Mandajuice

She even covered my two favorite topics: boobs and sex

Heather Armstrong rocked the house tonight at Powell's bookstore in Portland.  She was hilarious as usual and even more so in person than in writing, which is no small feat.  I swear the Tennessee accent makes everything she says 98% more riotous.  But more than anything else, she seemed really really happy and that made me (and the Twin Peaks of zitdom on my chin) happy too.
(Photo taken by the lovely and talented RhiRhi who joined me for cocktails beforehand with our pal Kerrianne).

I live about thirty seconds from a Border's Books and it's not unusual for me to leave the house and get writing done there on the weekends.  Lately I've been using the store like a library to do sex scene research for my book (am I too raunchy? not raunchy enough? It's hard to know what's just right.) (She said in her best imitation of Barry White's voice.) Anyway the last time I was there, I headed straight to the new releases section and found Heather's book: It Sucked and Then I Cried.

I hate to even admit this so earnestly, but something about seeing her book right there on the wall at my local Border's made me eerily sentimental.  My hand flew to my chest and covered my heart pledge-of-allegiance style as my eyes read her name on the front cover and then I plucked her baby off the shelf and bought it immediately with my rad 40% off coupon.

She did it.

How effing awesome is that?

"What a sick masochistic lion"

I just spent the last hour re-reading old blog posts and I'm filled with nostalgia and a little bit of grief, so take this post for what's it's worth.  I have a bunch of photos piling up on my camera but my card-reader is broken and they're momentarily stuck there, at least until this pomegranate martini buzz wears off and I can drive to Wal-Mart and buy myserlf a new one.  Upcoming photos include: SPRING! Adorable children and Genoa screaming her ever-loving (adorable) ass off. 

Speaking of... someone has decided to start fighting her naps.  I knew this was coming, but I honestly thought she'd wait until she was closer to four instead of three.  The thing is, she NEEDS her naps.  The day after she skips a nap she spends the entire morning as the devil incarnate.  It's scary, but obviously meaningless to her almost-three year old brain. She just will. not. nap.

Alex, on the other hand, has turned into somewhat of an angel.  On Tuesday while his sister literally SCREAMED BLOODY MURDER through the entire thirty minutes, he adorably chatted up my hair dresser while she cut his hair.  I was so busy with Ms. G that I  barely had the chance to take note of how awesome and good and cute he was being.

In fact it feels like the contrast between my two children lately is like night and day.  Like Summer and Winter.  Like the Cullens and those other human-eating Bad Vampires.

He's just so... good.  So sweet.  I mean, don't get me wrong, he still loves pestering his sister, but a lot of that is just how easy she is to pester.  You basically LOOK at her and she'll scream. 

So this afternoon I decided to reward him by taking him to see Monsters vs. Aliens while his sister stayed home with Grandma.  He loved it and aside from the freakishly large eyes of the main character (Gianormica?) I liked it too.  It was a sharp contrast from the Twilight movie, which is currently playing in the background as I write this post on a Friday night, our FOURTH showing is three days, this time at Genoa's request.  In fact both kids LOVE the Twilight movie.  Alex loves the scary vampires and Genoa loves Bella and the fact that she gets to kiss her prince.  (Admittedly, I'm a sucker for that part too).

I've been keeping busy with my book writing, eating chili and trying to keep my house from falling apart around me.  27,000 words and counting!  I'm busting ass and taking names.  I know other writers will back me up when I say this, but nothing in my life up this point has been anywhere near as excrutiating while filling me with such ass-kicking fulfillment.  Well, aside from childbirth.  But if that's the right analogy, then seriously, I'm WAY overdue for my epidural.

Eight pounds

My bathroom scale has recently informed me that I've gained approximately eight pounds since the last time I stepped onto it, which was, I dunno, around Christmas time?  Our bathroom looks like a tornado went through it and I finally had to dig the stupid thing out from underneath a pile of towels and scrounge it up some square footage on the tile before I could check my weight.  Needless to say I wasn't pleased with the number.

