A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, we went shopping for shoes.

I took Dylan and you, of course, and we went because I had a refund giftcard thingy to use up before it expired. I got shoes for Dylan, and also cute pink shoes for you.

I had been having a few contractions for a while now, but nothing really serious. I knew it could be any day now.

We went home and went about our day. That outing was the last thing on my to-do list before Christmas, and before you (it was also the last time I left the house before you were born). The presents were all wrapped, the cookies all baked, everything all decorated. Baby things all washed and set up. We. were. ready.

A year ago today, I went to bed only to wake up several hours later with contractions. Excited to get to use my app, I started tracking them. They were quite tolerable but became increasingly regular. Textbook. I woke your daddy and we called Labor and Delivery.

The nurse wasn’t convinced it was in real labor, because I didn’t sound like I was in enough pain. (All too true…) We called my friend to come over to watch Dylan just in case everything quickly ramped up. Were you ready?

Not yet.

A year ago today wasn’t your day.

Almost, though. Almost.


I have the best online Matron of Honor evar

Hello my wedding-enthused Psychos!

Remember back when I announced my online engagement to Shirtless Ryan Gosling and invited everyone to take part in our online wedding festivities?!

Let's make out and stuff.

Let’s make out and stuff.

Neither do I.

Now that I have sobered up, keep your glassy, dilated-in-the-presence-of-true-love eyeballs peeled for the big reveal of which esteemed bloggers earned coveted roles in the online wedding to end all online weddings….coming tomorrow!

But first, here’s a word (or 698) from my online Matron of Honor, Emily from The Waiting.

Dearly Beloved and Psychos,

We are gathered here today to get through this little thing called life.

Wait. I am not Prince. Dammit. I am always thinking that I am Prince. I blame it on the raspberry beret I found at a second hand store. And the pills.

I was honored when Lyssa invited me to be her online matron of honor, and by “invited” I mean patted me on my head as I strong-armed my way into her wedding and insisted I AM THE MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL THE PEOPLE. I knew immediately that she was a real friend because she humored me in my ill attempts to make her wedding all about me. Me me me me MEEEEE.

But today, I suppose I have to actually do something for her as she prepares for her walk down the aisle. Come with me as I take a trip to Target – AKA the Mothership – to buy all the very necessary items both a bride and a matron of honor need to make it through the big day.

Here I am emerging from Target after my last shopping excursion

Here I am emerging from Target after my last shopping excursion

1.     Boxed Wine

Because we are classy gals who live it up in the classiest ways available, I will be bypassing Milwaukee’s Finest and purchasing the choicest box of Chardonnay available for Lyssa. We’ll shoot it back with Dixie Cups right before the ceremony. What is a wedding without inebriation? That was not a rhetorical question. Put your best punchline in the comments.

2.     A Sewing Kit

Here in Irony World, we spend three month’s salaries on a dress we will only wear once. Said dress was fashioned out of tissue paper and that gauzey spiderweb netting you see around Halloween at Dollar Tree. So I’ll be bringing along a little sewing kit to remedy any snafus that may occur prior to the ceremony. My girl Lyssa needs to look good. She will not walk down the aisle to an awaiting Shirtless Ryan Gosling with a missing sleeve.

3.     Band-Aids

Murphy’s Law is the prevailing law of wedding days. On my own wedding night, I sliced my toe open on a broken bottle of champagne and had to phone my own maid of honor to deliver us a giant box of bandages and Neosporin. I think the word you’re looking for is “sexy.” Screw something borrowed; I’ll be setting Mrs. Shirtless Gosling up with a fully-stocked first aid kit to remedy any paper cuts she may incur from rogue wedding invitations.

4.     Mace

I am anticipating a lot of jilted ex-lovers of Shirtless Ryan Gosling showing up on the day of the wedding. Therefore, I will be arming myself with a giant can of mace to show them who’s boss. Lyssa will likely already have a katana sword with her on the big day, because, y’know, LYSSA. Mace will also come in handy in case the chicken being served at the reception is a bit underseasoned. Two years in fine dining taught me how to spruce up an entree in a pinch. Lyssa is so lucky to have me.

