In a Nutshell

So let's catch up. Since the last publication, I popped out #2. The delivery was fine. I pushed for six minutes. There were about ten hours between when I got to the hospital and when they actually handed me my baby. I was mostly bored and hungry during that period. When they handed him to me, he was peeing AT ME. But the good news is that I was back home 25 hours later.

The dude's name is Braulio and since he's now in the picture, this blog won't be called the Dally Files for very much longer, lest we give #2 a complex.

Since we have this habit of referring to each child as THE DUDE, I now feel it necessary to refer to them as #1 and #2. (Hopefully THAT won't give them a complex.) I know I can refer to them by their actual name but I have had difficulty calling people by their proper names ever since high school when I thought it would be funny to call this one kid Emerson Peabody (real name: Mark). It's been downhill ever since. My sister suffers from this handicap as well.

Everything has been pretty smooth so far. #1 took well to #2. No jealousy or otherwise a-hole behavior. #1 remains super awesome. He is a mexcellent role model for #2. #2 ain't too shabby either. I can already tell he will be brilliant. He's got a good look about him. His birthday is the day of the enthusiastic overachiever. Great things will come. For both #1 and #2.

No more weekend nanny. It just didn't work out.

I have to lose about 35 pounds and have reverted to drinking Diet Coke - neither of which I am too happy about.

But I am happy that I will never be pregnant ever again.

The End is Near (Thank God)

I just saw myself in the mirror. REALLY saw myself. Holy shit. No wonder people pretty much daily ask if I'm carrying twins.

Could I possibly be carrying a 10+ pound baby? What the hell happened to me? Why do I look like an alien?

At my last doctor's appointment, she was even parading me around the office like a freak sideshow attraction, pointing to my stomach and saying, "Look at that!"

I'm thinking to myself, in two weeks or so things will be back to normal. I'll be able to fit into t-shirts and normal-size pants. The reality is it'll be awhile but at least I'll be able to fit in my "normal" maternity clothes - the maternity clothes that got me through the 9 months with Dally but stopped short at 6 months with Juan Pancho.

I just ate a really big burrito and now I feel sick.

Fall On Me (The Future Version)

I was looking up pumpkin pie recipes this morning. I can't wait until we get to that point where I have to make cupcakes and other assorted baked goods for the little dudes. I love this time of year and it's going to be THAT much better when the little hooligans are in school and they have all the classroom parties and holiday shows. I'm going to join the PTA just so I can hijack the Winter Show. Under my command, we'll rival Radio City.

I got big plans for the next 10 years.

Fall On Me

We're getting into the spirit of the fall. I think it's because we found the summer heat really aggravating. Today, we took Dally to a pumpkin patch and it was totally awesome - until Dally wanted to play on the ridiculously unsafe old tractor and John removed him from the insidious vehicle. During this endeavor, John received a solid size 6 Vans to the face. I saw it. I heard it. Sounded painful.

This morning, John suggested we dress Dally as Max from Where the Wild Things Are for Halloween. We already have a costume for Dally. He was going to be a giraffe. I was going to be Mother of Giraffe. But, suckered into the hipster hype of the upcoming movie, I now want to dress Dally as Max. And I'd be the Mother of Max who sends him to his room without dinner (not unlike Dally's real life).

John researched where we could get a Max costume and just found patterns and how-to instructions. Given last year's fiasco with the Yoda ears, this is not something I am remotely considering.

I went on eBay and saw costumes anywere from $70 to $250. I did find a pajama sleeper for $50. But A) Maybe there will be no Halloween this year (maybe I'll go into labor and deliver a pumpkin) and, more to the point, B) I'm a freakin cheapskate. I want the $15 version of Max, so it looks like I'll be Mother of Giraffe afterall.

Night Glee

I woke up at 2am today and decided to do some work. In the midddle of my efforts, it seems that the company servers went down so I decided to research a toddler behavior that has been causing me to scratch my head at 3am at least once a week.