I'm sure there are many reasons for the gain, but the number one factor is MY STUPID BOOK.  I've definitely noticed that I spend countless more hours per week with my ass in a chair than ever before and unlike the last time I had a 9-to-5 job, I now do all this sitting at home, mere feet away from a pantry filled with rad snacks (like potato chips dipped in ketchup!) (no, seriously, try this at home - it's like eating extra crispy french fries).  Not to mention I've noticed a steep decrease in getting out with the kids and/or inviting people over.  I even clean my house less often, which is sadly just about my only form of exercise.

This isn't the first time I've put on extra weight since my surgery and the last time it happened was right after I quit my job to stay home with Alex.  That time I was thinner to start with and I put on about 15 pounds.  I lost most of it again by simply NOT buying any more boxes of See's Candy.

This time I'll take a similar approach.  I absolutely DO NOT DIET, so my "plan" is really just about acknowledging some bad behaviors I've adopted over the winter. I tend to gain weight above the belt, so my jeans still feel fine, but I think I'm over-pudging some of my sweaters.  I also want to look smart for the writing conference I'm planning to attend this summer and I don't want to have to buy a bunch of new clothes to make that happen. 

So here's the plan (NOT A DIET):

- increase protein intake (I started this one already by switching from oatmeal to cottage cheese for breakfast and by making another huge batch of my homemade chili to eat for lunch).
- start making dinner again.
- cut down on overall sugar intake (note: this does not mean I'll stop eating sweets!  It just means I'll stop after ONE brownie, not three).
- drink less booze (I know! DUH!)

For the most part, just KNOWING that I've gained weight is enough to help me take it back off again.  I just need to make several smaller better choices every day.  If this doesn't work, I don't know what I'll do.  Exercise??

BLASPHEMY!

PS - Still taking suggestions for a new tag line.

Help a mother out

Good things are coming soon to a website near you, but Her Majesty Webnerd von Sweetney has warned me things might get a little wonky for a couple days while she's working her magic on my site.  If you can't access me at www.mandajuice.com then try mandajuice.typepad.com and see if that works. 

In the meantime, I'm overdue to change my tag line.  We all know this website was named after my boobjuice (we all knew that, right?) and I've been fond of the tag line "freshly squeezed" because given what a horndog my husband is, the girls usually are freshly squeezed, but it's time for something new.  I've been wracking yee olde brain to think of something slightly edgier and more badass.  I mean, how many mommybloggers do you know who shoot AK-47's on the weekend?  But so far I haven't thought of anything.

So, I'll be mailing a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies (or fudge if you prefer) to whoever comes up with my new slogan.

Ready, set, GO.

Juror Number Six

I was on call for jury duty all week, but somehow, when my number came up for Friday morning, part of me just KNEW I'd end up on a jury.  It felt like my time was up.  I got there around eight and spent most of the morning waiting in the jury assembly room and I ended up getting enough writing done to actually kill the battery on my Macbook.  By around 10:00, we were taken to the courtroom and only the first 13 of us were given numbers and had to sit in the jury box.  NONE OF US were dismissed so the lawyers had to pick the final jury of six from the first 13 and I ended up getting picked. 

They never really said I couldn't talk about the case, but I'll be vague anyway.  It was a DUI, one in which the driver's blood alcohol concentration was only .03 - less than half the legal limit of .08.  The city was attempting to build a case that the defendant was altered enough from other medications that the single beer he drank impaired his ability to drive.  My reasonable doubt was never extinguished and eventually we all found a verdict of not guilty.  For something as simple as a DUI, the entire case was unbelievably complex and I found myself at times equally sympathetic to both the prosecution and the defense.  But in the end, the police never took a blood test and there was no other evidence to suggest that the man had been driving under the influence.  One beer, even at 7:30 in the morning, does not make you a drunk driver, no matter how batshit crazy you're acting.

We did find him guilty of one out of two counts of assault, though, and BOY are those some difficult laws to read and understand.  So - you can use reasonable force to defend yourself, even if you perceive a threat that isn't actually there, but not if you provoke the other party first?  Hoo boy, the things I learned on Friday!  (First up - STAY AWAY FROM CRAZY PEOPLE - no matter how pissed you are that they busted up your ride!)

I also learned that if I exist in some other parallel universe in which I'm single with pretty shoes and no children?  I am, beyond a reasonable doubt (ha), some kind of a litigator in that other universe.  Being a lawyer doesn't jive well family life and there's that whole thing about how much I'd hate law school, but that doesn't make me feel any less like I totally missed my calling.  I shoulda been a lawyer.  At the end of the day, I ended up as head juror and had the thrilling job of reading the verdicts to the courtroom.  It was fun, but the fact that I was looking down at the words meant I missed the look on the defendant's face when I said, "not guilty."

