Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Today's Smackdown comes with a warning: The sleep deprivation thing has hit me SO MOTHERFUCKING HARD. Would you like to know how hard?

This hard: Yesterday I decided to go to one of those Reel Moms movie screenings. I decided to see Walk the Line. I decided to see it in Virginia.

Except: I did not correctly read the location of the theater and assumed it was playing at this one mall in Tyson's Corner called the Galleria.

Except: The mall I first went to? Was NOT the Galleria. So I got back in the car and drove to the Galleria.

Except: The Galleria does not even have a movie theater.

After another REALLY CONFUSED phone call to Jason, I asked him to look up the Reel Moms page on Lowe's website and tell me where in hell this fucking theater is, and hurry up, it's pouring down rain. And I may have cursed a little more than that, as I loaded the carseat back in the car and folded up the stroller for literally the FIFTH TIME IN A HALF HOUR.

The theater was not even in a mall. Why did I think it was in a mall? Well, because I was driving to the SUBURBS. All movie theaters are in malls in the suburbs, right? It's like, a zoning thing maybe?

No. Theater was somewhere else. I had two minutes to get there. And as I was making a very wrong and stupid left turn when I needed to go right, my phone rang again.

Jason: You know...Walk the Line isn't even PLAYING at that theater anyway.

Amy: WHAAAAAT.

Jason: Yeah, it's Yours, Mine & Ours.

Amy: FUCK THIS, I'm GOING HOME.

Now, Internet. I beg you. Go to this webpage and see how SO TOTALLY NOT COMPLICATED THIS WAS. Theater names, addresses and even a PICTURE of the MOVIE THAT IS PLAYING. Do you see anything about the Tyson's Galleria? Do you even SEE THE WORD GALLERIA ON THAT PAGE?

You do not, because I was hallucinating the whole blessed thing.

Jason: Why didn't you just go to Georgetown? It was definitely playing in Georgetown.

Amy: (wails, is totally lost in the suburbs) I DON'T KNOW. POSSIBLY BECAUSE I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE PARALLEL PARKING.

Next Tuesday: I'm going to Georgetown! Hopefully I won't have to parallel park.

Today: Advice! Which you really shouldn't listen to.

Hi Amalah!

I feel like I know you because I am a frequent reader, and had to get some advice on this.. I am having a baby boy(!) at the end of January, and am plagued with worry that something will happen to him!  (It has been a long and bumpy road to have this baby.)  I bought a crib mattress at a garage sale, and would have been more than happy to use it, until I read a website that said that used mattresses grow fungus which gives off toxic fumes that kill your baby! 

So I gave the mattress away and am in the market for a new one.  I discovered the Halo Active Airflow crib mattress, which is a really high tech mattress (and expensive) to keep your baby alive.  My husband has given in to my paranoia, and has agreed to buy this mattress if we REALLY need it.  What kind of crib mattress did you buy?  Should we give in to the high-tech mattress?

Thanks!
Ellen

P.S. Although I could talk him into the $200 mattress, I could not talk him into the Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag.  Ugh, men.

Honestly, I'm having a hard time thinking of something that's a BIGGER waste of money than a super-expensive, high-tech crib mattress. Maybe designer label baby clothes...or that dumb white noise machine thing we bought, but at least that was only $30, and we've had some nice moments freaking each other out with the creepy-sounding "womb" setting.

But seriously, you don't need that mattress.  I fed my SIDS paranoia with the Halo SleepSacks and a sleep positioner, both of which I abandoned after a few weeks, because 1) duh, a nice fleecy set of footie pajamas works just as well, with the added benefit of having ARMS, and 2) Noah never, ever slept in his crib.

Sure, he'd take a catnap in there occasionally, but at night he slept in his Pack N' Play in our room. Which has no mattress to even speak of, and yet he's alive and well.

And then he destroyed my whole anti-Attachment Parenting attitude by sleeping with us, in our bed.

Three fitful hours of sleep in the bassinet vs. six glorious hours curled up with us? What would you do?

And yes, I know all the drawbacks of co-sleeping -- I used to preach them myself -- and I've seen the study linking co-sleeping to SIDs and blah blah blah. We're very careful. And very happy. And very much planning to move him down to his actual crib once he's sleeping through the night.

(His actual crib, by the way, has the Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress, along with a really good waterproof mattress pad, and silly expensive bedding, but at least I recognize that the bedding is 100% for my benefit.)

Anyway, my point is: be prepared to adapt in ways you never thought possible. Ways that will probably save you 200 bucks on a gimmicky mattress.

More questions to come, but I have to go put Noah down for an unattended nap in the laundry basket, surrounded by loose blankets washed in undiluted Clorox, with perhaps a dryer sheet to suck on.

OMG! I don't think she's joking! Help!

Dear Amalah,

I have two questions for you, since you know everything.  One is baby related, and one is advice smackdown related.

First, I love the baby blanket you've been photographing Noah on - the blue one with what looks like xoxo crocheted into it.  Is it hand crocheted?  If so, do you happen to know where I can get the pattern?

Second, I am in desperate need of handbag help.  I am a graduate student, with a very limited budget, but I really, really want to get a nice, supple leather handbag.  I can't afford to get a new one every season, so I'd like to get something black, and timeless, and big enough to hold stuff but not a honkin' grandma-size bag.  Oh, and I want it all for under $300.  Can you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest something that fits the bill?

Thank you!
Lily

Okay, the beautiful blue blanket: It was a gift from fellow blogger Bethiclaus.  I'm sure she could help you find the pattern, although be patient and gentle, for she is now pregnant.

(And let me use this opportunity to showcase two other handmade knitty/crochety gifts from readers: another lovely little blanket from MamaKaren, and an absolutely delicious little hat and bootie set from Isabel.)

(Isabel is pregnant now too. Coincidence?)

(Watch out, Karen!)

Could you not just EAT HIM?

ANYWAY. On to the purse talk.

I have this one, from Coach, which comes in at just three dollars under your limit, so it counts. Its lovely, soft and classic with just a few touches (the contrast stitching and silver hardware) that make it not totally and completely boring, like this one. Yawn.

But there are so many brands and shapes and just all-around lovely bags out there, and I fully admit my brand loyalty to Coach is irrational and probably sick. Check out Nordstrom.com and go to their handbags section -- you can select from several categories of bags and then refine your search by color. Ta-da! Lots of choices, without being completely overwhelming and littered with crap bags. Here's a selection of leather bags that come in black.

