Spit in my Eye With Alpha Phi

While waiting in a ridiculously long line at the Las Vegas Airport's Starbucks, I overheard the following conversation between two sorority sisters (I know they were sorority sisters because they looked like 13 year-old prostitutes; and the only pause in their discussion about which has more carbs-croissants or scones-was to swap rush stories. Look, it was a long line, okay!?):
A: (Taking her wallet out) I'm getting this!
B: NO! There's no way. I know you couldn't afford this trip, and I'm. . .
A: NO! You've paid for too much. . .
B: (Taking A by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, and exclaiming LOUDLY) Listen to me. It's my parents' money; IT DOESN'T MATTER.
Wow.
B loudly repeated that whole "it doesn't matter" line several times before A eventually shrugged, put her wallet away, and gathered extra snacks since she wasn't footing the bill after all.
Look, we all go through dumbass phases when we think our parents are retarded, have never felt the same feelings we're feeling, or owe us something. I can let that slide based on the age of these girls. But for Cripe's sake, have some degree of humility, of realization that you're surrounded by old people (old people who haven't had their coffee yet!) who certainly are NOT sympathetic to your fucktarded argument. (A bunch of us curmudgeons exchanged squinted "WTF?" looks.)
Reader, I'm begging you: If my kids ever remotely mirror these turdettes, please take me by the shoulders, look deep into my eyes, and spit right in my face. I'll get the message.

The Most Awesome Invention You've Never Heard Of

The Egg Ring! Make your own Egg McMuffins!

Glamourous Motherhood

Our house is in such a state of disaster I could laugh. . .if I lived next-door. Since it's mine to clean, I'm pretty dejected. Although I certainly can't blame Henry for the entire mess, I can explain away most of it with the trite observation that one year olds are remarkably destructive. I'm packing for an adults only vacation we've been planning for months. (Up until 6 am today, I have been excited about this vay-cay: fantasizing about sleeping late, taking naps, soaking up rays, getting tipsy on tropical drinks, reading Stephanie Meyer books without guilt; but when I woke up this morning I began to dread leaving our separation-anxiety ridden cutie, missing his drooly face, feeling guilty for leaving Tripp's mom alone for four nights with a teething one year old, and feeling overall kind of terrible. I can't win. ) Anyway, I started packing today. When I realized I hadn't heard the cacophony of xylophones and the slurred singing of various battery-depleted stuffed animals in a while, I decided a responsible mother would probably try to find her child. And since I'm TRYING to be a responsible mother, I picked myself up from the middle of a pile of bathing suits and mismatched socks to go find him. During the 300 square feet I walked until I found Henry splashing happily in toilet water, I discovered he had unrolled two toilet paper rolls (he creatively decided to tear one entire roll into tiny pieces and place them in the tub and traced the other roll through the house Hansel and Gretel style); he also emptied his sock drawer and melded it with the contents of his upended hamper, dumped Lucy's food bowls, transplanted the toilet plunger from the bathroom to the kitchen table, and knocked down the ironing board (we've learned enough to put the iron on a HIGH shelf). This is on top of the discovery that the lemon body spray I'd been looking forward to wearing on this trip had exploded (?!), several loads of brightly colored laundry appear to have been bleached (although we haven't used bleach in weeks--the latest in a string of washing machine-related conspiracies), and the discovery that my post-pregnancy feet no longer fit into the cute, impractical shoes I'd been planning to wear on our trip.
The never-ending, hamster-wheel feel of cleaning, feeding, and entertaining (repeat infinity times) that is mommy life sometimes leaves me feeling brain-dead and asking the existential question, "What is the point?" But as I was typing this Henry ran up to the computer, threw his hands in the air (in other words, "Pick me the hell up!"--on another note, Henry doesn't speak. At all. Not a word. A few weeks ago, I heard a kid his age say "teeth" and point to the appropriate body part on a giant plastic alligator. What's up with this?), jumped in my lap, bit my head (I'm convinced this is his attempt to kiss me) and squealed with delight. Sigh. This will be you soon, all my pregnant friends. It's not glamorous. But it's pretty awesome.

Thanks to Everyone!

A BIG thank you to all the Bitching With Bethany podcast guests, who have made this past year so much fun! An especially BIG thanks to my most dependable regulars: Tripp and Weddle. You guys are the wind beneath my wings. Tripp has put in countless (well, probably around 20) hours to get this debauched freak-show off the ground and running smoothly. I can't thank you enough, Turd Ferguson.
Slightly smaller, but just as sincere, special thank you to others who have put so much effort towards making this podcast so disgusting and humiliating: Alan, Ben, Eli, Chuck, John, Danny and Keith. Also, of course, a hearty thank you to our loyal yet bored and morally devoid listeners.
We're closing in on 4,000 downloads in BWB's first 10 months. Can we beat this next year?! You bet your sweet ass we can.

Special Snowflake

Each child is different. Everyone, from my grandmother (mother of 7; grandmother of 14) to the friendly Kroger bagger has told me so. You can't predict how your future children will look (or more importantly, ACT) based on the child who's wailing and banging his head on the floor because you won't let him watch more than 25 episodes of "Yo Gabba Gabba" without seeing the light of day for a few minutes. (On a side note, isn't that strange? Assuming a first child has the same parents as subsequent children, the second, etc. is being created by the same mishmash of genetic material. And (s)he's being raised by the same people at, approximately, the same time. Really, siblings SHOULD be more alike than they are, right?!) Anyway, Tripp and I have gone back and forth about whether or not we want more kids. Henry is wonderful--he has enriched our lives in ways I never could have imagined. I love him, and I would never change anything about him. That being said, I don't know if I could make it through another Henry. As a newborn/infant, Henry screamed A LOT. He also didn't sleep much. While the baby books say newborns generally sleep around 16-18 hours/day, Henry slept about 9, mostly in 10-20 minute intervals which were mere parentheses to his hours and hours of shrill, red-faced shrieking. Things have gotten much better, but the kid still tends to be very, shall we say, vocal. I love that about him. But I don't think I'm strong enough for another kid like him; and we can't guarantee that a future child won't be just as intense.
All of this flashed through my brain today during a playdate. A woman with two impossibly cute and well-tempered little girls (one around 3, the other around 18 months) described what she considered a rough day with her daughters: "[Three year old] didn't want to get dressed. She kept saying, 'Just a few more minutes, Mommy.' Finally, I got so frustrated that I screamed at her. Then she started crying and wanted a hug; but I was so upset that I couldn't hug her. We ended up not going out that day." Wow, I thought. Other than the speaking, that sounds like a fairly typical morning at our house. I started to feel annoyed and jealous (that's a BAD day?). But when I really considered it, I realized I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my high-maintenance baby. Along with the frustrated screams are the happy squeals of delight, belly laughs, and mischievous sense of humor. (I know he's only one, but I swear that kid already has a highly-developed, sophisticated sense of timing!) I know I'll love any other children we have just as much. Even if they're all throwing themselves on the floor because I won't let them watch another "Gabba" episode.