I like jigglypuff, I just dont want to BE jigglypuff.

You know how, in Game of Thrones, everyone’s all “brace yourselves, winter is coming”, and then they gaze with steely eyes off screen, probably looking at a direwolf or a beheading or something? If you watch GoT, you know. If you don’t,  please just smile and nod politely because thats exactly what happens.

For a chunkybutt, “winter is coming” is nothing to be steely eyed about. Its full of cozy nights, and oversized sweaters, covered in a crocheted blanket and a yawning cat, reading some classic tome of forbidden love and the tragedy that invariably follows. “Winter is coming” is the most looked-forward-to phrase of the year.

And it is coming. But you know whats coming first? Summer. Stupid dingus summer, filled with form fitting clothes and bathing suits and outdoor activities that are performed while wearing the aforementioned clothing. Meh.

Ive really needed to stop being such a jigglypuff for awhile, but so much of the exercising realm seems plain unfun and chore-y, and I always seem to find something better to do, like drinking beer on my patio…for example.


Running makes me sad. See?

Its not that my body isn’t able. I absolutely have no physical reason to get myself out the door. Its all a product of my scumbag brain being scumbaggy, so ive attempted to change it into a nice, helpful brain.

One of my goals is to be able to run a few miles, or more than a few miles, so I looked online to find ways to squash the mental mutiny. The couch to five k program seemed to be successful for a lot of people, so I gave it a go.

I hated it like Sir MixALot hates flat butts.

It was all so tedious and the timing thing didnt work for me at all. I understand the idea behind it, but by the time I figured out how to actually move in rhythm and not just flail horizontally down the street, it was time to stop running and start walking. Gah. Frustration.

In a last ditch effort to not hate running, I decided to talk to my friend La Nuge about it. Shes an experienced runner and a hell of a nice lady. For the record, she is not The Nuge. You can tell them apart by her lack of hit songs from the 70s, and the fact that she doesnt view loincloths as appropriate goin-out clothes.


This is totally not La Nuge.

She was as awesome as I have come to expect from her, and she basically told me to scrap that whole running for time and distance thing. After the necessary advice to get good shoes and make sure I listened to my body she dropped this knowledge bomb on me:

Run for experience. Run and watch the sun rise. Run in the rain. Run on trails. Run and spy on get to know your neighbors. Run and check out whats going on in everyone’s garden. Run for the sake of running, not for the sake of some numbers that I couldn’t care less about.

Maybe this was incredibly obvious to everyone but me, and that’s why I had never heard it before. Maybe this is like finding advice on how to breathe. But honestly, I had never, ever thought about running as something that could be enjoyed and not simply endured.

Guess what? This applies to literally every other exercise-y thing too. I can do it, and I can actually like it. It can *gasp* be fun.

Thanks, La Nuge. This jigglypuff could have done it without you, but she wouldn’t have.

Summer is coming, and I am ready.

Because why wouldnt a kid need to know how to do a tracheotomy?

My Opa passed away when I was about 15 or so. My family lived really far away, and we didn’t see each other often. In fact, I only have a very few memories of him.

Those memories…whew. See, when most people remember a departed grandparent, the memories bring up an emotion. Whether its of PB&J sandwiches with the crusts lovingly cut off or drunken holiday arguments, it all brings up some kind of feeling,

In my case, the feeling is that of complete and utter confusion.

My Opa was an incredibly intelligent man, and was quite skilled in his chosen field of medicine. That isn’t the confusing part, nor is it a strong memory. It is quite simply fact, and to a little kid, all jobs from mailman to neurosurgeon are pretty impressive and grown up.

I get the feeling that he had–probably quite rightly, as that level of education and ability is something to be proud of– a teensy bit of arrogance, or maybe ego, or maybe just enthusiasm about his knowledge. That isn’t confusing either. When people study hard and master something difficult, it is totally understandable. I was going through my own struggles and triumphs with cursive writing at the time, so I totally understood.

The confusing part is that my strongest memories are of him drawing on napkins on our yearly dinners out. Paper, linen, didn’t matter. If it was suitable for wiping one’s fingers, it was also clearly suitable for some learnin’!  He’d get all excited about something, and whoops, out came the ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, and we were all set to get a lesson, complete with diagrams.

