She's Lump, Part Two

Omg. So GET THIS.

Remember the ear lump? The ear lump that made me the novelty-freak-show hit of the dermatologist office? Yes, that one. 

My dermatologist referred me to a plastic surgeon. That appointment was this morning. After spending an hour in the waiting room (covetously eyeballing the tummy tuck and neck lift brochures), then another half hour in the doctor's office...the plastic surgeon spent 10 minutes examining the lump before saying, basically: Yeah, there is no way in FUCK I am touching that.

So while my dermatologist was right that the lump probably formed in utero — like when I was just a wee, oversharing zygote — removing it is actually a super-complicated, involved thing. I need an Ear, Nose & Throat surgeon because the malformation likely goes very deep and is very close to very important facial nerves. (In some cases, he said, they actually wrap around the nerves.) If those nerves get damaged in any way during the surgery, I'll have facial paralysis and look like I had a stroke.

Um. Okay.

But forgoing the surgery is not really an option either, because at the rate it's been growing, the lump itself will eventually put pressure on the nerves and cause damage or paralysis ANYWAY.

WTF EAR LUMP. I THOUGHT YOU WERE COOL.

The good news is that it's "definitely not cancer." It's just a stupid mass of pain-in-the-ass bullshit that will now keep me awake at night for non-fatal reasons. 

YAY.

Anyway. I am now waiting for a surgeon recommendation. (He wants to confer with my dermatologist first, you know, because Weird Ear Lump is Just That Weird.) Just wanted to keep y'all up-to-date about my fascinatingly unusual malformed head, UGH. 

 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part Three

I woke up on day three with three immediate thoughts:

1) Jason had already left for a business trip and would be away until the next day, oh dear God.

2) If I even SUSPECTED that I was taking my mood/hunger/whatever out on my children again, I would stop that very instant. That. Very. Instant.

3) Hot christ on a ham sandwich, I feel hungover. 

I don't know if it was belated caffeine withdrawal or what, but I had a terrible headache. (And it only NOW just occurred to me that I didn't even consider taking anything for it. I don't know why, as I'm usually hitting the Advil or Excedrin at the first twinge of head-discomfort. More evidence of juice-related Stockholm Syndrome, maybe?)

The boys would be with a babysitter all morning, so I decided I could safely keep going before switching to Bitch-Mood High-Alert Mode. Despite the headache, I actually really WANTED to finish the cleanse and not quit — especially once I got on the scale and realized I was down over three pounds. (I started at 13 pounds above my goal weight, 18 above the "ideal" [bleeeeaaarrrrgh nevergoingtohappen] weight for my height/frame. Thanks third pregnancy and also pâte à choux!) After spending most of the summer losing and gaining the same two or three pounds, this wasn't anything crazy spectacular, but it at least felt like a nice push in the correct downward direction.

And for the first time I realized I was no longer fantasizing about going on a day-long crazy food-binge on Thursday.

On Monday, I was planning a post-cleanse celebration along these lines:

But now...not so much. I didn't want to immediately gain that weight back OR go back to my old eating habits. I never experienced any of the endorphin highs or heightened sense of buzzing mental clarity shit the Hardcore Juice People like to promise (sorry, Hardcore Juice People), but I did gain a practical appreciation for:

1) How much useless, extra snacking I do throughout the day (iz food diary timez!), 

2) How few calories I really needed to maintain my (low) level of physical activity,

3) Yeah, I need to stop looking at carbs/dairy/meat as the only foods that are "satisfying," and

4) Sorry, wine. I love you, but I will never get this weight off with you hanging around as often as you do.

Anyway, I know this is all terribly boring (AND SO HELLA OBVIOUS), but as someone who has been such a vocal tub-thumper for organic homemade baby food and so anti-HFCS/artificial dyes/colors and all that, I feel like I owe it to you guys to admit that I still have a long way to go when it comes to what I cram down my own feedhole sometimes. 

(I still totes bought that song on iTunes though. Imma add it to my running playlist!)