My favorites? This little satchel by Michael Kors, the Cole Haan Village Hobo, and the Tassel Tote by Dooney & Bourke.

More questions to come, once Noah recovers from the EXTREME BORING BORINGNESS of all the purse talk.

I'm so bored I could drool a little.

Dear Amalah,

My friend Isabel and I have a question for you.  We recently have stumbled across… well, let's just call it "unanswered blog etiquette".   As an experienced blogger, we turn to you for advice.

Isabel recently found a blog of a high school friend of hers.  She thinks its hilarious and will continue to lurk.   Which I totally understand because if I find someone's journal?   I will totally read it.  In secret.    But this is the blog world – in all its weird secret yet public state.    So my comment to Isabel was, she should "out" herself to her friend.  Let her know she found the blog, you know?   But… now I am not so sure anymore.  And neither is Isabel!   

So – what does blogging etiquette say?  What do you say?   When you stumble across the blog of someone you know (especially if you get the feeling they would probably be weirded out if you were reading it) – do you let them know you found them?

Help us!

Sincerely,
Joke and Isabel

I would want to know. Of course, with my fool name and photo plastered all over the place, I have to generally assume that people I know are already reading.

A few people from high school and college have contacted me after finding the site, and (so far) I've been thrilled to hear from all of them. One of them even has a blog.

But I'm probably different than a lot of bloggers, since I'm not anonymous. If I was, perhaps it would unnerve me to have high school classmates coming out of the woodwork. Perhaps it would be the reminder I needed that anonymity on the Internet is never guaranteed and that maybe I should be more careful if I really and truly didn't want to be recognized.

If I found the site of someone I knew? I probably would email them and be all, "Hey! Hi! Remember me? I have a website too!"

If it was someone I hated? Well, I might not. I might just lurk and make fun of them, because I'm a bitch. Or I might email them and be all, "Hey! Hi! Remember me? You made my life hell in junior high and now my website gets more hits than yours!"

Because again, am a bitch. And also petty and small.

The proper etiquette is to out yourself. But blog etiquette is, in general, a subjective mess.

If this blogger was actually your friend, then I'd say you should do the right thing and out yourself.

If this is someone who you maybe kind of don't like and maybe get some small enjoyment from reading their pathetic little scribblings, well, it's your karma and you can be a bitch if you want to and will get no judgment from me.

Got a question? Was I mean to you in junior high? advice@amalah.com, losers.

Noahlah.com Will One Day Not Stand For This Kind Of Crap Entry

GOD. Where in the sam blessed hill have I been?

Well, mostly I've been sitting around the house all slack-jawed and useless, because apparently I have just enough natural adrenaline to keep me functioning on very little sleep for exactly eight weeks.

The whole sleep thing, it has hit me so hard. Along with the return of all sorts of crap that went away during pregnancy -- crap that I didn't even notice had gone away because I was too busy whining about other things. Crap like migraines, zits, oily hair, cracked dry skin and menstrual cramps.

YES. YOU HEARD ME RIGHT ON THAT LAST ONE. THE BREASTFEEDING GODS, I CURSE THEE ONCE AGAIN.

And today? Well. We have BOO BOOS, people.

Tweety Bird says: Take THAT, polio.

Noah weighs 12 pounds and is 24.5 inches long. That is one long, lean little baby.

He's absolutely perfect, and (as we have all suspected lo these many weeks) absolutely brilliant. I mean, he TALKED to a QUILT hanging on the wall of the exam room. Not every baby out there is smart enough to talk to a quilt at two months old.

(Translation: Highly verbal! Points for mom's genes! Get this baby a blog!)

Anyway. I was hoping today would be the day I would find something BESIDES NOAH to write about -- maybe even an entry that could stand on its own WITHOUT BABY PICTURES -- but that is not to be.

Because again. BOO BOOS.

(He is so blogging this.)

Or As Some Readers Will See It: Blah Blah Blah Baby Photo Blah Blah

In lieu of the Advice Smackdown, I present the Greatest Parenting Lesson Ever Learned:

Driving to Pennsylvania in the pouring rain with a husband, a seven-week-old baby, a slightly broken rat dog and a huge-ass cat may make you momentarily ponder abandoning one or more of them at the next rest stop, and this doesn't make you a bad person, it just means you're human, at least that's what I'm telling myself.

So I'm visiting family this week, because THE NON-STOP PARADE OF FAMILY THAT HAS MARCHED THROUGH MY HOUSE THE PAST TWO MONTHS OR SO HAS NOT BEEN ENOUGH TO FULLY DRIVE ME OUT OF MY  MIND. OH NO, NOT AT ALL.

(The caps lock, she is stubborn on this computer, this computer with DIAL. UP. DIIIIAAALLL UPPPP. I almost wish there was a super-caps-lock button I could hit to make that point even larger and cappier.)

On the bright side, though, we're with family members determined to document Noah's every blessed breath, so I have a lot of pictures. No, A LOT.

OMIGOD, HE'S SMILING! AGAIN! WHERE'S THE CAMERA!

(Four different relatives go skittering off in four different directions to grab four different cameras.)

Did you realize Jason and I were really teenage parents? We're actually two 17-year-olds in a bad way, drifting from one tacky guest room bedspread to another.

In which I ruin another priceless photo with my need to not have the child covered in spit-up.

In which I ruin yet another photo with my exhausted, eye-baggy presence.

If you take four hundred million family portraits, your son is bound to smack you in the face in at least a dozen of them.

In which I've learned my lesson about the face-smacking, but it is all for naught, for the baby, he has had quite enough.

Ceiba's all, "Hey, last Thanksgiving, I was the star. Am still a star! Am the biggest star of them all! Am ready for my close-up! HA HA HA!"

Max thinks y'all are stupid, and he is leaving.

Noah thinks y'all are weird, and he is pooping.

The family resemblence is shocking, no?

Fashion Riot

Or, The Bitch Is Back

Dear Attendees of the Old Ebbit Grill Oyster Riot on Saturday Night, which was a Big Night Out for Amy, and Definitely Reason Enough to Get Dressed Up All Good and Pretty,

Learn how to fucking dress already, okay?

Now, I don't claim to be some kind of total fashionista who always looks awesome and who has never worn something unfortunate -- I mean, honestly, I spent most of this year in elastic waistbands and flip flops.

And I was extremely confused after Noah was born regarding what clothing was acceptable and how to look fashionable without looking like some kind of hobo bohemian bag lady and JESUS CHRIST, are people seriously wearing gaucho-style culottes? Like, non-ironically? Like, they honestly don't realize how awful those things look? They are perhaps the ugliest trend since the capelet, and man, capelets were really ugly.

