One thing I hate about New Year's...

Lists. There are too many lists out there and not enough REAL NEWS!!!

Also---making the front page of Yahoo News and at the top of some pink car-lover's list (did I mention I LOATHE top-ten lists?) was this Hubba Bubba Bugglegum-colored Bentley. Not that this has anything to do with New Year's but did Mary Kay cock her head just so as she emerged from her Pink Cadilac? Or is Paris Hilton just a complete freak of (un)nature?

I am hungry for REAL NEWS, people. And I bet more people read about Paris today than Hamas, rocket bombs, and the calling up of members of the Israeli National Guard to form a swelling of groundtroops on the Gaza strip. I pray for the safety of my high school friend, John Morgenstern in Israel for 2009 and beyond. John, who donned his yamaka and prayer shawl and hit the local Food for Less so we could get buzzed off of Manishevitz in my Dad's skiboat parked in our dusty driveway. John who tried a couple of times to get to even first base with no luck. My daily companion from the bus stop home. A good looking boy with unfortunate heft. The years have changed him in so many good ways. I bet he's not into these lists either.

Merry Effing Christmas from the Whoozyers!

What did Whoozyermama get for Christmas? Cuz she's been good, oh-so-good, dontcha know?
Surely not tufts of pure, cold clean snow?

Big crusty eye boogies and trails of yellow snot
fleeing the young nose of her perfect little tot.

A visit to Kaiser and amoxicillin where her sweet little baby was confirmed to be illin'.



And who over yonder makes the ground swell? None other than our own little Jezebel.

Oh yes and just when it couldn't get any better, the illness, it got her and vetted to bed her.

"But why Whoozyermama are you in such a snit?"

T'was the flu that got me and not that Brad Pitt.

Santa's ways...

"Whoozyerkid...?" I ask.

"Yes, mama?" she answers after a long exhortation of what she wants for Christmas.

"You don't need to bother with telling me what you want for Christmas because the shopping is DONE."

"What about Santa?" she quips.

"Crrrraa---imey." I answer. "He is done too. And if he is not, he can go through our house and find things that you might like and GIVE them to YOU in your stocking.

"Like chocolate soap?"

"That's right. Exactly like chocolate soap. Santa knows what you want in our house and he knows he has Mommy and Daddy's permission to give it to you so he may put something like chocolate soap in your stocking."

"That's great, Mom."

"Isn't it though?"

Sorry, sorry sorry

In case you were beginning to wonder if I had abandoned this blog and ultimately--you--you were wrong. I love you. How could I? You are in the back of my mind like the whisper that night breezes whooshingly caress. I have been busy making soap--and lots of it and I am NOT posting photos lest some of you get a sneak peak and get all in a lather about Christmas. I have also been wiping noses and doling doses of bubblegum medicine to a certain 4-year-old-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless.

Ace Hardware sells lye. I had to say it. I know it has absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph above (directly) but I am so incredibly happy about it. Because most hardware stores have pulled it off the shelf as those tweakers and meth makers have ruined it FOR EVERYONE (Sudafed, anyone?). And on Pacheco Avenue--in the ghetto of Tweakertown, no less. No more certifiedlye.com and $30 hazmat shipping fees--WTF? But buy all your lye before spring or be prepared to duke it out with olive tree owners said the store manager. I guess they're more dangerous than the tweakers...

She's good company...

My kid is a total crackup; in the line at Kohl's imagine being a total stranger and hearing from the mouth of a 4-year-old babe, no less-- "I work for Charles Schwab". The same surprisingly well-employed tot pumps her arms self-importantly while proudly bearing a musical Christmas tie she handpicked for Whoozyerdaddy's birthday. Time to start wearing musical ties with Christmas balls on them, Whoozyerdaddy. Happy, Happy Birthday, my Old Man!

And today we went to see the Nutcracker--she was relieved when the ballerinas dressed like Confucious dancing in the Orient didn't kill the Nutcracker. So relieved that afterwards we celebrated at Skipolini's with her school friend Andrew, who gave my firstborn a tattoo. Nice, huh?