Anyway, compared to day one and day two, day three was almost criminally easy. At 3 pm, I helped myself to a single spoonful of peanut butter to ward off Teh Crazies, and chugged the coconut water instead of sipping it. At 4 pm, I drank the beet shot and made a cup of the ginger "tea." At 5 pm, right before I needed to make dinner for the kids (since Jason was away and couldn't save me from having to be in the kitchen with All Of The Delicious Solid Food Things), I started on the second-to-last vegetable juice.

And mostly, I simply refused to let myself be a jerk. Huh.

I made pasta with turkey meatballs for the kids, gave everybody a chocolate chip cookie for dessert, then got them cleaned and jammied and brushed up in time to watch the new Lego Ninjago episode at 8 pm.

I drank the very last almond milk while they watched it. It was pretty anticlimactic, since there was no one around to high five or congratulate me. 

I mean, besides Baby Ike. But I think he was mostly hoping the bottle was full of more cookies. 

After that (and a phone call from Daddy), we all went to bed. The end.

***

I lost five pounds while on the cleanse, which put me back in a range on the scale I have not been able to crack since Ike was born, no matter what I did. As of this morning's (Friday's) weigh-in, I'm down a completely unbelievable eight.

WUT.

I've eased back into "real" food, while trying to establish better habits (fruits! vegetables! no white sugar or endless snacking on three-pounds-o-cheese!) and also re-re-re-started a cardio kickboxing routine. Yesterday, I even briefly considered driving back to the juice bar for a couple more bottles (since I know I can coast until 3 pm, at which point I'd be free to eat whatever I wanted), but eh, didn't really have time. Plus: COFFEE IS SO DELICIOUS I MISSED YOU. 

(I also took the boys to Chipotle for dinner, but went as healthy as possible for myself, and you know what? I didn't die and I wasn't miserable. THAT'S HOW GRATEFUL I AM TO SIMPLY HAVE FOOD TO CHEW. YAY SALAD.)

No, I have no plans to buy a juicer or do regularly monthly cleanses, since I'm not really sold on them as anything other than an extreme (and expensive) crash diet, albeit one that involves a lot of really good-for-you ingredients. And as someone gently — and rightly — pointed out in the comments on Day One, I do have a history of disordered eating (though it's all well over a decade ago at this point).

Still, though, I'm very aware that I still need to be careful, even if I do legitimately have weight I need to lose. I don't want my children to ever hear or see me obsessing over weight and making food an issue...plus there's the fact that with Mom only drinking Weird Juices, we went three days without a real sit-down family dinner, and I mostly defaulted to easy, convenience foods for them. 

Those caveats aside, I'm glad I tried it. I'm glad I stuck with it. It really did force me to own up to some very bad habits and think more about the kinds of food that make my body happy, not just mah feeeeelings. (Which almost always want carbs, sugar and cheese, incidentally.) I may do a less extreme version (like a juice-until-dinner plan) at some point, and I'll definitely stop in at the juice bar when I'm in the neighborhood for some of my favorites instead of hitting the Starbucks. 

And now I'll also definitely stop talking about it, and we can all get back to our regularly-scheduled blog programming of...well, probably the same sort of boring shit, only with more baby pictures. 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part Two

I woke up on day two of the godforsaken motherfucking juice cleanse fully expecting to feel sub-human. I'd read at least a dozen bloggers' experiences with three-day cleanses and it seemed like day two was the day you broke out, leached toxins out your liver and fingernails, sprouted gills and breathed fire...you know, stuff like that. Especially since prevailing pseudo-wisdom seems to be that the more "toxic" you are when you start, the worse you feel as your body rids itself of all the toxins and garbage and the persistent coating of congealed Velveeta in your colon. 

So I was surprised to realize that I felt totally fine. I didn't even feel hungry. Maybe it wasn't working? Maybe it was all a load of horseshit, perhaps? (IMAGINE THAT!)