My office is right next to Dally's room and I just heard him wake up. This isn't an isolated incident - like I said. It probably happens once a week. He'll wake up around 3am and start laughing and chatting. Sometimes he'll jump on the bed or do sprints back and forth. (One of the many joys of a big boy bed is a longer track.)

I googled "Toddler wakes up laughing" and I got all these hits for night terrors, so I started looking into night terrors. This is my recommendation for new moms: look this up because when you wake up one night to the terrifying screams of your little beloved you'll know what the hell is going on when they don't seem to recognize you or cannot be soothed. Apparently, it's some weird-ass dream state akin to sleep walking, but clearly a lot freakier.

Seriously, LOOK THIS UP.

The general (Internet) consensus is that you should make sure the little dude can't hurt himself but don't try to talk to him or comfort him. At best, he won't recognize you and at worst, you'll scare him even more. These episodes can last from a few minutes to a half hour or more.

Dally has definitely experienced this. When I'd rush in to rescue him, he was like a zombie and nothing I did would make him feel better until he was totally awake and I was exhausted. Fortunately, that hasn't happened in a while and now I know to just let him work it out on his own.

I couldn't find anything about laughing. I think he's currently in a phase enjoying the opposite of night terrors - night glee.

Research period is over and servers are still down. I'm going to bed now.

AKA Juan Pancho

Juan Pancho, who will be referred to as such for the remainder of this pregancy, and probably the rest of his life, will now have a proper name! And the way we got the name is kind of weird and hopefully it won't jinx anything but it was inspired from an episode of one of my favorite parenting shows (as in how NOT to parent) Intervention. Remind me to tell you this story once we've gone public with the name, which, as with the spawn before him, won't be until he makes it out of the tunnel and into this gritty, messy, thankless world.

Yippee! We have a name!

Pregnancy Breeds Forgetfulness

Not that this is news to anyone who has ever been pregnant.

I just realized that I don't really remember much about having babies and it's kind of sending me in a panic mode, along with the fact that Juan Pancho still does not have a proper name and that Dally will be moving to a big boy bed this week (more on that later).

So I have to whip out all the books I read before Dally was born ("all the books" - like it was that many. I believe I read two and a half). Gotta read Babywise to remember how to train Juan Pancho to sleep through the night in a reasonable amount of time. Gotta read Hypnobirthing to remember how to relax and push and "enjoy the experience." The .5 book is What to Expect When You're Expecting. This is more of a reference manual that I look to when I have gastrointestinal issues. It's got a very nice section on home remedies.

This may be a bit premature but one thing I do know is that my birthing plan this time around will once again include back-to-back screenings of The Karate Kid - best movie ever.

Weekend Nanny Anxiety

It's the eve before the 6-hour trial of our potential weekend nanny.

Since I'm really good at delegating responsibility, I've decided to delegate the responsibility of being the boss of the house to Weekday Nanny. Whatever she says goes. Ultimately, she's the pillar of this household anyway.

The problem with having a really really good nanny is that alternate nannies are at a disadvantage before they even begin. I already am looking for reasons to not hire her, even though I don't really know her. But I'm having difficulty imagining Dally having as much fun with her. What if she doesn't blow bubbles or play monster arm eater or take him to the park?

Do I REALLY need a weekend nanny? Here's why it seems like a good idea on paper. Weekend Nanny would come on Friday afternoon and stay over until Sunday. That means John and I could go to a movie. At night.

Here's why it's a sucky idea in reality. She doesn't drive, which means I'd have to get my lazy butt off the couch on a Friday afternoon to go get her. Plus what if she's not fun or doesn't get my sense of humor or the quirky way in which we run our household. Weekday Nanny gets all of that. And she has a car.

Then there are the usual safety issues. CPR, 911, what to do in the event that a giant tarantula breaches the security of our GO AWAY doormat. Does she know not to EVER open the door for anyone? Does she cook and if so, is it gross? Dally's been hitting lately. Will she hit back? There's SO MUCH to stress about.

