Fox turned 6 months about a month ago.  Which means he’s almost 7 months.  Which means I never posted his 6 months photos.  Why?

Because damnit, WordPress!

Awhile back I decided I was going to write a post about something other than my pre-shuz baybee.  I know.  It’s tough for me to do that.  Because seriously.  I want to eat him sometimes because he’s that delicious.

But I digress.

So I wrote up this marvelous little post.  And it was pretty funny.  And you have to believe me about its “funny-ness,” regardless of if it ACTUALLY was funny or not, because this post did not happen.  Because WordPress lost it!

I hit the “publish” button.  Leaned back.  Waited for those comments to roll in.  Then realized it was asking me to sign into my account.

Well, ok.  I’ll sign in.

I did just that.  Then it took me back to my dashboard and my post was lost forever.  I checked my drafts and saw the first sentence typed out.

Then I hulk-stomped my computer out of anger.

I did not do that.

But I wanted to.

Damnit!

So I boycotted WordPress for a month.

WordPress did not know I boycotted them.

But in my smug little heart I felt better.

But I’m back because I just can’t stay away.  I do love you, WordPress, I really do.  But why you gotta do me like that, yo?

So I’m posting Fox’s 6 month photos, one month late.  And in a few days you’ll see his 7 month photo.  And then you’ll hate me because I’ll have gone back to “all baby-mode, all the time.”  Sorry for you non-mommy bloggers out there that just want to read about shoes – a topic that used to actually be of relevance on this blog.  One day, people.  I promise.  When he stops puking over the back of my shoulder and down my pant leg and onto those very same, sexy shoes I used to talk about.

Here’s Fox. 6 months of age.  Totally rocking the faux-hawk with the professional socks.  ‘Cuz that’s my friggin’ cool kid right there…

6 months copy

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Oh my gawd, you guys…I never thought I’d be the mother who shoves pictures of my wee little mister down every stranger’s throat.  But here I am again, uploading cute photos to my blog.  Be thankful you aren’t my friend on Facebook ‘cuz I be all up in yer newsfeed, bitches!  Check out mah baybee!  Lookit him sleepin, yo!

I am using this blog as my own personal rolodex of wallet photos.  Because I’ve probably been de-friended in large quantities on Facebook lately.

Here’s the little bean during a photo shoot.  Why is he dressed like an elf in the middle of November, you ask?

Because honey badger don’t care.

No, really.  Because my parents would like to send out a Christmas card this year with his sweet little mug on it and asked that I dress him in Christmas garb.  So what do I do, but dress that little tater tot in every single damn Christmas item we own.  I wanted to make sure people got the point.  You know.  That it’s Christmas and all.  I think it reads well.

Before I subject you to the Spirit of Christmas explosion of red and green and elf booties and Santa hats, I should also tell you that Fox spits up a lot.

What does that have to do with this photo shoot?

Well, wouldn’t you know, the minute we dressed him, he puked all over himself.  And we’re not talking a dainty little spit up.  That little sucker horfed up his entire meal.  Multiple times.  I shit you not.

Because dressing him is like trying to baptize a cat, we weren’t about to take another 15 minutes trying to straighten out his little chicken wing arm to get it through another shirt, all while he’s screaming his head off and quivering that bottom lip.  I just couldn’t do it, ya’ll.  The bottom lip is my Kryptonite.  So on we went with the Christmas photo shoot.  Puke or no puke.

(We are lucky my husband is a graphic designer because puke is surprisingly easy to Photoshop out.  As you’ll see in some of the pictures below).

Merry Christmas from our little grinch, who wants everyone to know he was NOT on board with this whole photo shoot thing.  And the elf hat.  Was not on board with that either.

I’m so ready for all these damn holidays to be over so you freaks can stop finding reasons to dress me up.

Behold the power of Photoshop!  Erasing all evidence of puke, both big and small.

I think I made the “Nice” list this year.  At least, I’m cute enough to have any offences overlooked, anyway.

Wait.  Another photo shoot?  I will pay you both back one day in the form of a wild teenager.

I’m not kidding.  You guys are seriously lame.

Hmm…that’s an interesting prop.  I will now ignore you for 4 minutes while I contemplate this.

I am no longer as interested in this prop and will now proceed to be pissed at it.

Fine.  One blue steel shot.  Now dress me in something normal and put me in my swing with the birds that fly around so I can tell all my friends how uncool my parents are. 

I have been avoiding you people.  Just in case you didn’t realize, what with my slackery-ness in the posting-ness department.  (You missed me and my made up words, didn’t you?  Yeah, ya’ did.)

Let’s see here.  My life is exactly the same since I last posted in August.  Nothing notable.  I was not declared Queen of America, because I know you were wondering.  I’m not sure how rumors like these start, but again, to reiterate, not declared queen. 