I'm also not here to make fun of people who can't afford designer labels because hell, I bought my outfit on sale and wore shoes that I got 50% off last season. And considering this event was like, $100 a head for the common, unwashed non-wine-competition-judging public, nobody there was poor, okay? In fact, most of the outfits I'm here to rag on probably cost a lot of money, because NOBODY does tacky like the rich, you know?

Anyway. People.

Sometimes, it'd be nice for you consider that there are some other clothing options besides jeans. That there are other choices in the fabric universe besides denim. I'm just saying.

Go find something that requires ironing and put it on.

He hates what you're wearing.

And jeans + stilettos + lingerie tank top does not equal "dressed up." It equals "the world is my lame-ass nightclub."

Also it's time to let go of the poncho. You should no longer be wearing the poncho. No more of the poncho. The fashion mania for the poncho, it is now over.

And while I'd like to say "no more of the sequined, appliqued sailboat t-shirts paired with glow-in-the-dark jelly bracelets," this would imply that I believed there was more than one woman in the world who would show up at a large social function wearing a sequined, appliqued sailboat t-shirt paired with glow-in-the-dark jelly bracelets, and that is just too horrible a thought to ponder.

Why? Why do you make the baby cry with your hideous sequins?

It's also time that someone went on the record to say that yes, you totally CAN tell that you're wearing nude pantyhose with open-toed shoes. This was a mistake I made at a junior high dance, people, and I've never made it again. If you want to wear open-toed shoes in November, that's fine, but you just suck it up and deal with the cold legs. If you can't suck it up and deal with the cold legs, then you have no business trying to be some it's-always-summer-in-MY-HEAD person with the open-toed shoes.

Brown boots with brown tights and a brown skirt with a brown sweater do not make you look coordinated. They make you look like a turd with arms.

And let's not forget the menfolk: a baseball cap paired with a sportcoat? Makes me kind of want to punch you, and it makes you look like the type of guy who would cry if I punched you.

Bad: Wearing a Juicy Couture velour tracksuit to a 100-bucks-a-head party. Badder: Wearing a fake Juicy Couture velour tracksuit to a 100-bucks-a-head-party.

(Baddest: Being too drunk to control the volume of one's voice when spotting the fake Juicy Couture velour tracksuit and realizing that oops, she may have heard me, quick, let's all turn around and discuss this lovely random flower arrangement.)

(Bestest: Having a husband just bitchy enough to totally laugh about the fake Juicy Couture velour tracksuit too, because it's wonderful when insufferable snobs find each other, no?)

Anyway, we had a very nice time making fun of other people and eating oysters and drinking lots of wine. My boyfriend Justice Scalia totally ignored us, and one Amalah.com reader came up and said hi and she was all stylish and put together and totally the sort of reader I tell my advertisers that I have thousands of.

And no, I don't have any pictures of me all dressed up, which is probably for the best because you could all make fun of my so-last-season shoes.

This season, all the beautiful people are wearing Pampers.

Noah's Birth Story, Part Two

(Have you read Part One? Yeah. You probably want to read that one first.)

The next few minutes were a blur. I stared at Noah, he stared back. I saw that he had hair and looked just like the 4D ultrasound. I'm pretty sure I cried some more.

Everyone in the room was marveling over his size. My doctor talked about the nine pound, 10 ounce baby he'd delivered that morning (a scheduled caesarean) and how he figured that one would be the biggest of the day. Then he told the nurses that he didn't use staples -- he wanted stitches.

I realized that my abdomen was still wide open.

I started to shake, badly. My teeth chattered.

The pediatrician came over to talk to me and said that everything went fine with suctioning the meconium and the cord hadn't caused him any additional distress and Noah looked just fine.

"But we'll be testing his blood sugar in the recovery area," she went on. "Because babies just aren't supposed to be that big."

The hell? Thanks! That's fucking reassuring, I thought to myself.

Out loud, I chattered out a weak little, "Okay."

After what seemed like FOREVER, I was ready to head to the recovery room. I was shaking too badly to hold Noah so they nestled him between my legs. I stared at the top of his head for awhile and then closed my eyes and tried like hell to stop trembling.

And then, full circle-like, I was back in the very same room where I'd labored hours earlier. I heard a nurse tell the woman in the next bed that a delivery room would be ready for her in just a few minutes.

"Ha." I muttered.

I was rolled over on my side and Noah was placed next to my face. The shaking immediately stopped.

I started to tell Jason about this amazing miracle, this CLEAR SIGN OF MY DEEP MATERNAL INSTINCT AND BONDING, when the nurse informed me she'd just added a shot of Demerol to my epidural.

"Oh." I was vaguely disappointed and newly unnerved.

Jason started videotaping again, and while I've refused to watch any of the earlier footage, I've seen this part.

I'm very yellow and puffy. Noah is very red and puffy. I give him some hesitant kisses and then I stare at the camera, looking uneasy and bewildered.

"This is the best part," I slur. "It was all worth it."

I sound like I'm trying to convince myself of that.

I hadn't yet gotten a look at anything other than Noah's squished-up little face, so without thinking I pulled his blanket back so I could see his feet and count his toes. This earned me a rapid reprimand from the nurse, who stopped doing...whatever it was she was doing to the numb lower half of my body to reswaddle the baby.

I was informed that Noah passed the blood sugar test and was just fine.

Then it was time to breastfeed. The nurse pushed me further onto my side and very unceremoniously grabbed my boob and mashed Noah's face against it. The video shows me lifting my arms like I'm just trying to stay out of the damn way.

Noah didn't latch and I gazed critically at my very small boobs and my very big baby and wondered why in the world I thought breastfeeding would ever work for me.

And then, he latched and started sucking. And it hurt and was wonderful and was the weirdest fucking sight I had ever seen.

Jason zoomed the camcorder in on my boob, similarly amazed and possibly creeped out.

I asked him to get me some ice chips, as the oxygen mask I'd worn for hours left me thoroughly parched and miserable. He got them and I shoved a handful in my mouth -- just in time for the nurse to yell at me a second time.

"No!" she shrieked, grabbing the cup from me. "No ice! You'll get nauseous and throw up."

I quickly swallowed the chips I had in my mouth, afraid she'd make me spit them out or something.

She flipped me over so Noah could nurse from the other boob for awhile, and then...he was taken away and I was to be sent to my room without him.

Jason went with him and got to watch him get his first bath.

I was wheeled to my room and informed that I was getting one of the biggest rooms.