I'm picking her up at the Jack in the Box in 8 hours. Stay tuned for the post mortem...

Sailing to Nowhere

While I had planned to go to NY in August to eat falafel and talk smack with my old gang, I shifted plans to go on a little vacation with my beloved - a calm before the storm if you will.

We decided to go on this cheesy little cruise from San Diego to Catalina to Ensenada. No big deal - a nice getaway, just me and him, and 24 hour all-you-can-eat soft serve ice cream.

As I was about to book our little escapade, I noticed the disclaimer that that women must be under 24 weeks preggers to ride the big white boat.

WTF?

I mean, I guess it makes sense, but WTF?

And should you suggest that I could get away with hiding how far along I am, I'm so HUGE right now that while I was at the ATM yesterday, this lady asked me, "So you're due any minute now, huh?" If by any minute, she's counting in dog years, then perhaps. But in human years, not for another fifteen weeks, sister.

Untitled

The baby, that is.

Sort of. We call him Juan Pancho, just as we called Dally "Little Two" in utero. (Why Little Two? I AM LITTLE ONE. That's what John used to call me when he would ask my sister how much. As in, "How much for the little one?" And she would reply a pack of cigarettes and a couple of goats. Fine family, I know.)

Juan Pancho won't make it on the birth certificate lest my mom decide to never see, call or write to me. Ever.

So now we're getting desperate. I've got less than four months to come up with something. This is the shit that keeps me up at night.

I busted out the baby name book yesterday. I used to turn my nose up at such nonsense. Baby Name Book? Please. NOT MY CHILD. My child's name will have a MEANING. Something IMPORTANT TO US.

I also used to swear my home would never look like Romper Room.

People SUCK

I'll be five months pregnant next week and maybe it's the hormones or that people are just morons but I'm quickly tiring of the "WOW! You're SO BIG! Are you SURE it's not twins?" remarks. Are people being funny or just jackasses? It doesn't help that this question is mostly coming from people that I normally find irritating.

So read on Assholes.

I can assure you there is only one baby, and the baby is growing at a normal rate, and so am I. How do I know this? Because I just had an ultrasound on Tuesday. There is one baby. And if you keep talking shit to his mama, he's going to punch your lights. Second-borns, as my dear auntie Marybel once told me, come out of the womb fighting. (Yes, it's a boy.)

My Bloody Baby

OH MY GOD. Dally's been having bloody noses lately but they've been happening while he was sleeping so he would wake up with bloody crusty nostrils and stained bedding. But today as I was putting him down for his nap, I saw it in action and it was THE FREAKIEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. He kept wiping his nose, smearing his face with blood.

I sort of panicked.

I wiped the blood from his face but it kept coming out. Then I yanked him out of his crib and threw him in the bath. He was having a blast in the tub for bath #2 today. Meanwhile his nose kept on bleeding. I would wipe, it would come back. Wipe, more blood. I then thought, "OK, he's not going to die. This isn't a reason to call 911. It's just a bloody nose."

Then I thought, "It would be really disturbing if I took a picture of him."

A minute later I thought, "I've GOT to stop the bleeding. He COULD bleed to death!" So I tried to distract him by looking up (which now I know you're NOT supposed to do). Then I had the brilliant idea to turn on the shower and that scared the living shit out of him. So I pulled him out of the tub and just laid him out on his changing table.

The bleeding stopped somewhere in the ten feet it took me to go from the bathroom to his room. I laid him out in PJs and now he's sleeping. And I have just finished researching toddlers and bloody noses. Turns out they're not all that uncommon and supposedly not serious. Still, I think a trip to the doctor is in order.

Christ, may you never have to see your baby look like Carrie (post pig blood).

In My World...

Diaper Bags Are Stupid.