5.     Beef Jerky

The one thing they don’t tell you before you get married is that it’s really hard to get food in your facehole on the big day. You are too busy posing for pictures, gettin’ your hair did, and pretending to care about makeup to actually eat something. So by the time the day is over and it’s time to get your groove on with your hubs (AND celebrate the fact that you can now use the term “hubs” to refer to him because we all know what a winner that term of endearment is, amiright?), your blood sugar levels have dipped so low that you barely have enough energy to extrapolate yourself out of your dress, much less make sexy time. So what better way to ensure that Lyssa will have the energy to make a man out of SRG than to fill her up with dehydrated meat throughout the day? That’s as filthy as it sounds.

May Lyssa and Shirtless Ryan Gosling have a wonderful day and lifetime filled with love and shirtlessness.

Forever and ever, Amen.

Goldilocks and the Illusive Pair of Pants

As I sat there in a department store dressing room, quietly rocking and talking to myself, I realized just how small I was inside this monstrosity people call The Mall.

What floor am I on?  Wait…I don’t even remember which store I’m in.  How do I get out?!  Where did I park the car?  What if I just stayed in here, read my book?  Would anybody find me?  Might I get locked inside and spend a horror-filled night terrorized by racks of radioactive disgruntled pants?

I decided I had better put my own pants back on and start the task of finding an exit- any exit- so I could make it home before nightfall.


not mine...this is my stunt double

Since I had the day off work today, I decided to make a trek out to the local Mall to maybe, hopefully, find some pants that didn’t creep up my butt or slice my tummy in half if I were to sit down for too long.  Now, I am not a Mall person.  The only thing I really like about them is people-watching, and maybe people-watching while stuffing my face with a hot, gooey cinnabon…mmm…cinnabon. When I go shopping alone I also end up talking out loud to myself like a crazy person and I get lost easily which makes me mad because that’s just what those evil Mall designers want to happen!

I particularly hate shopping for pants because it basically makes me feel like shit until I find some that actually fit and look cute on me.  Trust me, it ain’t my butt that’s the problem, cuz my butt is awesome.  It’s that people CAN’T. MAKE. PANTS. for butts like mine + the way I like to wear my pants. (read: I am not a hoochie, whale-tail baring teenager anymore, nor am I a pants-up-past-my-belly-button mom jeans wearing mom)  I want something right in the middle.

This brings me to my next dilemma: I am caught between two worlds in department stores.  Today I found myself slowly, idly wandering the women’s floor not liking the mom jeans that are baggy and ride up to my armpits and the huge, shapeless sweaters.  So then I tried the juniors departments, with the loud, pumping house music where the pants start at size <000 and are supposed to be skin-tight and are so low-cut that they’ll show half my ass crack if I even think about bending over. (Sorry that I just made you picture my ass crack.  Oops, did it again.  Moving on.)  In short, going to the Mall creates this mini existential crisis for me.  Who am I?  Who do I want to be?  Where do I fit in?  Why is this music so loud?!

If I had to choose one, I still do feel more at home in the juniors departments, but it’s just super hard to find pants for me that will fit comfortably over my ladyparts and be midrise -not too low and not too high- that juuuust right feeling.  I propose creating a new department that will be for hip, professional, non-parent 20- and 30-somethings that will be something in between hoochie child and soccer mom.  Maybe something ‘tasteful with a pinch of slut.’  I’ll be accepting ideas from the public on this one.

So, after all this wandering, searching, crazy mumbling, tugging and pulling on pants, getting lost…I found myself hiding in the dressing room, wallowing in defeat.  The one flash of hope was when a tall, handsome, Aryan stranger (salesperson) at one of those kiosks in the middle of the Mall walkways tried to give me a sample of something.  “No, thanks!” I said, and kept on walking.

“Wait, Miss?” he called out.  I hesitated and turned.  In his sexy non-American accent he said: “Let me show you something amazing.”

You have magic-fitting pants in that kiosk?!  was my first thought.  But, alas, it wasn’t to be.  I turned and ran away before he could lure me with body lotion or a bag of Cheetos.

Needless to say, I come home pantsless today (well, at least I came home wearing the pants I had on when I left for the Mall).   I’ll be back another day, Mall.  Just you wait.  Juuuust…you….wait.