If only you could smell it...

"Smell what?" you may ask...

My soap, naturally.

From left to right:



Jasmine (made with fragrance oil)
Pina Colada/ lemongrass (made with a fruit-based all natural fragrance oil and essential oil)
Mint Mojito (made at a soaplab at The Nova Studio using Lori Nova's recipe and essential oils)
Sweet Orange and Cranberry Seed (using essential oil)
Cedarwood, Fir and Rosemary (using essential oil)

My house smells like a hippy grocery store. The soap should be ready in time for Christmas. In the coming week I'll be experimenting with hot process soapmaking which should speed up the cure time. Next on the agenda---shaving soap, shampoo bars and at Whoozyerdaddy's request "something that smells like marzipan". I'll also be making some salt scrubs, some belly butter (for my preggo friends), something to ease my MIL's arthritis, some wrinkle balm,whipped body butter and lip balm. If anyone wants me to make some gifts on their behalf please let me know at allsoapedup@gmail.com and we can work on something for you.

Also---I just made a kick-ass bolognese using a hybrid of a Mario Batali recipe and what I had in the pantry. Why do I always make meatsauce the same way? Foodie lesson of the day---don't get caught in a rut--EXPERIMENT! To my preggo friend Shaken Mama--Call me, you'll want some of this:

Holy Crap, People!

All I can say is you better like your Christmas presents. I'm MAKING them this year...

And boy am I tired.

Ethical Shopping versus Financial Survival

I think you guys have known this about me; I have had my proverbial panties in a wad for years now. Corporate America is evil and money-grubbing and has undermined the foundation that We the People have built--small business, the mommas and the poppas of retail, the American Gothic-esque farms. As a result, I have tried to support the little guy. I have tried to put things on or in my body and the bodies of my dear family that are healthy, organic and natural.

But--IT IS KICKING MY ASS!!!! And I am falling for Walmart. Cheap, cheap Walmart. Mason jars and bamboo paper towel holders are there just for the inexpensive taking. Friends, please talk me down. And China---people are losing their jobs in China, too. It's a GLOBAL economy, right? Right? I should care about the jobless in China too. Or perhaps we no longer vote with our wallets.

A Mermaid and a Sock Monkey Walk into a bar...

I mean obviously--NOT, right? Mermaids have fins, no? One doesn't walk with fins. OK---so the sock monkey and the mermaid are not of age--a minor (no pun intended) detail in this age of advanced technology.

I do want to touch upon one SMALL detail. Check out Whoozyerkid's fantabulous handmade costume that I got on Etsy. The skin-colored leotard DID NOT come with it. And the child model on the Etsy product page sported her own bikini top sans bodysuit.The back of the top cinches like a corset. What mom dresses her four-year-old as a hoochie-mermaid on All-Hallow's Eve? Not I.

A Little Tidbit.

It was family reunion time at the Coloma Country Inn last weekend. The fall leaves were out and my aunts and uncles and a couple of cousins were there--mostly from Central and Southern California soaking in the colors of a Northern Californian October. Whoozyerdaddy and I also got out for a rare date to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary during which I got to remember in the midst of all of the choas that is our lives right now that I love that man, he makes me laugh.



My mom and Aunt C don't remember exactly which bed it was but apparently in a moment of desperation whilst touring Hearst Castle their guide gave them the nod to slip off silently and change my diaper on one. They left the group, a blowout requiring my mom's immediate attention while Aunt C went along for support (I'm thinking, more, the lookout!). Really, my bare little (at the time) booty touched rich brocade draped on a bed transported from Versailles where perhaps even King Louis XIV once snoozed---or upon where maybe, just maybe Marie Antoinette uttered "Let them eat cake."

Incredible Cuteness

S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G

Whoozyerdaddy and I had a conversation almost entirely in spelling this evening. Whoozyerkid, who isn't even 4 yet, having heard and sponged the whole conversation said "Mom, you guys are being C-R-A-P-P-Y".