Either way, I was determined to go on, if only to have something to blog about. FOR THE BLOG! TO THE JUICE!

Day two started out much, much easier. It helped that I had that dermatologist appointment to suck up most of the morning and keep my mind off the clock-watching and idle-snack-obsessing. (Getting your Rare Congenital Ear Lump photographed by the Inventor of Accutane does make for a pretty amusing morning.) I didn't miss coffee, didn't feel headache-y or lightheaded or anything like that. I also did not experience any of the — ahem — gastrointestinal side effects many people describe. (Sure was peeing a lot, though, lawdy.) And the juices all tasted bizarrely, insanely delicious. I AM JUICE CLEANSE MASTER, SAVE FOR THAT ONE THING WITH THE RUBBER-PIZZA-CHEESE SHHHHH. 

Though once again, the late afternoon began to drag. And drag. Especially with nothing to look forward to than that blasted horrid-tasting coconut water. (You know your brain has gone 'round the crazy bend when you start thinking, DAYUM, I could sure go for some more cucumber-and-kale juice instead of coconut water, yo.)

And despite my plan to drink the "dinner" juice earlier, I got distracted with the kids and kind of forgot, and by the time I realized it I had fully morphed into a Grump Monster.

And I'm not kidding. You guys, I was AWFUL. Everything set me off. EVERYTHING. I snapped. I scolded. I yelled. 

(In my defense, my kids were behaving a little extra turd-y and screechily fighting over EVERYTHING, but instead of like, coming up with a suitable distracting activity or sending them outside, I simply tried to referee uselessly from the couch, and then blamed THEM for my uselessness.)

The worst moment came when I realized Ezra had abandoned a nearly-full milk box behind the couch in the living room, which Ike had found and upended, causing a GIANT FLOOD of milk all over the floor (and himself). And I lost it. Lost my temper, my cool, my entire grip on reality and perspective. 

I know a lot of mothers have had that moment when you realize you need to excuse yourself and spend a few moments staring at your horrible, angry, snarled-up face in the bathroom mirror, counting to 10 or 100 or 1000. But let me tell you, it adds a whole new level of shame and guilt when you're locked in there with a $9 spinach/kale/romaine/celery juice-thing, knowing that you just lost your shit at a three-and-a-half-year-old because you're purposely depriving yourself for nebulous, questionable reasons. 

I eventually emerged from the bathroom and tearfully apologized to both Ezra and Noah. They both seemed to already be Over It and unfazed (such is the impotence of my fury, I suppose), but I'm still not, even two days later. Boys — and especially Ezra — if you ever get bored enough to go back and read this crap: I am so, so sorry. There was no excuse for me to yell at you like that. I hope you forgive me, because I was a total asshole. 

And once again, the instant I drank the "dinner" juice (or whatever you want to call it), my world and mood were righted, and I felt fine. FINE. I was a Juice Cleanse Werewolf, who needed to be locked away in solitude between the hours of 3 and 5 pm, at which point I could emerge and not be completely batshit insane. 

After we put the kids to bed I curled up on the couch with the almond milk and watched — what else? — The Hunger Games. 

Next: Day three. And yes, there was a day three, and it was real and it was SPECTACULAR. (Also kind of anti-climactic.) 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part One

At some point last week, I got it into my head that I wanted to try one of those three-day juice cleanse things. And by "wanted" I mean, "wanted to spout idle Big Talk about possibly trying one of those three-day juice cleanse things, because come on." 

Our time at the beach was a week-long experiment in testing the limits of just how much garbage the human body can consume. Results: A LOT. After seven days of nothing but heavily processed cheese, carbs, sugar, meat and booze, I was desperately craving a salad and felt an acute need to just...reset. (Also: the scale. FUCK YOU SCALLLLLLE.)

And so I convinced myself that a juice fast was just the fad-thing I needed to undo some of the damage and start fresh. 

Three days + 18 jars of juice (plus three "shots" of beet juice and one ginger) = the weirdest and possibly dumbest impulse buy of my life. 

