I will be good for a cookie. Preferably, Girl Scout.

I found these pajamas at Target.  They say "I will be good for a cookie" and the pants are pink with chocolate chips. 

I so look forward to the day when I can bribe Olivia with a cookie.  "Here, Livi, I will give you this Samoa if you sit still and smile so that I can manufacture some happy memories to record on film!"  Right now, most of my pictures turn out like this:

And really, if I'm going to buy cookies, I need someone else to eat them with me.  I cannot resist adorable Girl Scouts, first of all.  And second, Samoas complete me.  I am totally serious when I tell you that I ate 9 Samoas last night, followed by 5 for breakfast this morning ohmygod somebody stage an intervention over here! 

I totally rationalized the purchase of eight boxes* of Girl Scout cookies by telling myself that I would only eat ONE serving per day.  160 calories, worst case scenario.  Easy, right?  

Moronepper.

The bad part is that I have another unopened box of Samoas. 
I'm seriously giving them away.

This photo** serves no purpose other than The Cute, and An Attempt At Distraction From My Gluttony.

I hope my employer doesn't read this and offer to pay me in Girl Scout cookies.  There is a scary chance that I would agree to such an offer.

Please, please, please tell me I'm not the only one stuffing Girl Scout cookies in my mouth like a squirrel storing nuts. 

*Three were for my mom.  But still.  Five boxes, all for me.
**Except, don't click to zoom on this picture.  Because you will see that Olivia has boogers that can only be qualified as Epic and yogurt in between her eyes.

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Two Years Ago:  Nosy to Epic Proportions
Also Two Years Ago: Good Times Over The Weekend

(One Year Ago, I had a baybee who didn't sleep.  So mommy didn't blog.  I'm sure you understand.)

Improvising Fatherhood: Shake, Rattle, and That's How I Roll

I have a new Blog BFF.  Like, officially.  We are having necklaces made and everything, except in the shape of a laptop instead of a heart.  BB on one side, and FF on the other.

And do you know what?  My new BBFF is a boooooyyyyyeeee! 

*ahem*

He is a daddy blogger.  And he is funny.  His name is Nate and his blog is called Improvising Fatherood, and he has a totally NOMable little boy named Chandler.  And a wife named Ashley who likes my blog, so obviously she is da kewlest.  I am admittedly new to his blog.  But, after exchanging a few funny emails and reading up on archives, I've become a big big fan.  Example of The Funny emails that made me want to read his blog:

Me: I can't return emails on my phone, because either Apple or Hotmail is a dick.  I'm not sure which.

Nate: I work for Apple.

Me: * facepalm *

(he tells me how to fix problem, I thank him.)

Nate: Glad your Hotmail is working.  We all know who the dick really was.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

We have done a bit of a blog swap today, so head on over to Nate's blog and read about the trouble I have caused in his marriage.  But first, enjoy this post about his preshus baybee. 

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Shake, Rattle, and That's How I Roll, by Nate Smith of Improvising Fatherhood

Today the whole family went back to the Lake Oswego Public Library music class. In a previous article I wrote about my experience taking Chandler to this class on my own. This time all of us went together.

We were a little late and missed out on some of the opening songs. That didn't phase us though, because today' trip wasn't about the music. Today we were there to show off Chandler's crawling skills.

Chandler has really got this crawling thing down, and he's already trying to leave that mode of transportation behind as he attempts to stand and walk. So today as we snuck in to the class and found a spot in the "happy circle" we didn't waste anytime. I put Chandler right on all fours and released him into the wild.

I think Chandler could tell it was time to perform. He put on a dazzling display of crawling, sitting up, switching back and forth from the crawl and sitting positions, and even threw in a few face plants as comic relief.

And the crowd went wild!

We got a ton of comments like, "How old is your baby? Only 5 months! This guy is 7 months and he's nowhere near crawling yet," and "Wow, he's really advanced!"

I'd be lying if I said Ashley and I weren't LOVING it. I wrote in a previous article about how I hate when parents talk about how great their own kids are. So Ashley and I have made a conscious effort not to talk him up too much. We just let his actions do the talking. And as people are fawning over how amazing he is we will often deflect the praise by saying something like, "Well he's still not sleeping through the night."

Of course, being the doting parents that we are, we can't help but want to promote our child a little bit. Ashley has joined the BabyCenter.com forums and we are actively sharing our son's achievements. We still avoid any "our son is so special" type comments, and instead we upload videos of him in action and simply say, "He does this now. Is that good or something?"

