Babies, can't live with them...

I think Warren is starting to wean himself. And while part of me is so glad to get to have my body all to myself again, I'm also feeling like he's a little tiny baby, and it's the only thing he and I have that is special, that Xtian can't do. It was the only way I was preferable to Dada, and now he's just too busy for it. Does everyone feel that way? Or is it especially hard because I'm not his primary care giver? Do stay at home moms get as upset? Or is it just one more thing that I'm making myself crazy over? Because, clearly, if I don't have five sources of freak out every moment of my life, I die. I just fall down and die.

We're officially on a nursing schedule of first thing in the morning (though, I usually have to wake him for it before I leave, he's not getting up for it), sometimes when I get home in the evening (but that usually lasts about 10 seconds, I think it's mostly for his comfort and a way to reconnect at the end of a long separation), and sometimes he nurses for a minute before bed. I think he likes the idea of nursing, since he will pull on my shirt and say "na- na" often, but then wanders off once he nurses for a second.

Are you hearing this internet? I'm a creepy mother of sons. This? This right here? Is how women who only have male children become those creepy overbearing, overly-clingy women who chase their sons all over the country, begging them to call! I can't have it. I will accept this latest rejection stoically, like the millions of women who have gone before me.

Does this mean I can start drinking more than my one drink per evening? Bring on the rum!

Goal: Alone. Results? Mixed

Well, I did get to be alone for a couple of hours this weekend. Unfortunately, those hours were spent in the garden in my ongoing battle that is “MINT: Now with even greater creeping root strength!” But, I enjoyed warring with my garden, and have actually seen some really good progress already this year. (Hurray to the earliest signs of bush-growing zucchini, green beans, and leeks! Now just get on board Herbs and peppers!)

After the garden, my alone time came to an abrupt halt. While getting ready to shower, both Xtian and Sarah stopped in to say hi. While I was naked, trying to wash the mud off my feet before shaving my legs. Not a great way to peacefully end my stolen “Alone Time.” And then Xtian got sick, so immediately I had to pay attention to him all day and be all nurturing and loving. And frankly, I haven’t been doing a whole lot of care taking for Xtian. My attention has been elsewhere between girlfriends in mourning, family member breakdowns and hand holding at work. Unfortunately all that means that my nurturing energy is gone where Xtian is involved. So, it was about time for me to actually focus on the poor bug.

Although, we declared a Saturday night Roommate Drinking and Movie night. I'm always surprised how much fun I can have splitting a bottle of Maker's Mark with Xtian and Sarah, while watching bad movies, crappy tv, and excellence on You Tube. And, even better, we were all hangover free on Sunday. Now THAT'S what I call: Awesome.

So, the weekend has come and gone, and all I have to show for it is a weed-free (for now) garden and a husband who’s probably still laying on the couch feeling needy. And I’m fighting off some horror illness. I will NOT surrender to vague body aches and tiredness with occasional lung crushing coughing. FUCK YOU BODY! I don’t have time to take care of you; I’ve got a jam-packed week and a weekend of travel. You are just going to have to tough it out!

St. Patrick's Day is for Lovers.

Last weekend I went to Chico to watch my sister in an Improvisational Comedy night. Improv is hard as hell, and even harder to do well. I was so impressed with these high school kids who performed. It was so neat to watch my sister perform. And I say this without any familial bias: She was probably one of the best out there. She was involved in a TON of their scenes and always contributed some great material.

Aside from my sister, one of my favorite performers was also the MC of the evening. Vance is a bit of a flamer, and had the audience in the palm of his hand so effortlessly. Whenever audience suggestions were inappropriate, he threw enough attitude that we all ended up laughing at the idiot who suggested it, rather than feeling awkward. He never lost his poise, even when he gave the wrong rules to a game.

My mom went with me to the show because, as Xtian says, my mom is the Original Hater. One of my favorite pastimes is mocking children with my mom. She seems like the epitome of soft-spoken Mormon mother. Many happy hours have been spent laughing about dorky T-ball players, know-it-all teenagers and their parents. Just glorious.

While waiting for the show to begin, mom and I were chatting with some people around us, and indulging in some EXCELLENT people watching. The show was on a Friday night, so a lot of the audience members were high school students. As I looked around, as far as the eye could see, were tits. Underage tits, just out on display. I’m 25 and I don’t dress this provocatively when I go to the bars. Some of these girls were covered less than I was on my honeymoon. I mentioned this to my mom, who remarked that it’s really gotten bad since the nicer weather started.

“So, just because it gets a little warm, tits come out?” To which my mom replied, completely deadpan, “Well, they get hot.”