No new job, no extra cash, not even a bright and shiny new husband.  Pffft.  So much for 2011 being my year.

And because I’ve had absolutely zilch-o-doodly-rino (heeello Flanders!) going on in my life, it has left my free time open to amusing ponderings.  Of which I’ll share with you now.  So here’s what I’ve come up with in my last 2 months of hiatus. 

1.) God-damn, f-ing, shit-tastic start of winter.  This needs no further explanation.  Moving on from “numero uno” before I start seriously considering the idea of buying a couple used heat lamps off eBay and pouring sand on my carpet to mimic the feeling of being on the beach all winter.  Obviously I am an idea-man.  Obviously.

2.) High school students have an extra layer of skin that keeps them immune from temperatures associated with beginning of said season above.   If I see another teenage girl in flip flops and a short sleeve shirt, holding hands with her emo boyfriend as they walk home from school in sleet, I will drive my car up onto the sidewalk.  I will not hit them, no.  But I will lean out the window and give them a stern, disapproving look (with a possible mob-boss style fist shake to make sure they know I’m all business) before backing my car back off the sidewalk and proceeding on my merry way to the grocery store to get those pixie sticks I’ve been craving.

3.) Pregnancy tests are damn expensive until you get smart and just start buying the ghetto ones from the dollar store.  Did you all read that sentence a second time?  Thought so.  Ok, fine, we’ve just started trying to have little Katies and Tonys.  It’s mainly a reaction to my unquenchable need to start a small army of children who will take care of me in the event of an apocolyptic-type catastrophe (we do know I cannot cook, which will only be highlighted further in the event of a nuclear disaster when I’d be forced to cook squirrel carcass off a burning tire), but…they’d also be kinda cute to have around for other reasons and what not.  You know, strictly for vain purposes and bragging rights and all.

Why do I smell fear coming through my computer screen, people?  Procreation and terrible names like Inspektor Gadgett and SparrowBirdHawkEagle shouldn’t just be limited to the royals and celebrities.  Let’s make sure you understand, though.  We’re trying.  We’re not pregnant yet.  No buns a-baking.  No doves a-singing or maids a-milking.  Wait.  Sorry, somehow that got turned into a Christmas carol.

You’ll all be the first to know, though, cool?  Be at the ready for when I text you, all “omg wtf lol bbq.”  That last one was just thrown in to even out the acronyms.  Mmmm…barbecue. 

4.)   You seriously think I have a number four after I dropped the big, ole’ bombshell that Tony and Katie are trying to further disrupt Earth’s natural goodness and balance by unloading genetically modified little monsters upon its green, non-apocolyptic (yet) land? 

Actually I do:  Croutons.  Stale bread or God’s gift to the salad?  Discuss. 

(Holy cow, I’ve had a lot of time for pointless thoughts,  haven’t I?)

I know.  I know.  Sorry.

Would a picture of cute shoes help you get over the fact I haven’t posted in forever?

 

I can haz new kute pair uf shooz?

No?

I can haz new kute huzband that kleens kitchen?

I wrote the following when I was 23.  Which, if you can believe it, feels like ages ago when I think of where I was then and where I am now. 

I was still semi-fresh out of college, still drinking with the college mentality of every weekend needed to be a binge.

Tony was living in an old farmhouse with a group of guys and needless to say, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambition permeating from the walls or anything.

I look back now and roll my eyes at the drama and the drinking and the…well…drama.  But I also smile because, well, such is life.  I’ve grown up and so has he.  We’re now active participants in society and on those rare occasions, even act like adults from time to time, what with the paying of the bills and that marriage license and all.

But, like all the different “periods” of my life, I like to read back on my writing at the time and reminisce about where my brain was at during that stage of my life.  I read back on high school writing and remember first falling in love.  I have “mystical, magical” written into almost every poem.  And maybe even a poem or eight about the beautiful tree house we’d live in on some remote island and ooo, look at those bees that just turned into flowers and we’re all in love, holy shit, holy shit, someone stop me. 

And then in college, when one of my senior courses was a seminar on the Beatniks, I definately had some crossover  influence.  Neal Cassidy characters and the bohemian bop-prosidy style.  I still enjoy reading that period. 

But some of my most interesting stuff came from the gap after college.  I read it now and realize how confused I was.  How torn I was between being that college kid and being thrown into the real world, talking about bullet points in a meeting on Monday morning and throwing back countless shots on the weekends.  It’s not pretty, but it’s reality.  And so I chose to share with you a piece of writing from those days.  Because that girl is mostly a memory now, but she was an important gap for me.  A bridge, if you will.  Let me introduce you.  She was a definate spitfire.