It's pretty obvious what we're doing. We're bragging. But at least we're backing it up with solid evidence. Another mom posted that her baby was the cutest baby ever. But she didn't post any pictures. This of course sent the forums into a tizzy as a slew of other moms posted pictures of their babies and declared their child the victor. While Ashley and I agree that Chandler can probably take all of those kids in a cute-off, Ashley went a different route and replied that ours was the most athletic baby ever. And we provided video proof. The decision was unanimous. Chandler wins.

Oh, and that comment about Chandler not sleeping through the night? Well he slept for 5 hours straight last night. So that will soon be a thing of the past.

BEST BABY EVER!!!!!!

One Year Photos

A couple weeks ago, my friend Tami came to take some photos of Miss Thang. 

(Olivia, not me.  I'm sure "Miss Thang" made you think of me right away, so I want to clarify.)   

Tami takes photos as a hobby - which is turning into more of a part-time job as she gains popularity! - and she does an excellent job.  You can see more of her photos on her blog by clicking here.

She really had her work cut out for her.  Our normally chipper Olivia was in an especially foul mood and cried the entire time.  The rare moments without crying consisted of annoyed pouting, by both Olivia and myself.  We came to find out later that Olivia was working on an ear infection and a touch of pneumonia, and a raging fever that would send us to the emergency room.  

(I had no excuse for pouting, I was just being a moron.)

BUT. Despite all of said woe, the pictures are adorable and so I'm going to be a huge attention whore and post them.

I need legal advice about a very important matter.

Can I press assault charges against a goose?

I was minding my own business, walking to my car so that I could spend ridiculous sums of money at Toys R Us, when I was assaulted.

By a goose.

It is quite possible that this asshole goose was after me for whatever crumbs were surely all over my body.  I can't leave the house without some crevice being shoved full of debris - puffs/yogurt/graham cracker/snot/booger/macaroni and cheese (it is the cheesiest)/etcetera.

Whatever it was, this goose was all over my ass.  Like a bum on a bologna sandwich.  And he had a friend (whose head you can see looming over to the left in the picture below).  It was like, a Gang Goosing...Geese-ing?  Whatever.  One goose away from a Gaggle Bang, is what I'm getting at.

Hey Laydee! Is that a drumstick in your armpit? 

Hand it over, bitch!

I tried to take a photo of the Goosehole while he was snapping at my ankles, but I was clearly under duress and was unable to...press buttons.  While I screamed.  I was too startled to even swear.  I was all, "AHHHH!  WHAT GOOSE?!  HALP!  GOOOOOOOOOOOSE!  GET! AHHHHH!" 

And then, of course, I stepped in a giant pile of goose shit on my way back into the office after lunch. 

---

Two Years Ago:  Assault By Mail

Lights Out

As I mentioned here, I've been working out.  Partly because I want to be able to kick people's asses, but mostly because I need to lose some weight.  And I'm not sure if you knew this?  But believe me, you will want to hold on to your collective britches because this is a total shocker - you can't lose weight by simply sitting on your couch and watching skinny people live out complicated and dramatic sitautions!

Thanks for nothing, Kardashians!

So, working out.  Am doing it.  Three days a week, it's me and Jillian (and Mark, who has joined us for some Shredding) at the dirty ass crack of dawn...5 a.m. 

Two or three days a week, it's me and the treadmill, slowly making our way from Couch to 5k.  I try to do all my running on my lunch break.  There is a workout room that I can use.  And by Workout Room, I mean Glorified Closet With Two Treadmills, An Elliptical, and Some Monstrous Nautilus Equipment.

I'm sure we all know that there are people who make me want to claw out my own eyes in the Glorified Closet With Two Treadmills, An Elliptical, and Some Monstrous Nautilus Equipment. 

The Couch to 5k (I do this one) is three days per week.  I used to run on M, W, and F in the Glorified Closet With Two Treadmills, An Elliptical, and Some Mosntrous Nautilus Equipment.  But I kept seeing these two uber friendly 40-something guys. 

And they wanted to be gym friends.  I promise I'm not acting all oh, these guys are hitting on me because I look soooo pretty in sweatpants and old tee shirts.  They weren't.  They were chatting with me.  Do I like basketball?  No.  Do I lift weights?  Not unless you count lifting drumsticks to my mouth as lifting weights.  How do you like your iPhone?  I like it more than I like talking to you.

I do not want gym friends.  I also don't want elevator friends, or public restroom friends.  I simply to do not enjoy small talk and am incapable of pretending that I do.So, in order to avoid my Gym Friends, I switched my treadmill days to Tuesday and Thursday.  And it worked!  No more Gym Friends. 

Well, it worked for a week.  Now?  Now, it's Lights Out Lady.

Lights Out Lady uses the treadmill while blasting oldies on the public use CD player.  Also?  She does not wipe down the equipment after she uses it.  She does all of these things in the dark.