The room was tiny. And I had a roommate. And my roommate had the bed by the window.

For what felt like the hundredth time, I was asked if I could move myself from the gurney to the bed, and for the hundredth time I stubbornly said no.

And suddenly, I was all alone. The curtain was pulled around my bed and I stared at it. I listened to my roommate's horribly nasal voice cackling with her visitors. I tried to wiggle my toes and couldn't. I tried to sleep and couldn't.

So I cried instead. I felt very small and overwhelmed and I wanted Jason and I wanted the baby and I wanted my cell phone and I wanted a do-over without the c-section.

The rest of Noah's birthday is a blur.

It seemed like hours before I got to see him again, and it seemed like forever before our parents arrived from Pennsylvania.

But then Noah was there and our parents were there and I got to see the one thing I was always afraid I'd never see: My father holding my baby.

Meanwhile, I managed to convince my nurse that I didn't feel nauseous at all so could I please, please, PLEASE HAVE SOME GODDAMN ICE CHIPS FOR CHRIST'S SAKE ALREADY. She reluctantly agreed and brought me a cup. Which I then hid behind the telephone and sent Jason out for a replacement so I could have ice chips right then and a contraband cup of actual liquid water later.

I called my office and left a series of slightly drunk-sounding messages to my co-workers, and within 30 minutes a bouquet of flowers arrived in my room from my boss.

I tried to text message Zoot and Diana but couldn't because of a weak signal and also the fact that I didn't really know how to send text messages on my new phone.

When dinnertime came around, I lied and said I'd been cleared for a liquid diet tray.

Jason stayed long past visiting hours, but eventually had to leave.

It was just me and Noah.

And my roommate. My horrible, terrible roommate.

She'd just had her third baby by scheduled caesarean the day before. The baby didn't have a name yet, and she instructed the nurses to keep him in the nursery at all times, except when it was time to nurse, so she clearly thought I was crazy for keeping Noah with me all the time.

She was also deeply, deeply distrustful of everyone around her and would do this thing where she asked the same question of anyone she could get to listen -- almost hopeful that she'd get a different answer from one of them.

When I first arrived in the room, she was obsessed with pain medication. As in, she wouldn't take any, because of breastfeeding. Our nurse assured her that the doses of Percoset and Ibuprofen were extremely safe for both her and the baby. Our night nurse assured her of the same thing. She paged the staff pediatrician to ask her too, and spoke to about four people on the phone about it. Still, she continued to turn down medication.

Needless to say, once her epidural fully wore off, she was in terrible pain. I didn't notice because Noah screamed. The. Entire. Night.

(He'd scream all night, every night, as I'd learn. I didn't have enough milk for him, I was stubbornly refusing a pacifier or formula, and I couldn't walk him around because I was stuck in bed with an IV and catheter.)

The next morning, she related the story of her middle-of-the-night attack of terrible pain to our new nurse, the nurse who took our blood pressure and who I don't think spoke English, her obstetrician and pediatrician, and no lie, the guy who brought the breakfast trays.

They all kind of had the same reaction: Well, duh.

I was taken off the catheter and IV the next morning and allowed to sort of wash up. And by sort of, I mean I was handed a squeeze bottle of liquid and told to wash up.

I stared at the bottle.

"And with this, I..." I looked at the nurse blankly.

"You...wash with it." the nurse said knowingly, making vague hand-waving motions at waist level.

Finally something clicked and I got it. I think. I mean, I don't think I could give a course on Squeeze Bottle Bathing and You, or anything, but I did okay.

I was allowed to take a shower that afternoon, which caused a minor meltdown when I discovered that Jason has accidentally taken my bag of toiletries home with him the night before, so I had no shampoo and had to use the combination SHAMPOO and BODY WASH abomination offered by the hospital.

(SHAMPOO. AND BODY WASH. TOGETHER IN ONE BOTTLE. GAH.)

(I was also given a new robe, which looked exactly like the old robe, with a strange design that I could not make any sense of even after staring at it for hours and hours, and if anyone can figure out what it's supposed to be I will be forever in your debt.)

At lunchtime, I lied again and upgraded my menu to solid food, and my GOD, beef tips in brown sauce have never tasted so incredibly delicious.

My roommate's latest obsession was with her breast engorgement, because they still hurt after the baby ate so clearly, there was something very, very wrong and her baby was starving and the hospital was trying to kill her because they told her she didn't need a pump, just to give her supply a day or two to regulate itself.

We also got to meet her family, including two of the worst-behaved little boys I have ever seen and a husband who brought them over to MY SIDE OF THE ROOM TO SPANK THEM, while wearing a "World's Greatest Dad" t-shirt.

Our families left Saturday afternoon (after my mother-in-law spent a few hours cleaning my house). Jason fretted over my decision to not have any family stay with us for the first two weeks, and while Noah's nightly screaming fits had me concerned, I stuck to my guns.

Sometime on Saturday, the diarrhea started.

Not mine, of course, but my roommate's.

And OH MY GOD, SHE WOULD NOT SHUT UP ABOUT THE DIARRHEA.

She called people to talk about it. She buzzed the nurse after every run to the bathroom. She refused to flush so the nurse could inspect it. (Which, HELLO, I WOULD LIKE TO PEE TOO, FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET.) She spoke to doctors, other nurses, and my mother-in-law.

She said it was "terrifying," because she was convinced that the "stress" of all the "walking" and "sitting" on the toilet and "shitting" was going to cause her internal stitches to rip.

Just take a minute to ponder this logic.

Everyone told her that the stitches? Were not going to rip. That no woman in the history of c-sections ever had her internal stitches rip because of a BAD CASE OF THE RUNS.

My nurse came to check on me at some point in the night and, with dose of stool softener and a smirk, asked me if I had any diarrhea. And then laughed because of the two of us, I was supposed to be the paranoid first-time mother. I smiled sweetly because ta-da! I was doing so well! Am world's greatest mother and c-sectioner!

I later called this nurse back in around 4 am and begged her to take Noah to the nursery or SOMETHING, because I couldn't get him to stop crying and couldn't take it anymore, and I felt like a big fat fucking failure. They wouldn't take crying babies to the nursery, but she agreed to take him anyway and give him a bath just so I could at least get an hour or so of sleep.

(The screaming was from hunger, because the poor baby was starving, and a bottle of formula probably would have saved us all from a lot of grief, but MAN, I was stubborn.)