Time for pig Latin...

This may seem odd to some of you but I'm shouting out to the universe for my techie-homie.

My friend "R" reads my blog and I don't want to call him at work seeing as he works for one of those stressed out agencies bailed out recently. I don't seem to have his email anywhere. He's just somewhere in the cyberworld and I need him. My computer is pulling some crazy stunts and he can tell me WTF it won't restart or download new programs or do Windows update or make me a martini. "R" --call me babe. Mama needs you.

Whoozyermama's First Soap...

This was a quick photo taken at night of MY FIRST SOAP because--dammit---that's the only time I have right now.

Well folks, so far I have made three batches of soap and I haven't burned my face off!!!! Thank God. I really love having a face. It works for me. I am enjoying my newfound role as Whoozyersoapmistress---lurking down to the basement, donning goggles, gloves, sweatshirt and pants, calf-length Costco shearling boots and respect for the "VIP". Lori Nova, my teacher and soap sensei likens lye to a Very Important Person (I imagine a volatile pimp)at a dating party. You handle the VIP with kid-gloves, you make sure there is a surplus of interesting and attractive dates for him at the party (more oil than the lye can saponify). You combine the oil and lye and you stir with a stick blender until the mixture resembles a light custard. You then mix in any scent and color and oh-so-carefully-because-you-like-having-a-face pour the fragrant mixture into a lined mold. You wrap your raw soap in old blankets "putting the party to bed" to mingle and synergize and then harden. 24 hours later you loosen the block of soap from the mold and cut it into bars. In a couple of days you can trim it up and make it pretty. About 5 weeks later you have a lathering bar, a keepsake from the party in the basement. Which beats a battered lampshade any day.

Hey Whoozyerbaby!!!!!

"Are you coming after Mama?" I asked.

"Yeah." said Whoozyerbaby.

And I have a witness. Whoozyerbabysitter II heard the same thing. She is equally amazed and astounded. "No effing way! Did she really say that?" I asked. "Uh huh" affirmed the sitter, eyes wide.


In other news check out Whoozyerbaby's fabulous, adorable, cute new tooth that has already more than grazed my nipple.

The key to brilliant babies. Our Marpac Sleepmate 980 A

So you have ascertained by now that the Sleepmate I am referring to above is not my handsome husband. No---the "our" is Whoozyerbaby and I. One night in a fit of madness triggered by Whoozyerkid's 2 AM summer cough and her close proximity to my bed I decided that my world would be a better place with the best white noise machine Amazon.com reviews could assess and recommend. The Sleepmate 980-A looked a little outdated but I figured over 200 cumulative Amazon reviews couldn't go wrong--4.5 Amazon stars.

I never expected to see this machine---which looks like factory surplus from the 80's--in another home--but--lo and behold while at Shaken Mama's abode keeping an eye on baby G for a spell I spotted that antiquity on Jeege's nursery floor. I set Whoozyerbaby on the floor to change Jeege's diaper and Whoozyerbaby crawled over, flipped the switch and turned it off. And if you read Shaken Mama's fabulous blog you'll know how stinking smart Jeege is.

Yes folks. I think that's the link. The Marpac Sleepmate 980 A helps little brains grow and develop at an accelerated pace. If you can get over the design (it's the aesthetic cousin to the Commodore 500 personal computer) it's a cognitive coup.

It's not cheese...

It's beautiful slippery, lathery soap. The feel of it on my skin; it's like the difference between Potato Buds and Yukon Gold Mashed Potatoes made with Strauss Family Creamery heavy cream and butter, roasted garlic and Fleur de Sel; the quality is felt gliding across my body as it would over my taste buds.

And the scents; from lavender to anise--to petitgrain and orange, bay and rosemary--I know that inside of me is a person who can mix scents and textures to make soap in my basement the way I make dinner in my kitchen. Watching Lori Nova of The Nova Studio deftly creating soap today confirmed the instinct that sudsy bars for me may just be the thing. People---do you see the soap she made? Shower with it and you'll see why I am practically giddy. Watch Lori make soap and you'll see why I am feeling so high.