Had I, with recent cursive victories on the dastardly letters “m” and “z”, been allowed to draw on napkins to show everyone, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. My mom was not having any of that though, and while she couldn’t give my Opa a spanking, she could easy give me one, so I sat there, both attentive and envious.

I remember two of these impromptu lectures.

One was vague, and for some reason, it was about showing my sister and I how to properly draw a bird. It’s a shame that this memory is so vague. Drawing birds comes up surprisingly often in my life, because of course it does.


This is a bird. You can tell by the label saying “bird”.

The second lecture is something I will keep with me forever. It was a diagram and instructions on how to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a penknife and Bic pen casing. I don’t know why I would do this, like, ever. I remember it being about if someone has something caught in their throat and the normal methods of using your finger to sweep the mouth or doing the Heimlich Maneuver (Heimlich Remover, to a seven year old) just won’t work. He drew it, then said “like so.”, because apparently, this napkin diagram was pretty much self explanatory.


Like so. If you don’t get it, you’re obviously not trying hard enough.

I think he was showing my dad this, but I took it very seriously. You just never know, right? I felt like I was pretty much ready for anything.


Relax. I’m almost 12% sure that I know what I’m doing with these.

Our meals came then, and no one ever spoke of it again, but that’s pretty much the one and only thing I remember about him. Kids, the lesson here is twofold:

1)when you have grandchildren, make sure you give them interesting life skills to remember you by.

And 2) if you and I ever go out for dinner, make sure you chew very well. You really, really don’t want to choke around me.

FIrst Date: Well, at least I didn’t do *that*.

Where were we?  Ah yes. I was meeting Johnny Rotten for the Very! First! Time! My Munchkin had fallen off the bed, I was overcome with a fit of I-am-a-terrible-mother-and-person, I cried my eyes out, he knocked on the door, and the hot mess that was me was revealed like the worst episode of Extreme Makeover ever.

He hugged me, told me it was great to meet me, and then–AND THEN!– offered to hold the baby so that I could wipe my face off and put real pants on.

Before I get massive internet screaming about how I was a horrible mom who let her kid fall off the bed and then let a stranger– an Internet Person– hold her darling child, let me just say that he has two kids. I knew that he knew that babies have to be held the right side up, even though there is no little label with an arrow to tell him so. I was in the house, only a few feet away. The door wouldn’t be closed, except to put pants on (which, dudes? I am totally good at that. If I were a superhero, I’d probably be FastGarmentPuttingOnGirl or something) and my sister and her boyfriend were about eight seconds away, as they were coming to eyeball the new guy babysit.

It went smashingly well. I got out of the bathroom to find that Munchkin was cooing at Johnny Rotten and Johnny Rotten was cooing right back at Munchkin. D’awwww.  You know when you meet someone and they’re really good at everything, and it kind of makes you feel bad and like you can’t be friends with them because you have your own blooper reel from every single day and you coast from one embarrassment to another? Yeah. That.

Folks, I really liked him.  I mean, really liked him. Reallyreallyreally liked him. I chalked it up as a ‘sucks to be me’ situation, because it wasn’t a date-date, it was hanging out. A relationship wouldn’t have worked anyway, because we were not only from different countries which kind of makes dating a little tough, but we both had just ended long term relationships and rebound relationships never work, right? Right. Still, doing something on a Saturday night is better than doing nothing on a Saturday night, and if the person I’m doing things with is cute and smells good, all the better.

He easily dealt with The Sister’s interrogation polite conversation and small talk, and we headed out for dinner. All good. I wasn’t trainwrecky, and he loosened up a little. We were getting along great, and even if this didn’t work out into anything meaningful– which it wouldn’t, of course!– we both had fun. We were having such a good time, in fact, that we decided to spend some more time together and went out for a drink at the local pub.

Maybe he was finally getting comfortable around me, or maybe it was just the wine with dinner, but he had gone from ‘loosening up’ to a little flirty. I had figured that he was not into me like that, but I guess he was just shy and really polite. He seemed to like me. Like, like-like me. Yes, like THAT. I was stoked, and I figured that he’d make his move any second.

Two things happened at that very moment.