(Let this be a lesson to you all: BE YE NOT SO SIMILARLY STUBBORN. GIVE YOUR BABY FORMULA IF HE SCREAMS FOR FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT IN THE HOSPITAL AND THEN TAKE A NICE NAP.)

Noah was circumcised on Sunday morning, and I called Jason (who was driving in, and who had just discovered that someone had sideswiped our car in the hospital's parking lot the night before) in tears, because I was sure I could hear Noah crying down the hall and he was going to hate me and damn Jason with his Jewish heritage and damn me for not thinking this was a big deal when CLEARLY, my son was being traumatized.

When he came back, he was sound asleep, as he had apparently slept through the entire thing, and the baby I heard was actually just the baby next door, because again, my miraculous maternal instinct was way, way off.

And despite the non-stop Diarrhea Watch from the next bed, my roommate was being discharged, and she was shocked that they were discharging her in spite of this life-threatening condition.

After she left, the nurses put a hold on my room to ensure that I would have the room to myself that night. They may have also applauded.

Noah had his hospital portrait taken for his birth announcements and miraculously, was not screaming.

While the hour-to-hour and minute-to-minute excitement had certainly slowed down by this point, Jason and I still had regular moments of, "Oh my God, we have a baby!"

Our favorite topic was mostly what an incredibly good-looking baby Noah was. Sure, he had that rashy, splotchy baby skin (which my mother worried was hives, which freaked me out, which was why I stuck to my guns about the no-family-for-two-weeks rule), but he looked so much better than all the wrinkly, pruny old man babies we saw elsewhere on the ward. Probably because he looked about two weeks older than any of those babies. His head was almost perfectly round, save for two small ridges where he'd been pressed against bone during the brief time I tried pushing. His eyes were big and bright, his cheeks were delicious and dimpled, and he sucked his bottom lip in and created an adorable pout.

Jason shooed nurses away when Noah needed a diaper change and handled him like an old pro -- nothing like the man who refused to hold our neighbor's newborns because he was afraid of dropping them. He brought Krispy Kreme donuts and coffee for the nurses' station every day.

On Monday morning, Noah was with the pediatrician when Jason arrived. He'd made the unfortunate choice to check his work email that morning, only to learn that all sorts of problems had erupted over the weekend. He was visibly disappointed at Noah's absence, because "he just makes everything better."

(And I may have melted a little. Okay, a lot.)

It was time for me to go home. The hospital lactation consultant said I was doing just fine, despite the obvious fact that my milk wasn't in, Noah had already lost 15 ounces and my nipples were bloody.

I raided the room, stealing maxi-pads and disposable mesh panties and diapers and wipes and even a pacifier that mysteriously appeared in Noah's bassinet after he returned from his hearing test.

Every nurse and doctor we saw that last day had advice and pointers for us, and they all contradicted each other. Use gauze and Vaseline on the circumcision. No gauze on the circumcision, just Vaseline on the penis. No, just put Vaseline on the diaper. No baths for mom. Yes, baths for mom. Sponge baths for baby. Tub baths for baby. No wipes. Use wipes.

I was really, really happy to go home.

I knew it would only get better.

I was right.

Familyalah

My sincerest apologies for the lack of updates, but I've been kind of busy being driven ABSOLUTELY BATSHIT INSANE, THE KIND OF ABSOLUTELY BATSHIT INSANE THAT ONLY YOUR FAMILY CAN DRIVE YOU TO.

I don't talk about my family all that much here, because 1) they know about the site, and 2) they are so crazy I would probably lose all credibility because y'all would say, "Whatever, she's just making shit up outright now, nobody's brother falls out of a helicopter in the army."

Mine did.

I also have another brother who has spent most of his life in and out of mental institutions and set our house on fire once, but you know, whatever.

There are seven of us altogether: four boys, three girls. We're a blended Brady Bunch family kind of thing, except that everybody fucking HATED each other and instead of hitting your sister with a football, you tried to strangle her with a telephone cord while she ate melba toast in her high chair.

Anyway.

One of my sisters is visiting me this week, along with my mom, neither of whom are the ones driving me crazy, because they drink a lot of wine and are fun, except that my mom keeps taking my picture while I'm typing this. And they're leaving tomorrow to go visit my helicopter-falling brother in West Virginia, which is where he moved after falling out of the helicopter, but at least now he leaves in a house instead of a tent, so you know, progress.

(And in a few weeks, my other sister is coming to visit, my other sister who is pregnant, with a boy, due six months to the day after Noah.)

(My other sister is 46 years old. And has a 17-year-old daughter. And I repeat, is pregnant.)

(Pregnant!)

Anyway.

One of my other non-helicopter-falling, non-mental-insitution brothers came to visit us for 15 minutes on Sunday night. And in that 15 minutes, he determined that Noah is probably deaf because he did not respond to my brother's highly-scientific test of snapping his fingers around Noah's head.

"Noah doesn't hear very well," he said cheerfully as he examined the baby's ears, like he was a doctor or something.

(My brother is not a doctor.)

"He hears just fine." I snapped, and proceeded to list the examples of things that Noah hears just fine, like the John Tesh-ish music of his swing or the annoying buzzer on the washing machine outside his room because it took me three weeks to figure out that maybe I shouldn't always start running the washer the instant Noah starts his nap so the buzzer wouldn't scare the ever-loving-bejesus out of him.

"Mm-hmm," said my brother, giving my sister-in-law a look like, I told you she wouldn't listen to me, just like she didn't listen last summer when I told her she was a high-risk candidate for postpartum depression and would probably kill her baby and nobody ever listens to me, I don't know why.

"His hearing was tested in the hospital," I continued. "He passed."

"Mm-hmm," said my brother.

GOD.

I spent the entire day on Monday researching hearing milestones and making loud noises and shouting at the poor baby, because my family? Knows how to goddamn push my goddamn buttons.

Welcome to the family, Nose. Sorry about that.

Six Weeks

Six weeks ago today, I had a baby.

(Just in case you hadn't noticed.)

Today was also my six-week postpartum visit with my doctor, where I was given the all-clear for:

1) Sex

and

2) Exercise

Hilarious!

And at the risk of inciting the ire and hatred of...well, everybody, I learned I'm officially back to my pre-pregnancy weight. 30 pounds on, 30 pounds off.

I don't have a clue how I did it, so don't ask. Besides, oh, giving birth to a 10-pound baby and then lugging around a 10-pound baby and feeding a 10-pound baby and going six weeks without actually being able to sit down to a meal without a certain 10-pound baby suddenly deciding that gee, HE'D LIKE TO EAT NOW TOO WAH WAH WAH. That may have had something to do with it.