I'm great at flavors and good at timing in the kitchen and I know without thinking just what to do to make a perfect risotto. Why haven't I made a career out of cooking? The product is fleeting, I'm a little picky when it comes to food, cooking is hard on the body and restaurant hours are brutal. The inventory is extremely perishable.

But here, I get to mix and experiment and play and still get a scent and my oh my. Soap, people just might be my thing...who would've thunk?

Immersed in ounces at the self-serve Coco Swirl

Words can't express how much Whoozyerkid and I just want to pull up a wheeled chair, stick our heads under the spigots at Coco Swirl; mouths agape, wanting, wanting, propelling ourselves left and right and left again like baby birds being fed by multiple mamabirds. Oh. It. Is. So. Good. The homemade mochi, the tart and plain yogurt, the fresh fruit, the CHOCOLATE creaminess. For lunch, dinner, dessert breakfast--whatever. We are lost, hopelessly lost in the swirl.


And it is a certain purgatory we find ourselves in when our cups house just air and our spoons seek cold resistance only to return to our trembling lips empty. Empty. Empty.

"Guess What, Whoozyermama?"

"What?" I answered.

"Clay Aiken is gay." said Whoozyerdaddy.


"No Shit, Sherlock." said I.


"No shit..."

No,it can't be...

But it is. Surprise of all surprises the strange rhythmn of a tractor pull in heaven is in actuality Whoozyerdaddy snoring UPSTAIRS. I have yet to confirm that he's in a liplock with the floor but I can claim with confidence that this is not the first time he is asleep on it ; it's happening again and---in a possible honing of his sleep skill-set could be advancing to stomach-on-hardwood sleeping. A remarkable accomplishment and one which we should take a moment to honor in amazed reverance and (my) fear. For it is an awesome sound and most people would believe that my place as his wife is next to him in bed. Not always. Not tonight. And not even on the same floor, my friends. It's sad, but neccessary for my health, sanity and overall effectiveness as a human being.

Good Complaint.

I'm hungry. So hungry. But guess why I can't go downstairs to eat?

My pregnant housecleaner is scouring my kitchen. On her hands and knees. I should feel guilty, very, very guilty. But she cleaned before letting the little darling take over her tiny body and doctors say if you exercised before your pregnancy you can keep on truckin' all throughout gestation.

I think I'll give her some lotion to assuage the guilt. Nice cooling leg lotion. That's what I'll do... See, I'm not such a bad, lazy /employer/lady of the house after all. Right? But I'm still hungry.

Apparently it was just a quick nap...

My beautiful children were tucked into their crib and bed at 9 PM. And just when I endeavored to sleep a turn of events ensued. Yes folks--It's 1 AM in the Whoozyerhouse and the party has just started. God help me:

Could it be this? My child is trying to save me from what happens when I snooze? "When you sleep you look funky and weird after you put things on your face." said Whoozyerkid tonight. Thanks kid. Thanks for that. I also have a "big nose". I guess I should have had that nose job when I had the chance...

Catch-up

News, news, news; update, update update.

There's part of my brain that believes that you believe you already know everything that's going on in my life. I'm a mother of 2 small children. How exciting could Whoozyermama's life get? Here's what's going on. I am:

• Living vicariously through my friend's escrow. She managed to sell her home in less than a week. She's on ZipRealty.com shopping for houses, analyzing school districts and finding that there's way too much to obsess over. What a great problem to have. I want to hate you, dear J, but I can't.
• Thinking about relisting Whoozyerhouse. Will it sell?Is it worth the emotional turmoil? Who do we list it with? Can we get it on the market in time for the historical homes tour next month which our neighbor and former realtor is a part of? Do I want to do this with a crawling baby and Whoozyertasmaniandevilchild underfoot?
• Wondering what the HELL is going on with the economy? Will I have to learn how to can vegetables and plant a victory garden? Will I have a yard in which to plant said victory garden? Will everyone lose everything except the people they love most and the Made in China shirts on their backs? Will I still have my beloved internet? A comforting thought-- for the meltdown of the world could be that people would stop texting me on my cell phone (folks, I don't have a qwerty pad and I don't plan to get a crackberry.).
• Wondering when my job will go to Phoenix and how to prepare the inevitable "no thanks, Whoozyerlongtimeemployer, I'm a lily white girl who should never venture in your standard sun--let alone the hot Arizona desert sun" speech--which should go over fantastically with HR. This planning coincides with the logistics of how to get a soapmaking business launched in my laughable spare time and still manage to be a good mother with a good social life. I need to work from home. I need to be accessible to my family. And I like things that smell pretty.
• Thinking about how I feel awful about hanging up on my sister the other day but still feeling too upset to do anything about it. The mother in me hopes that things will be easier for Whoozyerbaby and Whoozyerkid in their endeavors to stay connected since they have the same WhoozyerBabyDaddy and are closer in age. But, want as you may for your own children you can never control the outcome in your own family. How can we when we can't predict our own relationships? We can only hope.
• Get back onto http://www.clix-contests.com/ and vote for Whoozyerkids---they made it into the semi semi semi (?) finals thanks to you and their cuteness, of course.
• We have a new whoozyerbabysitter. But I'm not going to jinx it. So far, so good (knocking on wood). Another Craigslist find. And all woman (although I didn't check).
• I have a weird cold. The cold that hopefully never becomes full blown but still makes you feel shitty. That's the cold I am hoping for.
• We have a housecleaner every other Thursday. And she is pregnant. WTF? I didn't clean house when I was pregnant. Why should she? Should I not hire her out of principle? She's cleaning with nontoxics though. That should assuage my guilt. Just a little.
• Whoozyerkid is flourishing at preschool. She can (sort of) write her name and is telling me all about apples and their different names--Galas, Fujis and Gravensteins. This evening she told me she wants to be a doctor when she grows up "because they have band-aids and they make you feel better." Does WhoozyerMontessori also touch upon HMOs, PPO's and deductibles for their pre-K "Explorers"? It sure would be helpful when open enrollment comes around every year. And as a doctor-hopeful she should become familiar with the system now--kind of like a second language, no? Learn it now and you will become fluent...

My career as a stage-mom

I can't believe I did this.

Yes, I entered my children in a cute kid photo contest. How freaking annoying.

Even worse I am am going to ask you, Dear Reader to register and vote for my progeny:

http://www.clix-contests.com/

In the little searchy-do-hickey type "Concord"

If I need to tell you who the cutest kids ARE--Whoozyerchildren are in photos M35 and M79.

Thanks, and now I must hustle the children off for acting classes, sequin John Benet-gown fittings and baton twirling for babies 101. (NOT!!!!!)

Whoozyerstagemama

Whoozyerdaddy needs a babysitter to watch him while watching the kids.

So I have started to interview nannies to watch the kids while I take some weekend classes in soapmaking.

Today I had the pleasure of a phone interview with "Giselle". Giselle's voice seems awfully deep for a woman and she's (???) "been through a lot" but is in a "very happy place right now." And children make her (?) very happy right now. She (?) did hair and makeup but there was "too much drama" at the Clinique (?) counter. The youngest of 8 she (?) has watched her nieces and nephews "a lot".

OK---so being in a happy place is good, right? I like happy people in happy places. But Dear God, Woman (?) I don't want to hear about it. Tell me you know CPR and all of the songs from "the Sound of Music"--that you know how to give a baby a bath and clean the fold where her head meets her neck and where the drool collects. Tell me you know how to subdue an out-of-control pitbull at the park and all of the words to "Where is Thumbkin?". Tell me that you love cloth diapers and that it doesn't freak you out that I nurse my babies until they are ready to wean. I want you to know how to draw an elephant and boil pasta al dente. That's all...