Now that we're in the family way again, I've started to look at all the unnecessary gadgets I won't be able to live without. One of the things I will not be getting is a new diaper bag. While I like the look of Dally's diaper bag, it is the most impractical piece of fabric ever. Maybe I'm lucky because my kid doesn't have monster shit explosions (knock on wood). But most of the time, all his junk can fit in my bag - and usually does anyway.
I should just buy myself a killer new purse.

Monitoring Our Child

Ugh. The most annoying things happened a couple of days ago. Dally's video monitor went kaput.

It was faulty from the get-go. None of the buttons worked from the moment we took it out of the box, but it was a baby shower gift so as long as we were able to see and hear baby, whatever. Didn't matter that the volume was consistently at MAX. We learned to throw a towel over the speaker.

About six months ago, the volume went out completely. My cheapskate solution to this issue was to buy an audio monitor since it was $20 vs. a new video monitor ($100). The picture display was fine. It just had no audio, and sometimes, it's nice to just have picture and no audio - like when the little menace is fighting sleep at bedtime. We can see that he's fine, just screaming his head off because he wants to own the night.

The other day, when I went to plug in the monitor at night, it didn't power on. Turns out, the adapter wires broke off the connection jack. OH GREAT. We tried to MacGuyver it, using an old adapter connection, but then the thing started smoking. I think I done screwed it up even more. I should have just gone to Radio Shack. Anyway, now I'm trying to figure out what kind of monitor I should buy. It seems the monitors like ours - with the full TV monitor - are becoming obsolete. They're being replaced by the handheld ones, which I don't like because the display is too small. In my blindness, all I had to do was squint to see the little noodle at night. I'm afraid that won't do with the smaller video monitor. (Heaven forbid I actually place it on my nightstand, right next to my head. Talk about too close for comfort.)

But for now, it's a lonely existence without the omniscient presence of Dally in our room at night. We miss watching our son, especially when he starts talking to himself in the middle of the night. Even more so when he starts cracking up. You miss so much when you don't have surveillance.

I read this piece the other day about when you should stop using the baby monitor. Some people stopped using it when their kid turned one. I think that's insane. I'm thinking 24. Creepy?

Finding Answers in Playboy

I find golden nuggets of parenting wisdom in all sorts of magazines - Parents, Wondertime, Cookie, and, today, Playboy.

Today while I was spending some quality time with my toilet, I shuffled through a drawer where I keep reading material and I ran across an old Playboy issue that I hadn't read yet. The interviewee was Dr. Drew Pinsky.

I've been loving Dr. Drew since I was in high school. I like that he has a firm stand against women having anal sex, has a superhuman ability to detect childhood trauma, and he has triplets that he would give up his first class airplane ticket to sit in coach with. When I first started listening to Dr. Drew preach the word of safe sex, the triplets were three. Now they're freakin fifteen - or in June 2008 they were. OY.

Anyway, in the Playboy interview, Dr. Drew touched on something that I'd never heard him weigh in on - he had in the past, I just hadn't caught it: What do you say to your child when he asks you if you have ever done drugs?

Dr. Drew says the appropriate answer is, "We don't talk about that." While you and me, as grown ups, might take that to mean something incriminating, to a child, Dr. Drew contends, it means something entirely different. What they might take it to mean, I don't know. But it beats the hell out of saying, "Yeah, I use to smoke tons of pot in high school."***

The truth, Dr. Drew says, is practically giving the kid license to go for it. Go get high.

I don't know about you but I'm ALL ON BOARD for that golden nugget of advice. Oh, by the way, this is a TOTALLY interesting interview that is worth seeking out. Dr. Drew has some really interesting things to say about Tom Cruise, Britney Spears, and, one that really got me thinking, Angelina Jolie.

***NOTE TO DALLY: That was a HYPOTHETICAL statement. Ask ANY of my friends in high school and they will tell you I was a superdork, not a druggie.