Like a Sudden Thunderstorm in the Morning

The sway of her hips

was already out the bedroom door

before she was done shoving clothes

into the recesses of her backpack,

navigating the zipper as quickly as possible

around bulges in the nylon.

His soft whine whistled through the air behind her,

lost in the wake of her steady gait,

and absent of steam before

it could negotiate her return.

Her tricep hardened with authority

as it lifted the bottle of rum

off the grimy kitchen table.

Without turning around,

the volatile weather pattern

housed in her petite frame

was out the door.

Stages of being Freshly Pressed.

Hour 1:  Whoa – what’s with all the comments?

Hour 3: Holy cow – people are reading my words.  Words that were thought by my little brain.  How do I feel about this, Brain?

Hour 6: Brain says: “I could get used to this.”

Hour 8:  Entering rockstar land.

Hour 12: Calling personal stylists and taking an ad out in the paper looking for an assistant.

Hour 16: Getting really pissed P. Diddy hasn’t called yet.

Hour 20: Obsessively checking stats.  Because.  Like.  Whoa.

Hour 24: Insisting Tony tells me what a famous writer I am.  And maybe insisting on a back rub, too.

Hour 36:  All the traffic stopped?  Where is everybody?  People?

Next Day:  Love me and leave me, people.  I see how it is.

Sssssss – that’s my over-inflated ego letting out the last of the steam.  This Freshly Pressed stuff is awesome, but man, what a whirlwind.  You start to look back on old posts and obsess about what people are thinking.

They think I’m a dork.  Why did I have to use the word “rad” in that one post about hot dogs?  Who uses that word anymore?  And why do I insist on always talking about hot dogs?  Oh god, stop looking at me!

It was fun, but now I’m back to my normal, un-famous self.  Although normal might not be the correct term that would apply today, because I’ve already gone over the dramatic list of “Things Left To Do Before The Wedding” with Tony, who I believe stopped listening after I got to the task entitled “Pick Up Papertowels Before My Parents Get Here Because They’ll See Our Dirty Kitchen Counters.”  He can put up with a lot of crazy, but when I get to the special kind of bridal crazy, he pretty much throws up  his hands.

But in all honesty, thanks for all those who visited yesterday, took the time to make comments, and even took the time to subscribe to follow me and my little slice of life for long past the Freshly Pressed days…and to all those who were with me from the getgo, don’t worry .  I would never forget the little people.  You know.  When I’m hobnobbing with Ludacris and all.  Expect shout-outs on his next album.

 

Check out my award, bitches!  Jealous much? 

Now that I’ve offended the lot of you, let me thank Thoughts Appear for the lovely shout-out.  And yeah I just said “lovely” again.

Anyhoo, I guess the way this works is I pass it on to my favorite bloggers.  And if you didn’t make the list, please know that it’s only because I can pick just 4.  Besides, I’m sending you a contract for my first born child in the mail.  It’s the consolation prize.  Which, really, is way cooler than a shout-out into cyberspace, anyway.

(I can’t guarantee he will cook, though.  My DNA can be mighty aggressive in the gene pool.  Some might even consider the “curly-hair” gene to be downright scrappy.  Sorry stick-straight-Tony-hair.)

So in no particular order, here are some blogs I enjoy perusing.  You know.  When I actually have time away from the straightening iron.

The Highly Uninteresting Misadventures of Average Girl – I am always amused.  Always. 

Amalah – She’s pretty much super famous in the blogging world (think Hyperbole and a Half…) so she probably has no idea I exist, nor that I am passing on such a prestigious and honorary award to her.  But you asked whose blogs I love to read.  And I don’t miss hers!

Goodbye Whoopie Pie – she’ll make you laugh, she’ll make you cry.  Then she’ll make you feel like you wish you had just written what she wrote, damnit!

Perpetually Peeved – I’m new to her blog, but she’s pretty, freakin’ hilarious.  Check out her “What The…?” posts – you could quite possibly pee a little from the laughing.  I will try not to be sitting next to you when you do, though.

So that’s that.  How’s it feel to be uber-famous, you ask?  Oh, pretty natural, I must say.  I’ll try to remind myself to remember all the little people when I make it to the top, though.  Which one of you does hair?  I’m going to need a fabulous stylist when I’m hobnobbing with P. Diddy and Luda in our pimped out Wiener-mobile.  That’s just how I roll, people.  Big fat wheels and vertical grills…and a big, orange hotdog sitting on top.*

*Ten thousand points and my SECOND unborn child if you can name the song whose lyrics I just totally ripped off (before the hotdog part, of course, because rappers tend to not sing about hotdogs.  It’d be a lot cooler if they did…but that’s beside the point).