Did I ever share the story about Dave's first week of work as a bona fide real-life LAWYER? After years of law school and bar exam studying and abject poverty, that first week of seeing him put on a suit and walk out the door and go to the job he'd been anticipating his entire life, well, it was downright DELICIOUS.  When he got home every night after work, it was all I could do not to rip him right out of his suit and jump his bones with his feet still in his shoes.  Of course that was before I learned the sad truth that lawyers?  They don't come home horny so much as they come home crabby and exhausted and in need of a glass of scotch and a hot meal, not a wife who wants to get all up in their business (suits).  Anyway, what I'm saying is that I have a special brand of appreciation for men who are lawyers, a brand whose logo is a pair of horns.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when after, I dunno, six hours of listening to the defense attorney verbally divide and conquer his way through the prosecutor's every point, piece of evidence and witness, I started thinking, "Hey - is it me or is this guy kinda cute?"  I'm not lying when I say that a parade of no less than three beefy thick-necked police officers in uniform took the witness stand during the all-day trial and yet I found myself more smitten with the chubby bespectacled attorney in the ill-fitting suit who reminded me not only of a scruffy-bearded Seth Rogan (DEAD-RINGER - they could be brothers), but also the hunky piece of lawyer beef I had waiting for me at home. (What can I say? After the THIRD TIME you've heard the same line of questioning about where exactly the city's boundary lies, YOUR MIND TENDS TO WANDER).  That was also when I noticed that the prosecutor had pretty pretty shoes.

It might sound like I'm making light of the legal system, but the truth is that I took the trial yesterday very seriously.  As much as I might have liked to spend TWELVE HOURS of my life in another capacity, I was actually happy to be there, glad to see the legal process first hand and somber with the responsibility of seeing that justice was served.  I'd like to think it was.

Mom interview

This thing has been going around the Internet like pink eye at a preschool and it was every bit as fun as I thought it would be. Genoa gave me a lot of copycat answers, but she also came up with some good stuff on her own.

1. What is something mom always says to you?
ALEX: Stop doing that.

GENOA: I. do. not. know. mom.

2. What makes mom happy?
ALEX: Kissing.

GENOA: Sitting.

3. What makes mom sad?
ALEX: When you not give her a kiss when she askes you to.

GENOA: Not kissing.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
ALEX: By making silly faces.

GENOA: By saying silly things.

5. What was your mom like as a child?
ALEX: A Barbie girl.

GENOA: A butt. (I'll buy you a Bratz doll that doesn't eat!).

6. How old is your mom?
ALEX: 32 (correct for another two weeks!)

GENOA: 3

7. How tall is your mom?
ALEX: 3 feet

GENOA: 3

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
ALEX: Go out with her children.

GENOA: Play!

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
ALEX: Work upstairs on your computer.

GENOA: Work on your computer upstairs with the door locked.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
ALEX: Kissing.

GENOA: A child.

11. What is your mom really good at?
ALEX: Working and writing.

GENOA: Working.

12. What is your mom not very good at?
ALEX: Fixing

GENOA: Fixing towers that don't come off.

13. What does your mom do for her job?
ALEX: Write!

GENOA: Building a tower.

14. What is your mom's favorite food?
ALEX: Chili.

GENOA: Carrots.

15. What makes you proud of your mom?
ALEX: You kissing me.

GENOA: Kissing.

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
ALEX: Hannah Montana

GENOA: Sporticus.

17. What do you and your mom do together?
ALEX: Go somewhere fun.

GENOA: Play blocks.

18. How are you and your mom the same?
ALEX: We both have curly hair.

GENOA: You, me and Alex. (I asked her several times and this question did. not. compute.)

19. How are you and your mom different?
ALEX: We don't look the same.

GENOA: Me, you and Alex. (Neither did this one).

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
ALEX: Because you told me.

GENOA: Because I'm a princess.

21. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
ALEX: The store.

GENOA: Fred Meyer

Blog as barometer: how much do you drink?