One: my jacket dropped from my chair onto the floor.

Two: he made the move he had been contemplating all evening.

I bent down to get my jacket, and he tried to execute some kind of suave contortion to put his arm around my shoulders. Had he swept his arm up around the back like a normal person, and not an Internet Person, everything would have gone according to plan and I wouldn’t be telling you this, because it would be boring.

Happily for the sake of stories told to strangers, he did not. He swept his arm up in front of me, like he was going to put it over my head, and then have it land on my shoulders. At that exact moment, i bent forward to grab my jacket. We collided.  Smooth.

For the second time that day, my mascara was ruined because of tears, but these weren’t anything emotional. It seems to be a pretty normal body response to being elbowed full force in the  face, you know? It wasn’t a little tap. My eyes watered. I tasted blood. I could feel my lip puffing up. I swore.

For him, the phrase ‘died a thousand deaths’ didn’t even begin to cover it. He apologized. He asked if I was okay.  He apologized more.

Johnny Rotten was so very, very upset by this. I started to laugh. Of course, most people don’t laugh right after they get hit in the teeth, and he mistook it for sobbing, which I found even funnier. He was ready to accept that this had been a complete failure, and started gathering my things so that he could take me home.  Once I caught my breath, I convinced him that I really didn’t hate him. I knew it was an accident, I wasn’t badly hurt, and I wanted to continue the evening.

It was more than that though, for me. Yes, I absolutely did want to continue the evening, but you know what? Him bashing me in the teeth took all the pressure off. Yeah, maybe I did end up answering the door in pj pants, with a yelling infant and a leaking face…. but at least I didn’t turn tentative affection into outright battery.

The pressure was off. We were now even-steven, and I knew I wanted to see him again.

First date: The one where I realize that he wasn’t the awkward internet person, I was.

Johnny Rotten and I met online and he had asked me if I’d like to meet him for realsies.

He lived a couple of hundred miles away–1.6 x a couple of hundred miles if you’re a Metric Molly–and I agreed to dinner and general buddy-debauchery. Who would drive that far, into another country no less,  to go out for dinner with someone they hadn’t met? I’m not sure I’d walk to the  end of the block for that, personally, because what if it’s all ewwww-y or axe-murderer-y or worse, just plain awkward? We’re not talking about Regular People here, folks. We are talking about Internet People. You guys know.

Anyway, I believe I told him the city I lived in, and to get a hotel room because Internet People do not stay with me, even if they have driven for hours just to go out for dinner which is totally ridiculous and time-wasting, and to call me when he got into town. Then, of course, I thought nothing more about it, because I figured it was one of those situations like when you run into a friend from high school and you discuss going out for a drink, not because either of you want to but because society demands that half-assed plan-making. And then you don’t end up going out, because duh, and then you run into each other six months down the road and you do it all over again.

The appointed day and time came, and the phone rang. Holy cow, it was Johnny Rotten, and the caller id showed that he was calling from a local number, which means that he was actually in my town, which what the hell, Johnny Rotten?? This was not how it was supposed to go. Something was supposed to come up, he was supposed to back out gracefully, I was supposed to act vaguely disappointed, and life would go on.  But him being in town? That meant I should probably see him, and that I should probably change out of pj pants and maybe put a bra on. Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it.

My bluff of sure-I’ll-meet-you had been called and raised to triple dog dare status. He had driven 1.6 x a gazillion miles to come see me, so I had to go. My friends, this was the flagpole scene from A Christmas Story. I couldn’t back out.  He was on his way over to pick me up for dinner.

I placed Munchkin, who couldn’t roll over yet, in the middle of a queen sized bed, with pillows all around her to keep her wiggly little butt from going anywhere. Better safe than sorry, right? I moved about three feet away, and started to do my makeup quickly so I could trick him into thinking that I don’t actually wander around free of makeup and  in pj pants all day. Oh, the lies you tell when putting your best foot forward, huh? No, I ALWAYS look great. I totally do not get pimples. I never yell “five second rule” when my favorite cookie drops on the kitchen floor, snatch it up, dust it off and eat it anyway. Never. Because I’m classy. All lies.