I hauled it all home from a fancy local juice bar that I had never even set foot in before, arranged it neatly in our basement fridge...and then stared at it for awhile, while the imminent expiration dates mocked me, as there was no putting it off. We're not pasteurized, bitch! What have you gotten yourself into NOW? 

DAY ONE

Day one started out bright and full of promise. I was shocked to find that I did not hate the first juice (a blend of water, lemon, cayenne and coconut), and that it was actually a decent replacement for coffee, since it was tart and bracing. CLEARLY I WAS GOING TO ROCK AT THIS. 

Juice two was a cucumber...thing, and gave me my first real inkling of what I was in for. In my puny brain, I guess I'd been envisioning something thicker and more substantial, like three days of fruit-and-vegetable smoothies. 

No. It's juice, you idiot. Watery, texture-less, completely liquid juice. 

"Shiiiiiit," went my puny brain.

I carefully spaced the drinks out every two hours, as instructed, and found myself in a logic war with my stomach. My "breakfast" is typically nothing more than a pot of black coffee, and I don't usually eat lunch until well after noon, after the kids are done with theirs and the sitter leaves. So it wasn't like I was replacing a daily smorgasbord of pancakes and eggs benedict with juices. And yet after two juices I was STARVING. I mean, I wasn't really, but I was OBSESSING. 

"Lunch" was a carrot juice, which was thankfully thicker than the first two but still woefully lacking in TEXTURE to CHEW. It was filling, at least, but my stomach just felt...bored. GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO!, it seemed to growl. I HAVE NOTHING TO NOM! THIS IS BULLSHIT!

I tried to focus on work but felt kind of sluggish and spongy, mostly because I was only half a day in and already discouraged that there was no way I'd ever make it three days without bailing. I didn't feel pure and natural and pumped full of raw, accessible vitamins — I felt cranky and hungry and wanted to be left alone with a goddamn bag of string cheese. 

I hit the lowest point around 3 pm. The sitter had left around 1, I was still trying to finish work I'd been unable to complete that morning thanks to my brain fog, and the kids were all lively and awake and demanding entertainment. I started to feel a little lightheaded and in desperate need for a nap, and juice number four was coconut water and I learned that I FUCKING HATE COCONUT WATER. It was the first one that I honestly had a hard time getting down. You people, with the coconut water? With the VOLUNTARY coconut water? I do not get you, you people. 

After awhile I stuck it back in the fridge and switched to regular water, then made some sad, cleanse-friendly "tea." Hot water, a little lemon and a small bit of the ginger shot. At this point I was so desperate for ANY variety of ANY kind that even the switch to hot water was like, total amazeballs. And I found if I added enough ginger juice it became super spicy, which made my bored-as-hell tastebuds happy. YOU GOT US SOME WATER SALSA YAAAAYYYYY!

But basically, the hours of 3-5 pm on day one were the worst. I wasn't experiencing any of the "detox" symptoms I'd braced myself for (especially since I'd done NOTHING to prepare for the cleanse, like eliminating caffeine/meat/dairy/alcohol in the days prior, but leapt right in the morning after indulging in chocolate-chip cookies and red wine the night before, because I am a winner)...I was just hungry. So very, very hungry. And NOT in the mood for juice number five, some bright green thing full of kale and romaine and celery and stuff. 

Specifically, the lowest, worst moment was when Jason came home from work and the reality hit me: I was going to have to sit there sipping juice while my asshole family got to eat real, actual food right in front of me. 

Jason stuck a pizza in the oven for the boys and — upon seeing my pale, frantic face and hearing my near-weeping over this voluntary thing that I had voluntarily signed up for — opted to only eat a salad for dinner. 

"BUT YOU STILL GET TO CHEWWWWW!" I practically wailed at him, then hid in the living room to escape the amazing, delicious smell of shitty frozen pizza warming up in the oven. 