Next week I'm scheduled for a lovely trip down lady bits lane and as much as I love filling out medical questionnaires (I really honestly LOVE it - easy questions! I get 100% of them correct!), this time I found myself stumbling a bit when it came time to answer the question, "How many alcoholic beverages do you drink every week?"

I hesitated a little before writing down the truth and that moment of hesitation, which was only the tiniest hint of a pause, well, I found it a little unsettling.

My answer? 10 drinks a week.

I guess my problem with the question is that it lumps the whole week together and I'd honestly never bothered to add it all up before.  I usually have a pear cider every night during the week with dinner (5).  If I'm out of cider, I often substitute a cocktail; sometimes I don't.  On Friday and Saturday nights, I usually switch to cocktails and have a couple (4) with a very occasional third (1). If you add that all up, it's ten drinks a week.  And I'll be honest - there are days when I have a cider with dinner AND a cocktail after the kids go to bed. The one thing I (almost) never do is have more than three drinks in a night - it jacks up my blood sugar too much.

I never really thought about it until I had to write it down, but I was surprised it was a double-digit number.  Part of me can already hear my European readers getting a deep, hearty belly-laugh from this question, but I was raised in a house where no one drank EVER and maybe that's the reason it seems strange to me.  Until my mom started making her own Limoncello, I'd never seen her so much as touch a bottle of hard liquor.  It just wasn't part of our culture at home.

But it is part of mine.  Dave appreciates a nice glass of scotch and I look forward to an adult beverage at the end of the day in much the same way I think a lot of women look forward to chocolate (which I can't eat at night or I don't sleep well).  I usually mix vodka with lemonade or pomegranate juice (antioxidants!) and often even sugar the rims of my glasses.  A well-made cocktail, especially if I use fresh fruit, is better than DESSERT to me.  It's one of the very few instances in which I'd rather drink than eat my calories. 

A brief googling of the question reassures me that my drinking falls under the "moderate" category, which is up to two drinks a day for a man, one for a woman (the fact that I weigh as much as the average man keeps me solidly within the healthy range) and may even be GOOD for my health (reduces risk of death by both heart disease and cancer for starters). Of course my answer to the NEXT question on the medical survey - "How many caffeinated beverages do you drink every week?" completely negates any of the health benefits I may derive from the booze.  (I also answered that question honestly when I wrote: TOO MANY TO COUNT.)

But still, I'm curious - how much do you drink in a week? How would you fill in that blank?

The white house

In June, Dave and I will have owned this lovely slice of real estate for two years, which, if you're doing the math at home, means we pretty much bought at the peak of the market and have officially LOST OUR SHIRTS on the investment.  Like tons of other Americans, we're in the unfortunate position of owing more on the house than it's worth, kind of a lot more, and there's absolutely NOTHING we can do about it.  We're stuck here.

But here's the thing:  It doesn't matter.

We picked the right house.  (For us.)  And if you want to know how we did it - in 5 easy steps - I direct you to my post today at Alpha Mom: How to choose a family home in a down real estate market.  It could save you some heartache, not to mention all those wasted hours of HGTV reruns.

Oh Brother

My brother Tom went back home to California last night after five days of hanging out with us.  I did my best to show him a good time, but my life as a stay-at-home mom is only SO exciting.  I did manage to get him good and liquored up on Saturday night while we watched BSG, so there's that. (Yes, the highlight of my week involves watching the Science Fiction channel.  Am nerd! Shut up!)

I'm always curious to hear about how well people get along with their siblings.  I love all my brothers and sisters, obviously, but I've often noticed that we tend to do better when we see each other in small doses.  Of course my brother Tom is the exception to that rule because he's just so ridiculously easy going.  The two of us could not be more opposite in just about every way.  For every opinion I WITHHOLD, the man (how weird is it to call a kid whose diaper I remember changing a MAN?!) maybe has the tiniest HINT of a SUGGESTION to share.  Meaning: I have nothing more than a flimsy recycled coffee filter between what I think and what I say and Tom has a Mack Truck.  It makes him extra easy to be around, a fact I found myself appreciating on multiple occasions over the past five days.