The getting ready part was intense. One coat of mascara, check the baby, eyeliner on one eye– looks great!– other eye– ooh, not matchy. Half cat eye, half Tammy Faye, ew– wipe off, try again, better. Check the baby. Bra. Where the hell is my bra? Why do I have to ask myself these things? Check the baby. Put shirt on. No, not that one, it has spit up on it. Yeah, that one. Looking good! Check the baby. Check the clock. Forget what time it is after five whole seconds and check the clock again. Check the baby. Concealer. Good. Powde–

The Scream

This is an artist’s rendition of what I looked like when I realized what happened. You can tell it’s me because of the perfectly applied mascara.

And then everything was stopped by the bloodcurdlingest, most indignant shriek I had ever heard. Munchkin, who had never been able to roll over before, decided to be a child prodigy. She some how not only figured out how to roll, but also how to escape the Himalayaesque mountain range of pillows I had used. End result? Plop. Wee child fell off the bed.

Munchkin wasn’t hurt. She was, however, frightened and more pissed off that I had ever seen her before, and was letting the entire world know that she was not impressed by this situation with a pitch perfect High C held long enough to make Maria Callas green with envy.

I picked her up, and tried to soothe her as I contemplated what a Heinous Mothering Crime I had just committed. What’s a reasonable new mom to do? Burst in to tears, of course. Not in a beautiful dramatic actress way, either. I fully mean in the snotty, red faced, blotchy, gross way.  She mostly calmed down, but it took me a little longer.

I had her in one arm, and I trudged back to the bathroom to wipe my now-puddly makeup off because it was leaking into my eyes and causing a lot of pain and itching.  Mascara with fibers is great when it’s actually on your lashes– ooh, the lengthening! The thickening!– but when it actually gets into your eye, you’re kind of screwed. That shit hurts.Since it’s probably made of tar and fiberglass, this kind of makes sense.

I had gotten one eye done, and there was a knock at the door. Remember how I started this story talking about how Johnny Rotten had asked me out, then inexplicably changed over to a story about the Munchkin? Yes. This is where the stories converge. I was a snotty, red eyed mess, my kid was still semi-squalling, and my first ‘sort of, kind of date’ in years was standing on my doorstep, probably staring at the door and waiting for the vision of beauty that I had pretended to be to greet him. Excellent. Lucky this was a just-friends-date and not a date-date, right?

I quickly invented the acronym “FML”, then answered the door.

Holy Hannah. He was cute. And he smelled good. And he didn’t look like he had been crying. Because I’m shallow and because he was cute, I really wanted this to be a date-date and not a just-friends-date. The Head And Shoulders slogan ran through my head and was kind enough to remind me, “you never get a second chance to make a first impression”. His first impression was neatly pressed, lightly cologned and clean shaven. My first impression was that of a big smile through snot and tears, of makeup by Courtney Love and ratty pj pants.  He wasn’t the unstable, inappropriate Internet Person; I was.

Damn it. FML.

Sunday short and shout: And that’s why I named her “Munchkin”

Munchkin asked why I chose her given name for her.

I told her it was because “Butthead” was already taken. Uh-huh. Uh-huh-huh-huh.

I’d never name her Butthead. She’s much more like Beavis’ alter-ego, Cornholio. (via Fanpop)

Honesty: it’s what brings mothers and tween daughters closer together.

I just realized there will be people scandalized by this, and they shouldn’t be. It’s not like I was going to name her ‘Butthead ‘for real. ‘Beavis’ would have been way classier. Also, My Aunt Becky would probably approve of this, because she’s a  totally rad bloggerina, one of the CoolKids, and– keep in mind I am yelling this like an emokid–“she understands me, not like YOU!”

You should go visit her over at Mommy Wants Vodka .

If reading things aren’t your style (and who can blame you? You’ve already read, like, 100 words here!) and you want to look at pretties instead, you really ought to go check out this shirt by cubik, because, well,  you should. Winnie the Pooh plus Tardis equals more win than you are ready for. Brace yourself. Winter is coming (and you’ll probably want to cover your torso, no? I hear nipple frostbite is a bitch.)

Disclaimer: I’m not paid for recommending these links to you in anything other than warm fuzzy feelings. I just think they’re both awesome.