I'm so not into running on a treadmill, in the dark.  Call me crazy, but getting sweaty and breathing heavy with someone in a dark room is something that I save for...you know? NOT THE GYM GLORIFIED CLOSET WITH TWO TREADMILLS, AN ELLIPTICAL, AND SOME MONSTROUS NAUTILUS EQUIPMENT.

When I get there after her, I turn the light on.  I mean, I have to deal with her blaring oldies and her sweat drips left to dry all over the place.  The least she can deal with is...light.  (Can you imagine? Oh, the humanity!)  And she never fails to wait the 20 seconds for me to get into hearing range before she gives a totally exhasperated sigh. 

Last week?  She turned the lights back off during my cool down.  She stopped her treadmill mid-walk, went across the room, and turned off the lights.

Is it just me, or is that strange behavior? 

Maybe I'll just give up on working out and buy bigger pants.

--

One Year Ago: No! Sleep! Till Brooklyn!
Two Years Ago: Lupron Eve

Nosy Neighbor

She could probably spend all day doing this.  It makes her laugh when I call her a Nosy Neighbor.

Panera's Wi-Fi Loss Prevention Owes Olivia

She went ahead and had another febrile seizure this morning. Which totally screwed my plans to steal Internet in the Panera parking lot. You are welcome, Panera.

She is fine. Totally passed out in a drug-induced slumber.

I wanted to post about annoying people at the gym, but I've been totally thrown off track by the male nurse wearing HEAD TO TOE STONE WASHED DENIM SCRUBS. And? AND! A Fannie Pack. I kid you not.

So. Happy Friday. I'm sitting at home with a sick baybee. I expect another seizure, because Olivia is trying to clinch her spot as the Only Child. She's very Wiley.

Let Me Just Go Grab My Checkbook...

(Sorry for the repost of my Guest.  I want to have it on my blog, too!  New post coming tomorrow, while I steal Internet from the Panera parking lot.)

That was my response to Jillian Michaels a few weeks ago.  When I first started the 30 Day Shred.  "You don't get abs like these for free, people!"  She yells, as she helps someone do crunches.  Someone with abs that would probably break your face if you looked at them wrong.

Yeah, well, at that point, I was ready to pay someone to shred my abs while I soaked in a nice bubble bath.  Preferably, someone good looking, muscular, who loves my jokes and wants to feed me chocolates instead of encouraging me to work out.

I want to hate Jillian Michaels, just on principal.  Workout videos are obnoxious.  I hate when people try to motivate me, it just annoys me.  I also hate when people with perfect bodies try to tell me how easy it is to jump around for thirty minutes.  And I can't watch The Biggest Loser because all of the grunting and crying makes me want to claw out my own eyes, or just change the channel to something more respectable.  Like Jersey Shore.

So many valid reasons why I should hate Jillian.  But the truth is that I have a strange girl crush on her.  I've been doing The Shred three days a week for almost a month, and I must say...that bitch means business.  There is a whole side-lunge thing combined with an arm exercise that has me  all sweaty and groaning like something dirty is happening in my living room. 

Yes, I groan and grunt like a 400 pound Biggest Loser contestant.  It is about as attractive as it sounds.

BUT, I have lost about 5 pounds.  And the workout that once made me leak profanities from the blackest part of my soul?  Is not so hard.  I still have more rolls than a bakery, but I can notice a difference underneath the dough.  And I've been able to work in three days a week of running on the treadmill along with Jillian.  I'm like two workouts away from being able to give my husband a piggy back ride to the Taco Bell drive through.

Why am I hogging up Beverley's blog to tell you this?  Well, because I am a slutty whore.  That's why.  Because I'm a slutty whore, and I'm ready to change it up and cheat on Jillian.  And I'd like your help, because you are smart and pretty and your ass looks fantastic in those pants.

What workouts do you love?  What workout gurus do you love to hate?  Do you make naughty noises while you workout? 

A Party Girl's First Party

I'm trying to make good on my Fan Page Friday question from Kim only, oh, four hundred years ago.  She needs first birthday party ideas.  Maybe you could leave her some comment love?  Let her know what you did?

Or you could always become my Facebook BFF and post it on the Maybe If You Just Relax page!

The Invitations
I ordered the invitations from Etsy. I picked the design for the cake first, and got lucky enough to find this digital photo card at Invitations, Ink by Kottage on 5th.  It was personalized and sent to me within 24 hours, and uploaded to and printed them from Shutterfly.  Any smudges are my editing - I took out my address and phone number, because I don't need any of you crazy crackers peeking in my windows...

Everything printed perfectly and looked adorable.  I will definitely shop Daina's shop again!