It's always been funny to me how four children with EXACTLY the same set of two parents and clearly similar genetic material could grow up to have such monumentally different personalities.  My older brother Dan and I are definitely the louder of the four: outgoing, enthusiastic, opinionated (who? me?) and it's obvious that we take after our gregarious mother, but the younger sibs, Tom and Audrey, are quiet and recluse in comparison and it strikes me that they are a bit more like our dad, who is as amiable and easy-going as they come.  (Until he gets PISSED, an event I've witnessed exactly THREE times in all my 32 years!) (All three of which involved my brother Dan and his particular brand of teenage defiance.) (This makes me REALLY look forward to when my kids are teenagers.)

Sometimes I wish I could be closer to my siblings, but because of our age differences and basic geography, it doesn't much work out that we're all that close.  We chat online often enough, which is cool, but it's nothing at all like what Dave has with his brother, which is 100% unabashed best-friendship.  Even 1000 miles away from each other, the two of them are inseparable. They still talk on the phone every single day.

I think a big chunk of the reason why my siblings and I aren't so close is that we had such ridiculously happy childhoods.  There was no need for unity in the face of parental oppression - we barely even had to notice each other. I guess the easier your childhood is, the more self-absorbed you get to be.

The one thing it does make me feel better about, though, is how little I have to do with WHO my kids grow up to be.  I hope I have a big chunk of influence over HOW they grow up and HOW their childhoods will shape their lives, but WHO they are?  That ship pretty much sailed away along with my dreams for all-natural pain-free childbirths.  As far as I'm concerned, people are born into their personalities and try as you might, there's not a damn thing you can do about it.  I'm bossy, opinionated, loud and cheerful and no amount of parental influence could or would have changed me in any way.

Just remind me to bookmark this post when my kids become teenagers.

Weekend adventures include barf, hail, German fighters

Did you catch that thing I did in my last post? Where I said:

"Don't ever brag about not being sick on your blog" and then "the good news is that Genoa is all better."  RIGHT THERE IN THE SAME POST? Because clearly I am a Geeeeeenius.

Genoa seemed fine all day Friday and we enjoyed our beautiful drive down the gorge with my brother, but lo, the child was still sick and we woke up on Saturday morning to yet more barfage.  Of course that was the same day I had invited my whole local family over to eat lasagna with my brother, so we had to cancel our party.  You can imagine how much I loved doing that (PARTY OR DIE being my motto), but honestly, barf is non-negotiable.  I'm cool with all manner of snot and phlegm and even RASHES, but barf?  Barf is my line in the sand.

On Friday night, we took Tom to see Watchmen and left the kids with Carol.  When we got home Genoa informed me that she was sorry, but she had "poop barf" while we were gone.  Which poor Grandma Carol was left to attend to while we were enjoying the wang movie.  (Seriously, never have I seen so much penis in a movie.) (Not that I'm complaining.) (But yes, Watchmen is full of glowing blue man parts.) (Also an extremely WELL MADE movie.)

So of course Grandma woke up 24 hours later barfing HER guts out.  I keep knocking myself upside the head when Carol gets sick.  I forget that anything WE get, she gets WORSE because her immune system is so much more compromised.  I really shouldn't let her into the house within WEEKS of my kids being sick, but I really had thought Genoa was 100% improved.  I thought we were done with it. I obviously need to be much more careful next time.

Yesterday we piled into the car, the same car that really doesn't fit five humans, particularly not when two of them are in car seats, and drove to Tillamook, Oregon. Home of the cheese!  And also a really cool airplane museum that Dave had been dying to check out. The drive itself was both beautiful - through a gorgeous mountain pass - and exciting - we experienced just about every type of precipitation known to man.  Tom got to witness firsthand everything from rain, to BUCKETS of rain, sleet, slush, snow, and best of all - hail so hard it stung your hand when you stuck it out the window.  

And the museum itself was really cool, built almost entirely out of wood: And it had even cooler planes.  Note the enormous grin on my husband's face.  He'll tell you it's FAKE, but it's SO totally NOT FAKE.  He's a huge WWII nerd.I found the German WWII fighter particularly interesting because it was so small. Were Germans extra tiny in the 1940's? Because during my last visit, I found Germany to be the one of the only countries in which I didn't feel ENORMOUS. But this plane looked like it was made more for someone Alex's size than Dave's. And here's a fun little self-portrait I took in a shiny shiny plane. The full set can be seen on Flickr.