sophisticated and intelligent Tyra Banks Show which featured reality TV stars, including Kingston's Lloyd Eisler and his preggers girl Kristy Swanson.

The couple fell in love on Fox's Skating with Celebrities.

The twosome made all the tabloid shows (Entertainment Tonight) and magazines (Star, People) when it came out that Eisler - a World Champion skater with his partner Isabel Brasseur - allegedly left his Kingston teacher wife Marcia last fall.

Marcia claims Lloyd left her pregnant. Lloyd claims his marriage was already done when he started his new relationship.

Tonight on Tyra, Lloyd and Kristy (best known for playing Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the 1992 movie) announced they're considering doing their own reality show that will show Kristy giving birth to their baby and then follow their relationship and baby rearing time.

Could camera crews be coming to K-town?

And when asked on Tyra if she was a homewrecker, Swanson (why is she famous again?) said she ain't no homewrecker. Eisler added that the big bad media is always looking for a hot scoop and said something about how the New York Times doesn't put nicey nice stuff on its front page but needs a war or something big to sell papers.

Of course, Tyra didn't press them so that's all that was said.

When it comes to cheating, homewrecking and failed marriages, only the adults involved really know what went down but it must stink to have your dirty laundry and skating leotards aired on national TV ...

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Girls, this is what I call a card ...

Remember last week when I had my own pity party because the BF and I blew it when we had a terrible day on our two-year anniversary and we didn't open our anniversary cards?

Well, we managed to not only salvage the day (two days later) but actually have a really special couple of hours together.

We went out for breakfast (without Little Man, which, I'm not going to lie, was kinda nice) where we had a bucket of coffee together and waffles with fruit (the BF) and a cheese and asparagus crepe (me).

After breakfast, we opened our cards, one of us wept a little - I'll let you guess who - and then, outside the restaurant in the parking lot, shared a big smooch.

Sometimes, it's just better to celebrate two years and two days if that's when the mood is right. I guess sometimes the romantic days imposed on us (anniversaries, Valentines Day) just don't work and we have to celebrate when we're truly feeling fine and frisky.

Anyway. Next time you're standing in the card store wondering what the heck kind of card to get your girl, take a page from my man and buy her something like this.

Click the "Read it All" link below to read the card the BF got me this year. You only get to read the card. His personal message stays private. Geez Louise, I've got to have some private bits that don't get on here! Unless of course, you were to leave a comment or two and beg a little and then maybe I could be persuaded to share a morsel or two! :)

Sometimes when I look at you,
I can hardly believe you're mine.
I think about
how attractive you are,
how caring and sensitive,
how interesting and funny,
and I can hardly believe
that out of this whole world of people,
I was lucky enough to find you.
Sometimes when I look at you,
I remember what it was like
in the beginning, when we were just
getting to know each other.
I'll never forget
the nervous excitement
I used to feel every time I saw you...
and I smile every time
I relive the tenderness
of our very first kiss.
Sometimes when I look at you,
I get lost in memories
of special times
we've shared,
in daydreams of the happiness
we've yet to discover together.
Every time I look at you,
I realize how much I love
the love we share
and how very much
I love you.

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I give thanks for ...

Hey y'all:

We're just about to leave for our Thanksgiving dinner but I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving.
What am I most thankful for: My family. (Mom and Dad, Brother, BF, Baby, The Teens, and our extended family.)
I'm also thankful for Ben and Jerry's frozen yogurt, CSI, the freedom to be pro-choice, my skinny ankles, the ability for the heart to heal over time, US Magazine, Diet Coke, my baby's first smiles (it happened really for the first time on Thursday) and love.

Oh, and a good dish of escargot (Athlone Inn, Grecos, Aqua Terra, Amadeus Cafe.)

Your mission tonight: Tell someone you love you're thankful for them. And do it every day - not just on Thanksgiving weekend, OK?

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It's My Anniversary Par-Tay and I'll Sulk If I Want To ...

There are two cards sitting on top of our fireplace.
One is a Happy Two Year Anniversary card from me to the BF.
The other one, I'm assuming, is a Happy Two Year Anniversary card from the BF to me.
Yesterday, was the Big Day and yet there they still sit unopened.

