Let's Resolve To Repeat Last Year's Mistakes

Ever notice that some people are gluttons for punishment? I would be classified as such. Although my plan is to make 2010 festive, productive, and positive (ok, that's a stretch), I'll likely wind up struggling in the same ways. And what's up with New Year's Resolutions? You know you're just going to break them. Let's take a look back at some of the happenings in MY crazy life, circa 2009.

1. While searching for raw goat milk (come get me FDA), a (roughly) 97-year-old man made a suggestion. "I've got a goat here I'll sell ya for $100. I've been thinking about it, and I think you can handle her."

Handle her? WTF? Will I be placing her in an agility contest? "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure we can't have livestock in our cul-de-sac. It's a little like Peyton Place."

2. I now realize I have a static disorder. I spent half the day with a dryer sheet hanging on to my wool coat for dear life. That's special, friends. And by the way, where the heck did it come from? I haven't used toxic dryer sheets in years.

3. I've learned the true meaning of "heading south". Pregnancy #2 is really doing a number on my poor boobs (TMI, I'm sure). The "up" side to this (pardon the pun) is that I'm already producing a little colostrum. I may even milk myself and give Hayden some in a sippy. I'm pretty sure that's legal in our cul-de-sac.

Although I hope 2010 doesn't include milking a neighborhood goat (or myself) and wearing a dryer sheet for periods longer than 5 minutes, I know many other mishaps will be repeated. Stay tuned for details.

P.S. Have a Happy New Year.

P.P.S. Don't bother sending me hate mail about the anti-depressant New Year's greeting. I'm not on an anti-depressant (since I'm pregnant). For those of you who are, I'm sure your outlook for 2010 is much brighter.

Cheers!

Would You Like An Internal Enema With That?

Have you ever had the shit kicked out of you? I wonder if that's common during pregnancy? I ask because I'm fairly sure the baby is going to empty the contents of my colon with one more swift kick in the ass like I've been getting. She's breech, the little rebel.

If I Woke Up Tomorrow With My Head Sewn To The Carpet, I Wouldn't Be More Surprised Than I Am Right Now...

I'm rarely surprised by anyone's actions, thanks in part to a good friend's advice. Hold your expectations low so nobody can disappoint you. Because they have. For years. Friends, men, strangers. I'm sick to freakin' death of everyone who's let me down.

But, today I'm sickened. Julie Gerberding, former Director at the CDC, has now been named President of Merck Vaccines. Is anyone other than families struck by autism concerned about this? Coincidence? Hmm, I think not. Mainstream media coverage? No, I'm sure it'll take a back seat to UK's 2,000th win.

Just let me say, that's like appointing my fat ass as Executive Director to Hostess Snack Cakes. This takes the cake, literally. And if I was Executive Director of Hostess Snack Cakes, I'd distribute Hostess Snack Cakes Shove-It-Up-Your-Ass Awards. Why yes, Julie, that's nearly the exact size I had in mind. Enjoy your success.



For more information (about Julie Gerberding, not the Snack Cake Awards) , head to Adventures in Autism's post.

Happy Holidays From Our Slightly Dysfunctional Family To Yours...

Except for my son, he's perfect. But, he wishes you a Merry Christmas, too.

Running Around Like a Chicken With Its Head Cut Off

My rooster had an accident. It happened during a game of living room beach ball. He was sitting on a shelf, minding his own business, when a foul ball (is there such a thing as a foul in volleyball?) knocked the wind out of his sail. It's happened before, and I'm sure it'll happen again. Our poor rooster looks like something Picasso would've created. He's had more accidents than any chicken deserves. It's time to put him to rest.

Hours later, we were scurrying around, involved in our night-time routine. Supplements given? Check. Pajamas on? Check. Teeth brushed? Check. All of the sudden, my son grabbed the rooster and said, "The rooster's got no head."

I stopped doing dishes. I thought about how Brock and I were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Then, I realized how lucky we were that Hayden's language is improving. We'd traipse around like that rooster a thousand times over to continue hearing his voice. "You're right. The rooster doesn't have a head, Hayden."

Gas money for a trip to Hobby Lobby: $5.
Replacing the decorative rooster: $10.
Hearing your autistic child state the obvious on SO many levels: Priceless.

My Age of Autism Article

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

Today my article ran on Age of Autism. A button-up and matching pinny couldn't make me happier...

Ho, Ho, Ho

Some people deck the halls, hang the mistletoe, and decorate the tree. I, on the other hand, head to eBay and sell my ugly inherited Christmas sweaters. I obtain my groceries in a timely manner so I don't have to leave the house for the next two weeks. I grab every anti-viral herb and supplement my health food store has to offer, because Hayden's school district is giving the swine flu mist to any child whose parents agree (the mist is a live virus and is contageous). I'm not cooking, I'm not gifting (except for Hayden), I'm not caroling, and I may or may not send out festive Christmas cards.

Have a happy holiday season.

Question for the Masses

What idiot brought skinny jeans back in fashion? Men, you likely have no idea what I'm referring to. I don't mean jeans for skinny women. I mean skinny-legged jeans for all sized women. Since I am forced to marathon shop when I accompany my husband, I ran into a store the other day (the likes of which would make most women cringe...but not me, I don't care where I shop). I picked up a few pairs of maternity jeans, made a mad dash to the dressing rooms, and slipped those puppies on.

As I observed myself in the 3/4 length clown mirror, I realized that these jeans had enough room for my fat ass to grow considerably. I bought 'em. Imagine my shock and disbelief when I tried them on at home (after a good washing, of course) and realized they were, indeed, skinny jeans.

I've sworn for years I'd never wear those things again. I prefer the bell-bottomed hippy jeans instead. Heck, Oprah even warned of the disastrous results of wearing skinny jeans, just a few years ago. Let me just say that M.C. Hammer and I had one very disturbing thing in common. I was wearing parachute pants. And I don't have a choice. I'm too poor to buy new ones.

Now, I don't know about being dope on the floor and magic on the mic, but I can say that the similarity between M.C. Hammer's wardrobe attire and my choice of maternity pants is uncanny.