Dallymania Sunday

I used to think nothing was as exhausting as shooting a movie. Naive, stupid me. I have no idea how stay-at-home moms do what they do. The days that I have to stay at home with Dally are by far some of the most unproductive* days I have ever had - this coming from someone who can really take the word 'unproductive' to incredible levels (I've lost years watching Lifetime movies). Today was another Paintball Sunday, which meant it was just Dally and me all day. I managed to make the bed and empty two trashcans today. That's pretty much it.

The rest of the day was all about Dally. He plowed the side of his face into a cabinet door so there was some consolation cuddling. Later I made him some macaroni and cheese that he didn't want to eat so I ate it (why let perfectly good food go to waste) and just as I was going for the last bite, he wanted it. And when there was no more, he started throwing a tiny tantrum. I rushed to make more, and, of course, he no longer wanted it.

Shortly thereafter, Dally spilled a bowl of soup and then proceeded to eat what didn't spill out - a piece of zuchini that he managed to drag to the living room carpet. After being indoors all day, I figured we should get some fresh air. I toyed with the idea of going to Walmart but my heart just wasn't into it. So we went for a walk. A three-mile walk. Well, it was supposed to be.

A quarter of a mile into things, Dally saw a balloon.

Balloons have become the bane of my existence. I can't even go to Vons with Dally anymore because every time he sees a balloon he starts going nuts - he's gotta have it. And since I'm one of those asshole parents who thinks kids shouldn't get everything they want, it usually turns into a loud and hurried experience where I forget something important like my powdered donuts. It sucks.

Anyway, once Dally saw the balloon, it was over. He cried his eyes out like I had just poked them - except the little punk would quiet down when a jogger would bypass us. He was torturing me and only me with his wails. So we made it to a stoplight a quarter of a mile down and then headed back home. On the way back, John called and asked how I was doing.

"I'm fucking exhausted. Hurry up and come home."

The next seven minutes walking home, I daydreamed about the conversation we would have when John came home. It would sort of go like this: This wasn't the life I imagined for myself. This totally sucks. I feel like a goddamn babysitter and I don't even like kids. What kind of a weekend is this? What the hell?!?!??!

But he came home and said we should get Norma to watch Dally when he's out at paintball. He said he sensed the desperation in my voice and felt really bad. And then he cooked dinner. That never happens.

* I know all you warm and fuzzy people will suggest that while I may not be productive in terms of getting chores or income-generating work done, the quality time I spend hanging with my son is completely productive in terms of fostering a happy, healthy kid and and making me a balanced, satisfied mother. Unfortunately, I haven't reached that state of enlightenment, thanks.

Jewish Lesbians Irritate Me Right Now

I'm hormonal right now so everything's rubbing me the wrong way. I was watching Oprah today it was all in good fun about how some straight chicks suddenly turn gay and yada yada. What struck me is this one chick, when asked about how her parents took the news said, "Well, my ex-husband wasn't Jewish and Lori is Jewish, and I'm Jewish, so my parents were like, 'Woohoo, bust out the Manishevitz (I know, SIC!!!)." The whole audience busted out laughing. So let's change this statement up and see if it's as funny.

"Well, my ex-husband wasn't white and Lori is white, and I'm white, so my parents were like, 'Woohoo, bust out the Budweiser!"

Is it still as funny or kind of Klannish?

I Heart RMH

I went to bed early last night and now I can't sleep so what do I do? Cross off one of the things on my 2009 To Do List: Buy a raffle ticket for the Ronald McDonald House Dream House Raffle. One hundred and fifty smackers for a chance to win a $1.9 million home (or $1.6 million cash payout). I thought I was going to be all sneaky and pay for it through an automated telephone system, so I was startled when a real lady answered the phone. She probably thinks I'm some mega weirdo or someone in crisis. Who buys raffle tickets at 4am?

But here's the story behind the story. A few weeks ago, I was driving to my office when I saw the side of a building that had been under construction for awhile. It said, "Ronald McDonald House." I thought to myself, "I need to give them money." My brother-in-law had cancer when he was a kid and his family relied on the services of RMH.