This is why I love my mother. Well, that and the whole “raised me and never left me for dead on the side of the road no matter how big of a pain I was,” thing.

Saturday, as many of you may recall, was St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve never been a big celebrator, because I am not in any way Irish. I’ve gone out from time to time, but mostly I avoided bars on drinking holidays, as they are just overwhelming. My hermitude has only increased since I got married, since I can get Xtian liquored up and take advantage of him without leaving home. And that’s what I call “convenient.”

But, this year, we needed to get out, celebrate Xtian's Irish heritage (don't laugh, my black husband is Irish, and I'm not. I just love that!) and have some fun. Jen organized the whole deal, and Pat (Xtian’s awkward Mormon friend) came in from Sacramento to play with us. Into the city we went, cramming into a really great pub called Phoenix in the Mission District. The walk from BART to the pub reminded me of all the reasons I usually avoid the Mission, but it was fun for the night.

Mostly, I sipped a beer and tried to harass Jen into flirting with random boys. Excellent times. I’d love to go back there when it’s not a crazy St. Patrick’s thing. Just walking up to the bar gave you biblical knowledge of minimum 6 people. I’m pretty sure, I should go get tested for VD again. It was THAT crowded. But all was fabulous, much drinking was had by all, and we ended the evening with a Taco Bell run, and a sleepover.

Any event that ends in a sleepover/Pajama party is a good one.

At least as far as this old married broad is concerned.

Verdict: Fun (oh that was awful...Just awful)

Ah, the weekend. Where have you gone? So, no on the jury duty, which is pretty sweet (although, a month of still getting paid, and being able to show up late, hungover and in only moderately clean clothing does have a certain appeal…). And, they plead out before we even got to jury selection, so I didn’t even have any awesome Jack McCoy questioning a juror’s lifestyle/personal beliefs moments. Which is sad.

However, what WASN’T sad? The birthday party. As per usual on a party day, I forgot to eat until well after the party was underway, started drinking while cooking (at *ahem* 3 pm), and was a little too tipsy to do my own hair when it became time to get ready. I ROCK!

But, in a few bullet points:

• Drinking Jenga is the greatest game ever.
  
• Boys whom I’ve just met, yet in no way mind being called “Fluffy” all night are pretty fucking cool
  
• Pajama parties for adults: best idea ever. I’m never attending a party again if I can’t wear my jammies.
  
• At least one breast was autographed, possibly three…memory is a touch fuzzy. (And there’s only photographic proof of ONE autographed tit, so there’s that).
  
• We now have more alcohol in our home than any one person could consume in a year. Luckily, three people live in my home, and if we include cats (and with their levels of stress, tell me they COULDN’T use a drink) we’re up to six. So, I’m saying, give us a couple weeks. Or, till the end of the Superbowl. Whatever.

The damper on the weekend was having to get up at 8 am the morning after the party. Sitting through someone else’s church while hungover and annoyed is probably what hell would be for me. Even better yet, having to sit through a sermon that had to have been sponsored by the “People Against PETA” campaign, that in NO WAY followed it’s own logic (it’s own flawed logic I might add). Look, if you’re trying to prove something logically, and are basing it on flawed documents, translations etc and your argument STILL doesn’t follow, just abandon that entire way of thinking.

At least the Mormons don’t even bother with logic. They know that their beliefs don’t stand up to critical thinking, so they just go along with it and scream “FAITH” whenever you question. Which is somehow less annoying… interesting.

But, yeah, I got suckered into going to church again. So, we’re up to….3 times in the last five years? Better be careful, or they’ll make a Christian of me yet. *shudder*

Right, back to editing legal copy for the ninth time today….

Levels of Coley Drunkenness

Jen brought this up in a comment a few days ago. Thought it would be fun:
Levels of drunkenness (WARNING: levels may vary based on oven temperature or high altitude. See alternate baking directions for high altitudes)
We’ll bypass drinks one through three, as that’s just barely getting to the point I’m willing to call “drunk.” And by number of drinks, I’m talking about the only drinks I get drunk on normally: shots of tequila, rum/whisky that are about 20% soda. IF you’re drinking beer, multiply by two. Should be about the same results, only with a lot more peeing. By drink four, we’ve bypassed the horny stage, and the hugging stage and are well on our way to:

Drink 4: Loud. At this stage, everything being said is either hilarious, or infuriating. Either way, I will be yelling at you. Loudly.
Drink 5: Crazy. At this stage, everything is a good idea. Drunken marathon running? Certainly. Cart wheeling into oncoming traffic? Yes. Why didn’t I think of that?
Drink 6: Naked. I don’t think this needs more explanation.
Drink 7: Delayed. Everything is eventually seen, heard and understood, just about 5 minutes later.
Drink 8: Sex. At this point it sounds like the only good idea ever. We should all be having sex immediately, if not sooner. Of course, this is also the stage when you are completely unable to complete the act of sex. Gotta love the catch 22 there.
Drink 9: Stupid. At this stage, I’m talking, and so is everybody else, but I’m pretty sure real words are no longer being used. At least, not in any properly construed way.
Drink 10: Mute. At this point words will no longer be formed. Sounds are impossible. Smiling dumbly while trying to figure out who these people are, and why they’re in your bed is the only thing left to do.
Drink 11 and beyond: officially retarded. Unable to eat, bathe one’s self, recognize household items or understand their uses. Your IQ has actually dropped to about 45, putting you at the same cognitive level of most potted plants. If you haven’t vomited yet, oh dear lord, you’ll wish you had come 9 am.
That’s about as far as I remember ever getting. If anyone can remember getting further along than that, oh dear lord, call me. The best part is, I tend to "add on" stages. So, after drink 6, I'm still loud, and crazy and on the way to getting naked.
To put this into perspective: Friday night, I consumed approximately 5 tequila shots over the course of the evening. It was at this stage that walking around West Oakland at 1 am, shouting loudly and bothering the prostitutes was the only thing I wanted to do. Sound a little crazy? See the chart above.

Mumble muble Xmas mumble

So, I’m mostly done with my Xmas shopping after 20 minutes online. So, whoo!
I have a trio of holiday parties/dinners this weekend, and Sarah’s coming down to play as well! This weekend is going to be awesome, and exhausting, all at the same time. And since we’re “trying” if that second line doesn’t turn pink on Friday, I’m calling it a free for all. Who knows when I’ll get another chance for such a champion weekend? Oh sure there’s the Coley Birthday Extravaganza in a couple months (ewww, 25 years old? Really, already?). But more likely than not that will be an Eat, Two Drinks and Fall Asleep Before 10:30 pm kind of Extravaganza. So, I’m making it count this weekend.
My aunt’s Xmas party turns into a tequila-fueled ping pong brawl every year and since we’re going to BART home, everyone can participate this year. Should be well worth a roll of film.

The only other thing I have for you is this clip. Just trust me, it’s fabulous in only the way Charles Schultz and Scrubs could create.

Jingle Bells, now drink yourself retarded

Ah, corporate holiday parties. Is anything at once so awkward, fun and mockery-worthy? I daresay, no. I realize these parties are supposed to be a way for coworkers to all relax, let down their hair and have some fun. But, I always come out of these things feeling like I spent my Saturday night at work, only more exhausting because I have to make pleasant chit chat with coworkers and their spouses/partners. I’m all for second-hand embarrassment, but watching VERY drunk vice presidents grinding on their/other people’s dates is more than even I want to watch.

My only goal was to avoid having a new nickname due to the party (such as Spaz, MakeOut Machine or The Puker). I think I made it out ok. Luckily, I was smart and brought a flask with good whisky. This served two purposes: 1. Avoid paying $7 for a poorly made 3 oz. beverage and 2. Since I only had a limited supply, I barely achieved buzz. So no chance of drunken debauchery.

I mentioned to my sister how I was less than excited watching my drunken coworkers behaving in divorce-causing behavior, she called me a prude. “From what I’ve learned on sitcoms, corporate holiday parties are all about getting drunk and making out with coworkers,” she said. And can I just say, the greatest start to a sentence ever. “From what I’ve learned on sitcoms.” And as we all know, sitcoms are well known for showing the consequences of poor judgment.

Well, I just let that one go in the conversation, but it’s been bothering me. Am I a prude? Not in my private life. But I think this is the difference. I attempt to draw distinct lines between my work life and my home life. I don’t bring work home with me and I try not to bring my private life into the office. Yes, I’ve had a few work friends who have translated into just FRIENDS, but that takes a lot of time. Things that I wouldn’t think twice about doing with my friends, (such as stripping naked and doing a lap around the block for a drinking game) I would never do in front of coworkers. If for no other reason than, when promotion time comes around, I really don’t want my reviewer thinking about that time I got really drunk and made out with the VP of finance.