To offset this obnoxious news, I came very close to photographing my abdomen to show you all that it doesn't matter WHAT the scale says, this poochy, squashy stretchmark shit ain't right.  Pre-pregnancy weight does not equal pre-pregnancy shape, etc.

I have since changed my mind about that. Instead: I LOST 30 POUNDS IN SIX WEEKS. BOO FUCKING YAH.

Actually, I'm more proud of the fact that my appointment was at 9:30 IN THE MORNING and I got there less than five minutes late, with Noah in tow. And I arrived showered and with a fully stocked diaper bag AND I remembered to put socks on the baby.

Although I did walk out my front door and down one whole flight of stairs before I realized that I was not wearing any shoes.

Oh my God! My mom is not very bright!

To celebrate the accomplishment of getting myself out the damn door, I took Noah and myself shopping, where I did not buy him a single thing. Instead? Clothes for meeeee. Shoes for meeeee. Stupid infomercial-quality miracle manicure set from one of those pushy people at those carts by the elevators for meeeee, because fat hot ham, my hands are a mess, particularly my right index finger which Noah has decided is MUCH better than his pacifier and is now permanently pruny and shriveled.

Then we went to drop off a deposit check at a daycare center, where I cried. Like, was-awkwardly-handed-a-box-of-tissues cried.

Then I went to McDonald's for a Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries.

It was delicious, almost as tasty as Noah's chunky little cheeks.

This is Some Good Parenting Right Here

The batteries in the baby swing died.

I have no more batteries.

My foot is getting really, really tired.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Oh man, I'm so torn.

On the one hand, it's Wednesday, which means that logically, I should write an Advice Smackdown.

On the other hand, I have a batch of what may be the most adorable, Internet-melting baby photos yet.

I mean, for real:

I wonder if I can somehow combine the substance of a Smackdown with the cheap thrill of a baby photo essay and create what could be the ULTIMATE ENTRY, one that would please the old-school readers AND the ones who curse any entry that is not a baby photo entry and who are still bitter that I haven't finished Part Two of Noah's Birth Story, which I KNOW, OKAY? I'll get it done before his first birthday, I swear. I thought it would be fun to write about my hospital stay and my Roommate From Hell Who Would Not Stop Discussing Her Diarrhea and how I got yelled at for sneaking Illegal Ice Chips, but it's turning out to be more boring than fun, and I only like fun things.

Like big goofy baby smiles! GOD.

Anyway, the first question in today's Smackdown is actually a big fat generic response to the dozens of questions I've received about Bare Escentuals, the mineral-based makeup that QVC will. Not. Stop. Advertising. All. Damn. Day. And. Why. Do. I. Forget. To. Fast. Forward. Commercials. When. I. Have. TiVo?

Everybody is fascinated by the marketing for this stuff. Except me, because I have a fairly firm rule about products that do cutesy things with the spelling of their name like that. ESCENTUALS? GEDDIT? It's ESSENTIAL but it has a SCENT so we'll call it ESCENTUALS! It's ONEDERFUL!

(Seriously, one time Jason brought home a bag of this natural wheat-based kitty litter called Swheat Scoop and the very sight of that bag sent me into near conniptions every day and I finally threw it out and decreed that we were never, ever buying it again, because that is the DUMBEST MOST AWFUL NAME EVER.)

Ahem. Anyway.

So I have not personally tried the Bare Escentuals line, but two of my real-life fellow product whore friends have, and they both hated it. Among their complaints: an overly complicated application technique, inferior coverage and too much shimmer.

But! Because the Advice Smackdown is not (entirely) gossip and heresay, I went the extra mile for you people and consulted the Powerhouses of Online Product Reviews: Real Girl of Real Girl Beauty and Melissa of DeLush.

Melissa's experience with the brand is limited, but she gave her initial impressions:

"We've been wondering about it too.  My mom uses it and says she like their shadows and blush (I've heard great things about the shadows).  But you know I stood in Sephora for 20 minutes one day debating whether or not to get the face kit thingy they have now that supposedly has everything you need in it to get started.  (A bit more than you probably need if you ask me, but I guess a good deal otherwise.) 

I finally decided to get the mineral veil (which devotees rave about) and I must say, it made me ITCH.  My face felt weird.  Also, I got the new tinted one, and it was pretty orangey.

I know it's all in the application (when it comes to their foundation, too) but it seemed like so much work, plus I didn't have a great experience with the mineral veil.  Maybe we at DeLush really should review this stuff once and for all..."

(Amy says: Yes! You probably should, and please subtract points for the horrific QVC commercial with the woman singing in the high screechy voice about hey-hey hey-hey what a sunny day or whatever because SHUT. UP.)

Real Girl went above and beyond the call of duty and actually WENT TO SEPHORA to try some additional samples before offering her full opinion, which WHAT A SACRIFICE PEOPLE, SHE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED. Or left completely broke. Anyway, here's her lowdown:

"Sephora, I love you so. Especially when you greet me by my name--"That Girl Who's Always Asking For Samples."

I've tested and examined three Bare Escentuals products now from the i.d. line. The most interesting was the bareMinerals Foundation SPF 15.  (It's a powder! And a foundation! A powdation!) I get a lot of emails from readers with very oily skin asking me how they can use sunscreen without using lotion, and this foundation would definitely be an option. It's got titanium dioxide as its first ingredient and zinc oxide as well, and those are both the most powerful mineral sunscreens on the market.

Would I recommend this powder over normal sunscreen? Not so much. The layer might be too thin or not quite uniform, but for someone who doesn't already use lotion or a liquid foundation with SPF 15 or higher, this would be a fine option. So -- got oily skin and are scared of normal foundations and sunscreens? Give this powder foundation a try.

I also took a look at the Tinted Mineral Veil which is a perfectly fine loose powder blush for fair-ish skin, but I don't see why it would be better than any other loose powder blush. It's a little creamier, I guess, than most powders.

As for the other blushes?  Lordy go easy! That's some sparkle even Mariah Carey wouldn't have used in "Glitter."

Ok, now to the major critique. The Bare folks are targeting these products to people with sensitive skin, but I think they'd be better for people with oily skin. Yet that said, I have a major problem with their motto, “Makeup so pure you can sleep in it.” Bare Escentuals people? Purity does not equal non-pore-clogging. Many of these powders contain titanium dioxide and zinc oxide. These are not sunscreens that are absorbed by the skin -- they're used like a shield that rests on top of the skin. If you were to sleep in these products, I'd be surprised if your poor pores didn't wind up gasping for air, screaming for help. Please don't sleep in your Bare Escentuals.