There's a saying that says, "You're only as happy as your saddest child." For my mom, that would be my sister. And my sister's happiness was contingent on meeting my brother-in-law. And my brother-in-law's survival was contingent on RMH. So you see? I, on behalf of my family, OWE RMH. Get how that works?

And then I saw a story on the news about the dream house raffle a couple of days later. Proceeds from the raffle benefit RMH San Diego. And if you manage to win, oh snap.

To look into this or buy a raffle ticket, please check this out: http://www.sdraffle.com/Overview.aspx

Speech Pathology? Survey Says, "Leave that baby alone!"

Get this. At last week's well-visit, my perfect little genius was referred to a speech pathologist.

How can this be? We've done everything to encourage his language skills - read, sing, and model behavior. Still, he's not having anything to do with saying any real words, except maybe, "No." Maybe.

Then we all went on language development overdrive. My mom delivered to us some speech therapy resources, we've been over-articulating, to an annoying level, everything Dally shows interest in, and we even plopped him in front of the TV hoping Elmo would teach him how to talk. (IMO, Sesame Street sucks these days - super boring.)

My sister-in-law said I should put Dally in daycare because if he sees other little dudes talking, that'll motivate him. OK, no offense at all to people who rely on daycare, but we're not at Threat Level Red just yet. That'll be my last resort. I have, however, looked into playgroups and Dally went to his first one today. He didn't really feel like socializing with the other kids, but he did flirt with some of the moms. Go figure.

Anyway, per doctor's orders, I called to make an appointment with the speech pathologist. Guess what she said.

"He's too little - leave that baby ALONE!"

They don't see kids under two. It's awesome how Kaiser is in perfect synergy. So I have learned a few things this week (from watching Intervention, reading speech patholgy resource guides, and playgroup):

1. His communication style is: "Has his own agenda". Only communicates when he needs something; plays independently.
2. If I push my child too hard and not appreciate him for his strengths and weaknesses, he may end up on heroin.
3. Who cares if he NEVER talks? At least he has his stunning good looks. (Quote from playgroup mom, "You are just the most handsome guy I've seen in a long, long time." And I'm pretty sure she wasn't talking to me - though this was at a LGBT community center.)

P.S.This is the raddest article I've read all week: http://www.phillymag.com/articles/jon_and_kate_gosselin/page1

Thank God It's Monday

It wasn't THAT long ago when I loved Paintball Sundays. John would go play paintball and I'd stay home and watch Lifetime movies all day. Maybe eat a can of corn and some Sweet Tarts.
Yesterday was a Paintball Sunday. John got to shoot people and I got me some QT with the little guy and Noggin.

Nap time, as far as I'm concerned, is critical for one's sanity. That's when I get to watch uninterrupted shit television (Lifetime movies) or TLC.

Dally decided not to really take advantage of the time slots alloted for napping. He probably slept for a total of 50 minutes, when he usually takes a 2 to 2.5 hour nap in the AM and 1.5 hour nap in the PM. He was doing all right until about 6pm when he decided to throw this crazy tantrum. He was totally fine, playing with some toy, and then all of a sudden, "AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." (Yes, just like that.)

He kept running back and forth, from one end of the room to the other. John and I watched this, mesmerized. If I hadn't been so tired that my brain was functioning at the capacity of an orange, I would have videotaped it and posted it on YouTube. I think people would have enjoyed it equally as much as the dental work boy.

Having spent my Sunday hanging out with Dally while John went to paintball, I abdicated from bedtime duties. John put him down just before 7 and the little dude was knocked out before John walked out of the room.

I went straight to bed too where I watched Rock of Love, Sex Slaves in America, and Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

Ahhhh, the afterhours of a toddler's parent.

What To Expect: The Toddler Years (Hint: A couple of years of serious neurosis)

I've been kvetching about my personal life way too much. Let's bring it back to the supposed theme of this blog - Dally. I did a really dumb thing a few weeks ago. I ordered What To Expect: The Toddler Years so that I may be able to stay abreast of what the little dude should be doing. Well, it's never about what he is doing. It's what he's NOT doing.