So Giselle was getting lunch and we didn't really get into any details. I asked her (?)to call me back after she (?) was done. My parents showed up unexpectedly and I my day was thrown completely out of balance. "I called" said Whoozyergrandma. She had called 60 seconds before their arrival. It doesn't matter...it was nice to see them and they know that I like a pleasant surprise. So I didn't answer my cell when Giselle did call. She(?) called 3 times. I listened to her (?)2 messages, the second of which she (?)used to convey her hope that nothing bad had happened to me. I called her (?) back to reassure her that I hadn't been flushed down the toilet. And she (?) said "Oh good, I worry. I have a problem with worrying. I'm just sure something bad is going to happen to someone I know." 'Oh---well, uh, I'm fine, thanks for your concern. ' I said, warily. "We don't have to talk now---we can talk tomorrow, if you want. I'll call you---or do you want to call me?" she asked. 'I'll...call...you" I answered.

Yeah...

Don't get me wrong. I'd hire a SANE transgendered person; Miss Mary Poppins with electrolosis and gladly accept "A Spoonfull of Sugar"sung cheerily in a lower octave. But maybe I shouldn't call people off of Craigslist:

Hello, my name is Giselle, I have been babysitting since my teens, mostly for
family. A little bit about me( I am fun, loving, caring, energetic, committed,
loyal and a social person). I live in Pleasant Hill by DVC. I am looking for a
good and loving family that could use my help part-time or full-time. I do not
take jobs from overseas, there will be no agreement reached until a formal
interview is had. Online scammers, please don't waste your time;)

Here's one plus about her (?)--if I hired her (?) at least I wouldn't have to worry about my husband falling for the college-aged babysitter...

The two peas in my filthy pod...

Whoozyerdaddy is the grand master diddy Daddy of sleeping just about anywhere and any time the spirit of rest enters his weary body.

So it is uncanny that housed in Whoozyerkid's little body, of course is this very same amazing ability. Or this is the most boring book ever, or the attempt to decipher words on those pages just short-circuited her big little girl brain.

Poor Whoozyerbaby. She inherited my need for quiet and white noise. She's a light sleeper like her mama. Maybe I should have purchased the horrific baby sleep mask.

It's hot and I'm lazy.

Today it was a hundred and freaking five in Martinez. And we don't have air conditioning. "Well, it's this hot only a few days a year." I say nonchalantly when the weather is perfect. "We can deal with the heat. What did people do before air conditioning? They DEALT with it. THAT'S what they did." Oh yeah. Our home was built in 1928 and I am thinking perhaps we have the original heating system. With lovely asbestos-wrapped ducts, which, apparently are safe unless you happen to be oh, say, the HVAC guy who gets to replace the system for the lucky people who get air conditioning in this house. Then, as the luckiest HVAC guy in the world you would wear a suit remarkably similar to the suits that the evil NASA scientists wear in ET (one of the shittiest, sappiest films of all time, I might add).
Speaking of Hazmat suits, I'm going to need one to clean Wherzyourhouse. It's been too hot to clean so basically we pretend it's not filthy and cluttered and go about our daily business which--in the heat-- constitutes a playdate in an artifically cool home, a drawn out stroll through Tar-jay, a saunter through Scum Valley Mall and/or a leisurely meal at the self-serve fro-yo joint. Tomorrow it will be in the 80's, or so they say.There is a glimmer of hope beneath the oil slick that is my home. In the meantime I have provided for you an exhibit of Wherzyourpigsty so you can do a little self-congratulatory jig and revel in the cleanliness of your home. You are guaranteed to be much closer to Godliness than the Whoozyerfamily, which resides in the hot underbelly of hell. I need to call a cleaner. Stat:

What were they thinking? Part I

Somebody had too much downtime or maybe not enough when they thought of this mask--perfect for the baby who is on death row digesting his or her last smooshed sweet potatoes and a perfect pull from a big Mother of a keg. Sheesh. Poor, posh babies...