I had high hopes for our big day.
I was getting my hair done - geez, Louise it had been nine weeks! - in the morning.
I always love my three-hour appointments at Fab Hair and Aesthetics. I get to gossip, eavesdrop, hear the latest buzz and sit and read mags while my hair dye sets. (Hair is still blue and green ... maybe we'll go purple in November.)
My hair, as always, looked fab and it was, dare I say it, nice to have a little break from my Little Man - my first in a month.
But then I came home and the whole day went bust.

First of all, we had a romantic implosion.
Maybe a lot of new moms would back me up on this, maybe not, but I'll just let it all hang out there and be truthful: Ya don't exactly feel hot and sexy one month after giving birth.
The stitches have just fallen out - like, isn't that more than enough to kill the mood?
I've been wearing the same jeans for three weeks. I have, as I said in earlier posts, six pounds to lose before my old pants are going to fit. (Halloween is the deadline.) You try wearing the same pants for 21 days and you're pretty much going to feel bleh.
Of course, there's the sexy breast pads to contend with. Inside the oh-so sexy maternity bra are two saucer pads scrunching around. Hot, I tell you.
And then there's the fact that 12 hours a day, you have a baby on your boob.
And, here's the cherry on top, yesterday I had a baby on the left and a breast pump on the right.
Stitches+ Dirty Jeans + Breast Pads+ Baby on Boob+ Breast Pump = Major Mood Killer.

The day took a further nosedive when we had a family meltdown and the BF and I realized there was no way this year we were going to be able to reconcile our Thanksgiving Day plans.

Throw in a hockey injury into the mix, and the day was one big bust.

Now, we've got these two cards sitting on the fireplace mantle and I have no idea what to do with them. We ruined our day yesterday and couldn't muster the strength to celebrate and today's almost over and we haven't touched them.

My inclination is just to put them away for a year and open them next year.

The BF and I blew it. Adversity, as minor as it may seem, knocked on our door and we welcomed it in and wallowed in it. It seems disingenuous now to open the "Geez, you're so great, we're so in love" cards.

My mother always says to look on the bright side of things so there is one thing to be positive about: My hair rocks again.

I may have a mommy tummy but this ain't no mommy cut.

Still, I don't usually succumb to negative outside forces, so I'm ticked at myself.

Hope your day was better ...

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Are you rich and smart?

Some light hanky panky for your reading pleasure.
(And, yes, I am a manager.)

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The Poop on Amazing Things

I've seen some amazing things in my life.
I went to England by myself for two weeks and toured the mystical Stonehenge in Salisbury.
I went to Cancun with my two best girls where we found ourselves at an orgy-like foam party with hundreds of people. Many of the boys had brought - gasp! - vibrators to the partay to tickle the girls with under the bubble bath.
Me in a size 30 jean.
Heck, one month ago, I popped out a child. That will always be miraculous to me.
And let's not forget the genius that is American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance.
But nothing beats what just happened two minutes ago.
The babe and I are watching Oprah - married women who turn out to be gay.
And all of sudden, a rumble, deep from the bowels of an eight-and-half pound little boy, comes an explosive eruption fit for a 45-year-old fat man who survives on beer and burgers. The kind of guy who stars in a Kaopectate commercial.
The explosion rattles me (my Little Man can already claim he made the Earth move for a woman) and we run upstairs to change the diaper.
I kid you not, my guy is coated, covered, slick with cream corn poo.
His diaper - Damn you Huggie diapers! Give me Pampers! - is loaded. The poo poo is running down his back, down his legs, inbetween in his toes. Yellow poo is pooling in the foot of his little outfit.
"Hel-lo?! Can I get some help here?!" I think.
There's a flood! My child is going to drown! Can anyone hear me?
Convenient that the BF is allegedly at his son's hockey practice...
What is a girl to do?
Donald Trump once gave an interview where he said that he has never, not once with his four children, ever changed a diaper. OK, so that's a little outrageous but so is this amount of mustard. It could fill a punch bowl.
Seven wipes, two Kleenex and one bath later, the poop is gone - except off the little outfit which I'm leaving for the BF to launder.
Oooh - something else amazing: Tomorrow is our two-year anniversary.

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Ain't that the Truth

You find a glimmer of happiness in this world, there's always someone who wants to destroy it.
- J.M. Barrie, from the 2004 movie, Finding Neverland

How true, how true.

Think about it.

Are you poisonous?

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Our Little Avril Lavigne – She's the Spit!

Well, this is our own little Avril at her yuckiest, don't cha think?
I guess she hopes that the couple that spits together, stays together.

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