I got the book yesterday. Turns out, by now, he should be able to say two words. He only says one. "NO." And sometimes, I'm dubious that he's really even saying no.

Meanwhile, his cousin Truman is quite the orator - practically reciting Obama's inaugural address.

The book doesn't offer much consolation. It says if the kid isn't doing this stuff, check with his pediatrician because he's clearly going to grow up to be a loser who sleeps on your couch and makes daily excuses as to why he can't seem to graduate from community college after eleven years. Well, not in those words but pretty much.

Oh the joys...

Self-Help Me

So I drank the Kool-Aid.

It dawned on me yesterday morning as I was watching Joel Osteen that I did indeed drink the Kool-Aid. This was the third week in a row that I watched his Sunday morning church service. I know now that he always begins his sermon with a joke. And some of them are pretty good.

Yesterday, he was talking about who cares if the recession sucks, there's no money, and people are unemployed cuz guess who's always hiring? G-O-D. God's bank is always lending money, etc. (Well, not exactly, but he was saying something to that effect.) And I TOTALLY found myself saying, "Amen!"

Then I started reading Martha Beck's book Steering by Starlight. It's a self-help book from some life coach I once saw an Oprah. I thought she was a bit of a nut job but I was intrigued by her because she was talking about vision boards which I'm all for. Again, I drank the freakin Kool-Aid. There's all these exercises you're supposed to do as you're reading the book. I have a special notebook (pathetically, it's the journal I started in 2006) that I'm using for these exercises. I'm all into it, life-coaching myself because I'm too cheap to pay for the real deal, but whatever.

So if people think I'm a nut job too now, so be it. I'm determined to make 2009 a MUCH better year than 2008. And even if that just means reading more books (albeit self-help books) so be it. At least it's got me reading. I spent too much of 2008 worrying and being scared. It was such a waste.

2009 is about BRINGING IT.

Hard Drive Teaches Hard Lesson

I just lost a hard drive. I'm not sure what's on it exactly but I think these things are on it:

• A shitload of music
• My master's thesis
• Photos
• My design portfolio
• My Pancho Villa play
  

Now I'm thinking I should just get a new computer. I've had this beautiful machine since 2001. It has been there for me through thick and thin. I'm still running Win2000 Pro on it.

BUT WAIT! Turns out John was harboring one of my back up drives. I plugged the drive into my computer and turns out, my freakin thesis is on there! As well as some very exciting video projects. SWEET.

No music but how many Phil Collins songs do you really need?

No design portfolio which only sucks for the dude I just renewed working with yesterday. His stuff was on there. Oops.

One day, it's really gonna sink in. Backup, backup, backup.

The Wonder of Wonder Pets

I had this delusion yesterday that I could take Dally to a coffee shop to meet up with my estranged high school BFF and sit there, nice and quiet, while we drank choco-coffee and caught up on our wild and crazy high school antics. As I was driving to the coffee shop, I briefed Dally on who Camille (my BFF) was and how to behave in front of her (nice, not like a little maniac). I could see that he really listened to me and had taken in what we had discussed. For about 30 minutes. Then he went nuts doing what looked like breakdancing on the floor but not in a pleasant way. That was my cue to leave.

When we got home, my sister-in-law was there with her kids - who I now refer to as the Tess Twins (even though they're not twins, nor are any of them named Tess). They were watching the Wonder Pets. If you're new to the Wonder Pets, as I sort of was, there are a few things you should know. Linny is a guinea pig. The show really promotes pre-school. AND, most importantly - this is the one that really threw me for a loop - there is more than one episode. I thought it was odd that they showed the same epsiode over and over again. Turns out, that's the scam behind the show. They sing the SAME song - and I'm not talking about the THEME song, wise guy. Every time shit goes down, like someone is in danger, they start with the phone. "The phone! The phone is ringing!" And so on and so forth, singing their way through the problem to the solution. But it's very operatic. I don't know why but I really dig it. I used to be repulsed by it but now, I can't get the damn song out of my head, nor can I cease to recall the little duckling Ming Ming singing, "This is sewious!" (when things are, er, serious).