What kind of Mother intends for her darling Baby to emulate a cartoon corpse with X's for eyes while asleep AND a four-eyed monster when awake?




I don't know any baby that enjoys wearing a hat--let alone one that is pulled over his sweet little sleepy peepers. And imagine the future horror of a baby book perusal with a significant other. "Honey, I can prove, without a doubt that my mother is clinically INSANE. Look at what she made me wear. The "crazy" gene is in my blood. Say you still want to marry me, Lovemuffin. We can adopt..."

The scariest thing is---this atrocity sold out today on http://www.babysteals.com/ .

Preschool, the place where wishes come true.

My wish is for silent home--save for the whir of the ceiling fan. Not even that; just a few minutes where I can hear myself think, that is what I wish for.

So, tomorrow Whoozyerkid and I are headed for a fountain or a wishing well with handfuls of pennies and hearts filled with longing. Because preschool is out for the week and I am not sure what else I can plan with a napping baby and playdates galore. But a wishing well, we can do. So much for promises of the zoo or the beach. I'm not doing it alone. Things are getting harder as Whoozyerbaby grows ever more mobile.

I honestly don't know what I would do without preschool. Or how other moms have survived without it, with all due respect.

We mostly have stayed at home just because it is easier. At dusk Whoozyerkid hid in the hand-me-down playhouse in the backyard and demanded "Call Daddy, Mom." It was urgent--she and Whoozyerdaddy have a thing; she always hides when we hear his car and he acts surprised when she darts out from her spot. I debated not telling him we were in the backyard because I wanted him to get on with it and hurry up with the whole "settling in process" but she was so into their game and I relented. He came out and I said I was going to the store "Alone." "Just let me get settled in and a little relaxed after I find Whoozyerkid" he said. Oh my. This is why some SAHM's lose it. I have been home all day and unsettled. Does my child only view me as some sort of glorified waitress? I am not exaggerating when I say she wanted food/drink at least ten times today. I was unsettled until my excursion to Safeway, in pursuit of something low-cal and chocolate that doesn't taste like a plastic doll factory; to peruse the trashy magazines in the check-out line and look at photos of other people's children who have "stylists". Is that the antidote to kid-concocted outfits? For good measure I also gawked at heroin-wasted, crack-ho-ified Amy Winehouse and her before/after addiction mock-up and felt instantly better. And then I went home and said to Whoozyerhubby "I. Am. DONE. For. Today."

Thank God for preschool. Preschool, I don't think I have ever expressed how I feel about you. I don't think I can convey what is inside of me but I swoon as I fantasize about you and only you, baby. You make life worth living. You make me a better woman. I wish for your return every morning. With you around, I can do anything. Smooches...

"The Best Deodorant" sucks a$$!!!!!

If you're one of my mama friends you probably are well aware that I'm on a (as my friend J puts it) all Nate-ur-al rampage---purging mainstream personal care items and going more chemical-free where practical. So one day in the midst of this bodycare lifestyle change I visited our local hippy-yuppie drugstore and asked the clerk for "the most effective natural deodorant you've got" 'and make it snappy, Bub', I didn't add--but thought. I was in a big hurry to go all-natural. He pointed to a deodorant with breeze-kissed lavender fields pictured on the bottle and I was sold. Boy, do I love lavender. It also said "The Best Deodorant" right there on the bottle. How could I go wrong?

I hustled my prize home in my fabulous fuschia ChicoBag , washed the pits and sprayed the beautifully bottled deodorant under my arms. It smelled like pure heaven, strongly lavender-y and...it...stung.

The next day I nicked myself whilst shaving and I developed a little irritation. In the manufacturer's defense, it did say "do not apply after shaving". Really? How long am I supposed to go without my lavender "fix" after shaving? I mean seriously, folks; go without deodorant? For ANY length of time? Is THIS what happens to everyone who doesn't heed the warning? Who applies deodorant "gasp" after SHAVING?