I thought about quitting, yes. I tried to talk myself into a revised plan of drinking the juices during the day and then eating a "sensible" small dinner at night. I'd made a huge mistake, clearly. I should have worked up to this more slowly, getting back into better eating habits post-vacation for awhile and OH MY GOD I WOULD EAT MY SOFA RIGHT NOW BRING ME SOME KETCHUP.

I started in on the green juice and took a shot of the beet juice. Both of them were...surprisingly good, if texture-less. That was still the biggest issue — I liked and appreciated the fresh taste of all the vegetable juices, but missed the satisfaction and satiated feeling that comes with you know, EATING those vegetables.

Then I made the mistake of going into the kitchen to check on my children. Noah had done his patented trick of flipping the pizza upside down, then carefully eating every bite of crust and sauce while leaving the cheese behind. (He loves cheese, just not melted cheese. And yet he insists pizza is his favorite. I don't know. I don't even bother trying to figure it out anymore.) I picked up his plate and walked towards the sink and...

That cheese. That disgusting, leftover slab of sub-par mozzarella that my child had meticulously separated from his pizza slice...

...was suddenly the most irresistible piece of food I have ever encountered in my entire life.

So I ate it. I cheated on my fancy three-day juice cleanse with a hunk of cold cheese from a boxed frozen pizza.

And it was DELICIOUS. Oh, my GOD it tasted so good. Like grease tinged with regret.

And then I finished my salad-juice and finally felt...full. So much that I considered skipping the final drink of the day — a raw vanilla almond milk — but then decided to have it before bed. It was absolutely goddamned delicious and proteinariffic, like some kind of glorious vegan milkshake I never would have liked before but now! NOW! Oh, God bless you, almond milk, for being Not Juice and for having wee tiny flecks of almonds in you that I can FEEL with my TONGUE and gaaahhhhslobberdrool. 

I realized if I'd started the final two juices sooner, I possibly could have avoided the worst of the out-of-my-mind-with-hunger pangs, because I went to bed completely full and satisfied and slept like a rock. Maybe I could actually do this.

Or maybe it was just Stockholm Syndrome brought on by the almond milk. 

Next: Day two brings it on, in a brought-en-est z-snap fashion

She's Lump

I had a dermatologist appointment this morning — my super-exciting annual mole check. Sexy, right?  Sorry to shatter any fantasies about what my hot, droopy mother-of-three body might look like in person, because seriously: I am covered in weird-ass moles.

The good news is that none of my weird-ass moles are dangerously weird. They are all perfectly normal-weird. Hooray!

(Though I still requested a quick liquid-nitrogen blast to the face for a normal-but-crazy-annoying sun spot I developed on my cheek during pregnancy. I go back in a month for another one, or possibly a follow-up with a laser. What a wonderful time to be alive! Nitrogen blasts at your convenience! Prescription-strength lasers! Botulism shots on a walk-in basis!)

But then, there's my ear. My ear is apparently very, very weird.

For about as long as I can remember, I've had a small lump in front of my right ear. It's under the skin, perfectly round, and not particularly hard OR soft. It never hurt or anything, it was just...well, weird. I remember going to a doctor about it when I was very young, but don't really remember what the diagnosis was. Extra cartilage? A benign cyst?

No idea, and my mom doesn't remember either. Something of the "mumble mumble fine harmless as long as it doesn't change or get bigger mumble" variety. 

Welp. Fine. Until it changed and got bigger.

I think it started when I was pregnant with Ike, then continued after he was born, but now it's a LUMP. An annoying, visible lump. It's super itchy and freaks me out when I touch it, because it manages to be both solid and immovable while also...squishy and fluid-filled. 

(OH HI WERE YOU EATING? I'm sorry, maybe I should have just let everybody Google around for pictures of my bizarre skin condition. Because THAT always goes so well.)

Thanks to Google, I'd managed to diagnose myself with a variety of Things, ranging from benign and no-big-deal to OH MY GOD YOUR BRAIN IS FILLING WITH CANCER THIS VERY SECOND. 