Am I starting to be like those Barney parents? The ones that would say, "You'll see. When you have kids, you'll be all about Barney because that's the only thing the kid wants to watch." Is Wonder Pets my Barney?

No, no it is not. Barney is a creepy gigantaur that sounds like a child molestor masking his voice to sound fun and harmless. The Wonder Pets are sweet little animals that save other little animals in peril. Plus, Dally could give a rat's ass about TV, Wonder Pets included. I'm the one who's hooked.

Purge, Purge, Purge

I once heard the guy on that show about clutter that may or may not be on TLC say something to the effect of this: clutter is an illusion. It's the life you want but not the life you have. As hard as it is to accept this, he is right. I would LOVE to make an awesome trinket box out of the Laughing Cow cheese round box I've been saving for the past two years but I haven't gotten around to it. It's not going to happen because A. I don't make trinket boxes and B. If I had the time to make trinket boxes, I should be working on something else. Therefore, I must let go of the Laughing Cow.

Probably the biggest item on my mega "To Do" list of 2009 is purge. Not the nachos I ate last night (though if I had the bravado I would). I am going to rid myself of all of the unnecessary things I have in my possession. Next weekend, I'm going to have the garage sale to end all garage sales. I'm even going to sell books. "Books?" you ask. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to part with books? I have double copies of many, many works of literature, some in Spanish AND English. Why? In case I come across the right person who needs to read this or that. I'm done with that illusion too. I don't even know people who read in Spanish.

This weekend I went over to my mom's house to address some boxes she had been housing for years (and had been threatening to throw out). Crapatola, I had two file boxes full of letters people had written me. Remember when people used to write letters? Anyway, it's really hard to get rid of awesome postcards, bizarro artwork, and other miscellaneous mail that is probably the best representation of what my life was like between the ages of 17-21, when email was something you'd heard of but hadn't used much. Getting old, getting old.

Anyhow, I couldn't bare to toss that stuff out so it went from one garage to another. Now it's in my space. What the hell do I do with all this stuff? Should I just suck it up and throw it all away or should I save it somehow? Scrapbook it? (Another illusion?) I'm taking suggestions.

Less Wisdom = More Happiness

I got my wisdom teeth removed on Monday. This wasn't something I had planned. My lower left wisdom tooth had been killing me slowly for the past week and it seems all dentists' offices are closed for the last two weeks of the year (must be nice). I was about to go to any chop shop in Tijuana but I figured I would call my dentist first. It was a longshot. Usually, I call in April to make an appointment and they don't have any openings til July. Surprisingly, they took me in. They said they could see me right away.

I went in at 9:30am. By 11:00am, the dentist had removed all four wisdom teeth. Here's the kicker - the post-op drugs cost half of what the stupid surgery cost. $69 for antibiotics? I could have gotten them for five bucks in TJ.

The Vicodin was surprisingly disappointing/unhelpful. The pain would have killed me by now if not for the grace of Anne, who suggested I take some Motrin. I think I am finally at the point now where I no longer need to take painkillers. *I think*. I keep asking John if he thinks I'm becoming an addict. As with every unusual event in my life, I always take it to the extreme and imagine the worst. When I pulled leg muscles in both my legs after my first (and only) spinning class many years ago, I imagined myself never exercising again and turning into a TLC special: The Heaviest Little Mexican in the World. That didn't happen. Yet.

So I started 2009 feeling four teeth lighter. Who needs wisdom anyway? I want ignorant bliss. I want to know DENTISTS remove widsom teeth. I do not want to know most people have their wisdom teeth removed by ORAL SURGEONS.