Two weeks later I'm beginning to wonder if I should relocate myself to Molokai . There is a BOIL right in the fold of my armpit. I can't shave there. I dare not apply any deodorant--hippie or non. Hailing a cab--which I never have the opportunity to do these days--is a no-no. And reaching for the last 4-pack of of toothbrushes at Costco is verboten. I also apologize in advance if I smell. I'm wearing a different all-natural deodorant on the left side. I figure, what the hell, why not infect the other pit while I'm at it and make it even?

J is also pretty into the whole natural thing and even uses vinegar and baking soda to clean SANS the essential oils. She recommends the crystal rock roll-on which I'm trying and so far so good on the "good" pit. J is also a nurse; she examined the "area" and handed me a tube of Neosporin and advised, "Honey. sometimes you just have to go for the pharmaceuticals." Point well taken...

I was rendered blogless...

So---this whole awful fiasco with Whoozyerbabysitter has taken over my mind and my itch to write for the past week and as it's not a very good idea to blog about this---not now---or maybe even ever I can't sit here and discuss every aspect of the situation like I'm dying to. I did get a confession and that's all will say here. Now---catch me with a bottle of wine and a warm summer night and I will spill it--the story--and maybe even the wine (probably on my shirt).

Too good to be true...

To all of you mamas who thought I was so smug about Whoozyerbabysitter. Rubbing her fabulous-ness in your weary faces; I was wrong. And it could have been a very costly mistake. I'm not going to write much about it right here or right now. I don't think it's appropriate. I'm only gonna say this---do not let Whoozyerbabysitter anywhere near your checkbook.

No, you cannot have her phone number. You don't want it. Trust me.

So if you see me looking at you sideways in real life it's because I'm a horrible judge of character and I'm second-guessing my opinion of almost every one I know. Nothing personal, I'm just gullible and I need to replace my mettle detector as hearts of fool's gold trip it.

Another masterpiece...

Who sez I've gotta go to Clix? I'm a damned good photographer if I do say so myself...

And-- with this subject matter, how could anyone take a "bad" shot?

Whoozyerbaby should be very grateful that she is not at all processed and ready to devour.

From her round cheeks to her eyes as deep and blue as the North Shore she is a delicacy intended for only one of my internal organs. It is my heart that wants to envelope her and I couldn't stomach life without her. Ever.

Because there are endless other reasons why I would want to eat every last chunk of her plump, pink perfection:

As her birth approached the message was sent from my brain cells to my blood cells and through the placenta "Put the brakes on it, kid. You are not ready. To join. The world. I am not ready to share you with the world." She came almost 2 weeks early in blatant disregard of Mama's missive; didn't heed my message, "Oh shit, Mom, sorry, I didn't get that email. are you sure you sent it? I looked everywhere..." She's not one to stop. Once she joined us it was game over. She was no longer the hidden vintage in my dark, damp cellar. No time for snuggling. Whoozyerbaby is Action Baby. But that doesn't mean there's no warmth to her. She is light transmuted to human form. This face has L-O-V-E written ALL OVER IT.

Agony of her feet...

It's official, I can no longer claim with any measure of confidence that Whoozyerkid is still a mere baby. Her feet smell like ass. They really, really do.

I'll make a wager that Mario Batali doesn't use one of these in HIS kitchen...

This is seriously the most useful thingamajiggy you'll bring home from the hospital next to the nasal aspirator a.k.a. baby snot-sucker-outter. It's a perineal rinse bottle. Snag a couple the next time you, say, push a person with a head the size of your mother-in-law's regulation-sized swirly purple BOWLING BALL out of your hoo-haw. It has many uses, this magical squirt bottle. Clean it REALLY, REALLY well, fill it with raspberry sauce and make pretty little whirls on a dessert plate to impress your dinner party guests. Or, drizzle a dressing zig-zag on tender romaine hearts. You are Tom Keller. No, you are GREATER than Chef Keller because you have the squirt bottle to end all squirt bottles and he does not have ovaries or a uterus like you, you saucy little saucier.