In the end, what's most impressive about these products is their marketing. How's that for a long and boring answer to your short and pithy question?"

(Amy says: That was a fabulous answer, and I'm so totally digging this whole "dump questions on other people and then cut-and-paste their answers in" approach to the Smackdown.)

More questions to come later today, but as you can see, I've got me some slopes to patrol and some baby cheeks to gobble.

Dear Amalah!

A fellow Amy needs your help. My boss is getting married in April. Regarding the dress code, "it's a cocktail wedding so you can just wear a pretty dress", so I was all YAY I ACTUALLY HAVE ONE TO WEAR.

But the problem started a few days ago, where she changed her mind and now it's a FORMAL thing. Hence floor-length or three-quarter dresses for all. (Except for the men.) And the only floor-length thing I have is my formal (prom dress), and it's beautiful and silky and halterneck, but BLACK.

Is there something wrong with wearing black to a wedding? I just feel weird about it. At first I figured "screw her dress code, I'll wear what I like" but then at work she was all "so do you know what you're wearing yet? Got anything floor-length?" AARGH. I don't want to go out and buy some hideously expensive garment that I will never wear again.

(And if my boss sounds slightly controlling and psychotic, it's because we're piano teachers and I've known her since I was eleven.)

So. Buy something new? Wear whatever I want? Or go with the depressing blackness?

Sorry about the length of this. Congratulations to you and Jason on Noah as well, he's gorgeous.

-Ames

It is perfectly acceptable to wear black to a wedding. I know it feels wrong, and perhaps at one time there was a rule about it (I do not own a Miss Manners etiquette book and never have -- my rules for social manners usually depend on What Everybody Else Is Doing These Days), but no longer.

I have worn black to weddings. I have seen other women wear black to weddings. I have been to weddings where just about every other woman in attendance was wearing black. (And these weren't even formal weddings -- I wore short black dresses with strappy heels and you could not pick me out from the pack on the dance floor.)

At an afternoon-ish wedding this past spring, Jason wore a brown sportcoat and I wore a cream and blue sundress, and we were the weirdos who didn't wear black, although I maintain we were dressed more appropriately for the time and season and blah blah blah, black is just everybody's dressy color of choice these days.

(Black: It's Not Just For Funerals Anymore!)

Wear your black dress. The end.

More questions to come, but right now I gotta go bust a move out on the dance floor, yo.

 GAH.

Okay, the child has just stayed wide, wide awake through his usual lunchtime nap. I am very hungry, and while he's been mostly charming and smiley, he's now at that overtired-overstimulated-I've-forgotten-how-to-go-sleep-so-I- will-scream-instead stage, which AHHHHHHHHHHGOTOSLEEPALREADYITISNOTTHATHARD.

Oh, and 10 minutes ago? I had to retrieve a small piece of rawhide FROM MY DOG'S THROAT, WHERE IT WAS CHOKING HER, SWEET MERCIFUL GOD.

And the minute I yanked it out? She tried to eat it. AGAIN.

I'm getting the sense that I am not spending my days with a pair of intellectual giants here.

So instead, I shall wrap this up quickly with a summary of the opinions about Bare Escentuals from the comments section, where the debate rages on. (And rage on, rage on, because I'm not going to provide anymore entertainment for y'all today.)

The BE line seems to be a love-it-or-hate-it kind of thing -- I'm not seeing much middle ground. Those that love it swear.by.it, as a way of life even, and to the haters, it's a scourge upon humanity that must be stopped.

Bare Escentuals: it's the Amway of make-up, apparently.

So, I shall now dispense my own cribbed-from-the-comments advice. (And bear in mind this is coming from someone who has never tried it and probably never will, because, well, QVC? Really? So I can buy my make-up and then some creepy collectible dolls?)

And in that vein, if you want to try Bare Escentuals, DON'T buy it from QVC. If possible, go to Sephora and use the testers first, or see if you can score some samples. Since people are reporting some disturbing reactions to the stuff (from itching to burning to pore irritation to raging rashes), it sounds like you DEFINITELY want to try before you buy.

(Although I'm willing to give BE the benefit of a doubt here, because I imagine if your target audience is people with sensitive skin, it seems inevitable that your product is just going to irritate a good percentage of that audience, no matter what.)

If you don't have a Sephora near you, I would still suggest you avoid QVC and buy the products at Sephora's web site the first time you try them, because Sephora has a very excellent 60-day return policy (you can return opened products that just didn't work for you no problem), whereas returning something bought through an infomercial is usually a labyrinth of sputtering futility. (And we have at least one testimonial as to the shittitude of BE to issue a refund.)

If you love Bare Escentuals? Awesome. Use it, love it, go with God.

If you hate Bare Escentuals? Well, you seem to be in pretty good company.

If you could not give a rat's ass about Bare Escentuals? Well, here's a photo of the Storch Family Brain Trust instead.

Got a question about...something? Anything? Send it to advice@amalah.com and blahblahblah it might get answered someday.

The Surreal Life

Or, My Life on the D-List

Or Or, My Dinner with Antonin

Last night I shared an order of fried calimari with Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

I know! Even I was thinking, "The hell?"

So about a week ago, Jason and I were asked to be judges at the 2005 International Wine for Oysters Competition at Old Ebbitt Grill here in DC. (For the non-locals, every year Old Ebbitt throws this huge-ass party called the Oyster Riot and holds the wine competition ahead of time to determine 10 wines that will be paired with the oysters and, I assume, will get everyone tanked and properly riotous.)

We were completely flattered and were all, "We are bona-fide local celebrities now! Riot!"

Then Amy, the event organizer (who keeps ordering me not to write anything bad about her, which OF COURSE I WON'T, that would take valuable space away from discussions of my boobs), sent us the list of the OTHER judges.

Scalia. Phyllis Richman. Food Network show hosts. Actual Media Professionals. And Other People Who Probably Know Way, Way More About Wine And Oysters Than Us.

It was exceedingly clear that two judges had pulled out and we were the Bottom of the D-List Barrel.

But who the fuck could care when we're talking about a competition of 20 wines and all the oysters we could eat, PLUS tickets to the sold-out-since-forever Oyster Riot?

Hint: not us!

So we agreed, and I was determined to be as fabulous and non-mommy-like as possible, and even seriously considered taking the baby to Georgetown to shop for new clothes. As in, new clothes for ME, new clothes that did not snap around the crotch or feature sayings like "Daddy's Little All-Star" or some such shit.