I’d like to think that doesn’t make me a prude. Just polite. I guess for my sister, any semblance of etiquette and good taste is really just uptight, prudish behavior. And if that’s the case, so be it.
~~

And for another round of Movies Everyone Else Saw Months Ago, I give you Borat. You know, I actually liked this movie. I think all the buildup of how “offensive” this movie was had me expecting far worse. And yes, there was more unattractive man-nudity that was entirely necessary. But aside from that, I think mostly it made people uncomfortable because it allowed rank and file Americans to lampoon themselves. And I think it mocked things that needed to be mocked. Religions that take place in tents complete with “healings” and evangelical “America is always going to be a Christian nation” declarations (all while conveniently forgetting to love one another, and not judge, but maybe I just dislike religions and so am predisposed to mock) is allowed to be poked fun at. And a trashy rodeo-organizer commenting that they should round up all gays and hang them, really has my disdain coming. Drunken frat boys declaring that women are all bitches who don’t deserve any respect and all the non-white people have all the power in this country really deserve to be shown for what they are.
Mostly, I think it disturbed people because it was pretty honest in it’s portrayal of the rest of the US. And if you don’t think that’s true, it’s time to get out of California for a while and actually listen to Joe Bob the Missouri farmer.

Good lord, I’m on the soapbox today.

In other news, I’m old and my body is falling apart at an alarming rate. My shin splints are back and threatening to break my soul. I’ve officially forgotten how to walk without a limp. So, clearly I should keep running on asphalt 6 days a week. I’m smart. Sometimes…

It's Friday and I'm in Love, er Monday, rather.

Things I’ve decided I do better after a few drinks:

• Sing Journey at top volume (seriously, who knew I was that AWESOME of a singer?)
  
• Walk in High heels (trucker-like mosey becomes sassy shimmy through beer goggles)
  
• Make loud, inappropriate comments at any social gathering (but seriously, doesn’t that guy look like that one guy I slept with 4 years ago, and then NEVER REMEMBER HIS NAME?)
  
• Flirt shamelessly with bartenders so as to be served faster (did you know bartenders are almost never hit on by drunk women?)
  
• Have meaningful conversations with people I’ve just met.
  

Things I’ve decided I do far, far WORSE after a few drinks:

• Cook. Anything.
  
• Clean my bathroom
  
• Pick out porn (just…don’t ask)
  
• Leave coherent voicemails
  
  
  ~~~~
  
  Yesterday, I finally decided to bite the bullet and buy new running shoes. I figured a complete lack of cloth inside my shoe was reason enough to shell out. I’m happy to spend about $60 on good running shoes. How much did I actually spend? Oh, $213 for two pairs of shoes WITH (that’s right WITH) a buy-one-get-one-half-off-sale. Yeah. Prior to this, the most I’ve ever paid for a pair of shoes: $50 for a beautiful pair of boots. I hate shopping, and I hate salespeople. After being ignored and disdained in one store, I was really primed for the sweet talking salesguy at the second store. As soon as I bought the shoes, I felt such buyer’s remorse, I almost cried. It took Xtian barking at me to suck it up and shut it for me to finally just let it go. I still feel like as ass about the whole thing. Did I have two hundred dollars to spend on SHOES? No, of course not. I have about 14 things that I should have bought before I bought shoes (not the least of which would be new brakes for my truck, winter clothing that doesn’t expose my ever-expanding gut, or even better JUST DUMP IT IN THE SAVINGS ACCOUNT), but whatever. And then I started beating myself up about my selfish buying practices. And how will I ever be a good mother when I blow obscene amounts of money on stupid crap?!?!
  
  But I’ll be damned if this morning’s run wasn’t the best run ever.
  
  ~~~~
  I happened upon my old roommate on one of those networking websites. I haven’t seen or heard from her in over 3 years. But I still feel weird about seeing her profile. I don’t know why I feel like I’m in competition with her. But, I do. I guess it’s that old “the best revenge is in living well.” And I do live well. I have a good job, live in a cute home with adorable kitties, have an amazingly wonderful husband, incredible friends, and after much time, a great relationship with my family. I’m finally at the point in my life I always wanted more than anything: trying for babies. At 24 years of age, I’m fully where I want to be.
  So, why do I feel uncomfortable? Is this how I will always feel because I never got the closure I so desperately needed?
  Oh, fuck it. I’m tired of analyzing how everything FEELS. I’m not letting that passive aggressive, borderline-psychotic people-using bitch have this much control over my soul.
  
  At least, until the next time I’m unexpectedly confronted with her.
  
  ~~~~
  
  Final notes: If you haven’t seen Little Miss Sunshine yet, please do so. Just beautiful, and funny, full of broken people. By the end, I was laughing with tears streaming down my face. I think I’m in love with Toni Collette even more.