The Dress
I got this dress at the Carter's Outlet after Christmas sale for $6.  It was originally $34.  It looks like just a tutu, but it actually has a really adorable bodice.  Too bad I forgot to take her bib off - I don't have a single picture of her in just the dress.  She also wore footless white tights from Target.

The Decorations
I don't like character themes for birthday parties.  That sounds snotty, and I know that I will have to get over myself in the very near future.  But for right now, I can get away with just picking a color scheme and going with it. 

I knew I just wanted a happy birthday banner, and a few other decorations, with matching balloons.  I planned to buy something from Etsy, but my coworker's cousin is a crafty little whore, and agreed to make me something.

This is a Happy Birthday Olivia banner.  I'm going to keep it, and even if I don't ever use the happy birthday again, I can hang the Olivia up in her playroom.

I also asked for two signs to hang in our kitchen; I left the wording up to her, and loved her ideas.

And, of course, a little decoration for the birthday girl's throne!  It says, "I Am 1."  I was pretty bummed that it got frosting all over it, because it was really cute and I would have loved to keep it.  But, once I post the After Cake, you will understand why it didn't survive.

The Cake

The cake was the inspiration for the entire party.  I found a blog with tons of cake ideas, and used this cake to design our cake, invitations and decorations.  I asked for that design, with Olivia's name instead of a bow, and no cupcake topper.  I'd say I got exactly what I asked for, right?

And the best part is that my little cousin Val made the cake for me.  She's just getting her business started, but she does a fantastic job!  It was adorable, and DELICIOUS!  And I don't even like cake, but I ate no less than seven pieces before my abdomen exploded and I gave birth to the smash cake.

(Not really.)

(I mean, I did eat like seven pieces.  I just didn't give birth to a smash cake.)

You could always go check out Val's cakes on her Val's Cakery Facebook page if you want some ideas, or hire her if you live in our neck of the woods.

This is the smash cake.  Or, as Olivia may know it: Demolish Cake.

Some kids are very polite with their smash cake, and some kids are very messy.  All one year olds are adorable, no matter what, but I'm not lying when I tell you that I really hoped that Olivia would totally dig into her cake.

As you can see, it started out totally polite and refined.  Then she remembered who her mom is, and she dug in. That's mah girl!  She sat in her high chair for about 20 minutes while we all ate.  We gave her a spatula, and she flung cake all over the kitchen and talked to herself.

Happy birthday, indeed.

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One Year Ago: Titty Quitter

Two Years Ago: Side Effects? Yes.  Fun? Not So Much

The Fury and The Hand Mirror

On my way to work, I was word vomiting in my head over a post about how My Aunt Florence and how someone should drag her into the street and beat her sensless.

This will probably make you very sad, but I completely lost my train of thought when I got stuck behind a rusty old van doing 50 in the fast lane. Not just the fast lane, but the fastest lane in three lanes of rush hour traffic. And everyone behind me was passing him on the right, so I was stuck looking at his driver's side mirror.

The mirror on any other day would have been annoying. But today it was infuriating. It was infuriating because I was being ripped in two by period cramps on my way to work. And it is Monday. Florence makes it so that I am filled with fury much more easily than normal. (which is pretty easy in general, if we're being quite honest.)

So anyway, I was filled with The Fury. That's what I want you to know at this point. Because of my peeerrrrriooood. You are welcome.

This van, driving in the fastest lane and totally killing my 75 mph turnpike mojo, had apparently lost its driver's side mirror.

BUT! DO NOT FRET!

Ever resourceful, this speed demon used duct tape to secure a hand mirror to the place where his side mirror should be. Upside down, handle in the air, woot woot!

I know I'm not supposed to swear. But seriously? A motherfucking handmirror? COME ON NOW!

Because, really, how much could a new mirror cost? I'd almost rather a person go to Auto Zone and steal a mirror before pulling this sort of maneuver. Plus, I hate duct tape anyways because the boss at my first job used duct tape on EVERYTHING. And he always wore sweatpants and his buttcrack showed when he bent over, which was like ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY.

Of course my completely warped brain starts to form a ridiculous scenario. Like, some filthy hairy disgusting mid-40's guy, sitting on his toilet and flipping through a Farmer's Alminac from 1997, thinking about how to fix his mirror while taking a monstrous toilet-clogging dump. And he's just totally stumped until he looks to his right and sees the mirror he was using to get a better view of his backne and UREKA! Problem solved!

I was so tempted to take a picture with my phone, but I was too busy focusing my death glare directly into his rearview mirror. I was really hoping that he would take my same turnpike exit because I really wanted photographic proof. And I wanted to give him the finger. No such luck.

You'll just have to take my word on it.