I did not take the baby to Georgetown, because...well, that's a lot of work and planning and I thought the lighting in dressing rooms was depressing BEFORE, so I cannot even imagine what my wide, squashy expanse of stretch marks would look like under those lights.

So I rooted around my closet and behold! I found that an admittedly quite awesome suit from Banana Republic actually, seriously fit me. As in, I could zip the pants ALL THE WAY UP. (I will not say whether I actually left the house with them zipped all the way up, or if I maybe left them an inch or so unzipped in order to minimize the over-the-waistband-pooch-while-sitting effect, because THE POINT IS, I COULD ZIP THEM IF I WANTED TO.)

And with a scandalously low and suddenly-super-filled-out silky camisole under the jacket and the return of the fuck-me gold stilettos, I was SO READY to ascend to at least the C-list of Washingtonian celebrity.

Of course, you know where this is going, right? You totally know that the baby pooped all over my silky camisole the instant the babysitter showed up, right?

Sigh. I wore a regular tank top instead.

(And yes, of course our babysitter has a blog. Doesn't yours?)

So we arrived, and all the other judges were Networking, and we stood in the corner like Idiots, because I was suddenly hit with an Attack of the Shy, and OMG, Jason's seated next to Phyllis Richman, who like, OWNED THIS TOWN when she was the head food critic for The Post, and JASON DON'T LEAVE ME TO GO TALK TO HER AND DON'T MAKE ME GO TALK TO HER BECAUSE I WILL SAY SOMETHING DUMB ABOUT MY DUMB WEBSITE.

Once we were seated at our little appointed stations (which contained, no lie, seven hundred million billion different wine glasses and a gallon-sized spit bucket), we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves, and GOD, I'm SUCH A LOON, because while the other blogger there had the sense to introduce herself as a freelance writer and Jason just said he "wrote for" DCFoodies.com, I completely forgot that I could mention my ACTUAL JOB and just mentioned my website and I called it a blog and nobody there knew what a blog was I think and then the President of the Old Ebbit Restaurant Empire asked me if I had a webcam, and I meekly protested that it's more of a creative writing thing, not so much of a sex-on-camera-exhibition thing, but by then the person next to me was introducing himself and I decided to Shut The RIghteous Fuck Up.

Luckily they started pouring the wine soon after that.

And oh, my GOD, the wine. Twenty different wines and we were supposed to taste each one with an oyster, and oh, my GOD, the oysters. I kept tasting the wines repeatedly, mostly because I wanted to eat more oysters, and partly because I knew there would be a mingling cocktail hour afterwards and then dinner and I figured if I was really drunk I wouldn't notice if I said stupid things about blogs to people.

Oh, and we had Official Judging Clipboards where we were supposed to write comments about each wine and assign a numbered rank to each one.

My comments? Were the STUPIDEST THINGS EVER. Everyone around me was the type who could sniff each glass and detect the barest scent of a nutty edam cheese and discuss the fruit's effect on the brininess of the oyster or whatever, and all my comments were like: Good. Is crisp or something. Contains alcohol, which is a plus.

On one wine that I didn't like? I seriously just wrote "Meh."

(Needless to say, the winning 10 wines were almost all the wines that I ranked in the bottom 20.)

After the official judging and whatnot, we all went upstairs for -- what else? More free wine and oysters. And Networking.

Guess which of those three things I did NOT do so much partaking of.

Jason: You should introduce yourself to the publisher of DC Magazine and see if you could submit articles or something. He's right over there.

Amy: (nods thoughtfully) Yes. Yes I should.

Jason: Well?

Amy: Look! I am not paying for this champagne!

While I was pondering what kind of monstrous mother leaves her five-week-old with a babysitter and whether my nursing pads were still in place, everybody sat down for dinner, and the only spot left was right next to SUPREME COURT JUSTICE ANTONIN SCALIA.

I kind of freaked and grabbed Event Organizer Amy and hissed that I COULD NOT SIT NEXT TO SCALIA, and she assured that he is actually quite nice and not scary, and we'd probably be discussing food and wine mostly, so if I could just not have any Tourette's episodes of yelling GEORGE BUSH SUCKS! HARRIET MIERS WTF! for an hour or so, I would do just fine.

And indeed, he is charming and nice and we compared our rankings to the winning wines and we actually liked several of the same ones. And he shared his fried calimari with me and then ordered a hamburger and a beer. Which: awesome.

I ordered filet mignon. And didn't giggle stupidly when Marc Silverstein of the Food Network told me how awesome I looked after having a baby five weeks ago, although I did introduce him to Jason by pointing and shrieking, "The Best Of! The Best Of!"

Oh, and in my oh-so-suave way of justifying why in HELL I'd been asked to participate in the competition, I mentioned the Washingtonian article and then (oh, GOD) starting rattling off my visitor stats. So, so tacky, but since at least 98% of the people there still didn't get what a blog was and clearly still thought I had sex on a webcam or went through my congressman's garbage looking for incriminating memos to post, they didn't get why that was a tacky, dick move on my part.

Anyway. I could still walk when we left, although I was officially Freaking Out About Missing My Baby, My Precious, Precious Baaaaybeee.

Who was fine and alive and sleeping peacefully. Ceiba missed us a lot more, and gave us all a minor heart attack by FALLING OFF THE BACK OF THE COUCH as we walked in, because YEAH, LET'S SPEND THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS ON ANOTHER STUPID LEG, YOU STUPID DOG.

And Noah rewarded our neglect with sleeping for six. Hours. In. A. Row. Six! Sixsixsixsix!

I woke up at 2 am anyway, already in the throes of the most awful hangover EVER, or at least since JANUARY, and stumbled around looking for Excederin and water and very nearly had an oyster-related-come-to-Jesus-experience in the bathroom but did not, because pregnancy or no, I am still an old pro at this drinking thing.

Although I will probably be pumping and dumping breastmilk for at least a week, which really adds a new dimension to Big Nights Out, and how many D-list celebs do you know that will share THAT kind of information with you? Huh? NONE. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT A BLOG IS ALL ABOUT PEOPLE. THE SHARING.

I think I forgot to thank Justice Scalia (no, he didn't tell me I could call him Tony or Big T) for sharing his calimari though, and I may have spelled my website's name wrong to a couple people who pretended like they would rush home and check it out. (Probably because they still think I am having sex on a webcam.)

"No webcam here, just some stupid girl who tried to photograph her baby's big gummy smile and forgot to turn off the damn baby swing beforehand."