I wasn't sure the dermatologist was the best place to take the lump, but I had the appointment set up already and figured I could get a recommendation for an ENT or whatever kind of doctor they felt would be the appropriate medical destination for the lump.

(Lump. Lump! It's starting to not even feel like a real word the more I type it.)

Turns out, the dermatologist knew exactly what it was, and it was NONE of the things I'd researched on Google. It's basically a rogue, malformed sinus that I've had since birth, since I was an embryo. "Like, it happens when the cells are still splitting," she explained, not without a slight hint of OMFG THIS IS SO COOL excitement. 

The next thing I knew, I was the show-and-tell exhibit of the entire practice. Two physician's assistants came in to ooh and ahh over the lump. Medical references were pulled out and passed around. An official multi-word diagnosis was announced to me (and then promptly forgotten). Usually, this sort of thing is accompanied by a small extra hole for draining, but I don't have that, so that's why the lump is getting bigger and more uncomfortable.

So basically, the lump is full of face-juice and probably boogers. Great. Just...great. 

But that still didn't mean my disgusting aural mucus blob wasn't HOT SHIT at the dermatologist's office. My doctor pulled in another dermatologist to look at it, a much older gentleman I've never seen at the practice before.

My doctor introduced him to me. "He invented ACCUTANE," she added proudly.

So. Okay. How does one respond to that? I mean, if you were normal and not at all a failure at basic human interaction (aka me)? You came in for a mole check and suddenly the inventor of Accutane is standing three feet away from you and would like to see the weird thing you've got going on with your ear. 

I think I stammered out something about it being nice to meet him and like, wow and shit, I've seen your medication advertised on the teevee, hurrr durrrr, and then apologized for the lump really being kind of boring looking. It's just skin, you know? No blood or oozing or tiny fetus in fetu teeth sticking out of it, or anything cool like that.

The doctors hmm'd and ahhh'd over the lump and I was given several cards for several local plastic surgeons who could determine whether it should be drained or surgically removed, and then the older doctor asked if he could take a picture.

 "Oh...kay?" I said. 

And that's how I ended up getting a photo of my weird-ass ear lump taken by the Inventor of Accutane this morning for future medical posterity, or perhaps his personal scrapbook of weird-ass dermatological shit. I didn't ask.

 

Open the Gates & Seize the DoofOuchOwBumpShit

So. Okay. Let's get this hideously embarrassing story over with already. I've been putting it off for some reason, like I am laboring under the delusional illusion that I have dignity or something. 

I broke my toe a couple weeks ago, as you may or may not recall. In retrospect, it was a pretty bad break. I think it may have involved a joint in my actual FOOT, not just the toe. So probably a break that should have been checked out and/or coddled for a week or two in a cast shoe or something. Instead of what I did, which was tape it up for a couple days and limp around while insisting I was okay, then going to New York City with a suitcase full of ridiculous shoes. 

Behold! A trifecta of dumbass!

But you know. SHOES. VANITY. HUBRIS. A DESPERATE NEED TO MAKE MY CALVES LOOK SEXY. 

I knew I was in trouble on the very first night, when I "only" wore the pair of strappy wedges and realized that I was having a really hard walking in them. Not just from toe-pain (pshaw! I can medicate that right up with martinis), but from balance issues. I was very weirdly wobbly, at least for me. Was I out of practice? Overly favoring my busted left foot and screwing with my center of gravity? Drrrrrunk?

THE WORLD MAY NEVER KNOW.

So I made a point to start wearing flat sandals whenever I had to walk somewhere, and stashing my ridiculous shoes in my bag to change into once I arrived at my destination. This worked...somewhat, though I did fall flat on my ass at Sparklecorn in front of Avitable during a DRAMATIC RE-ENACTMENT of the moment when a crazy person stole Charlie's conference badge after he ordered her to stop making me cry.

And still. Lo. I did not learn. On Saturday night, we went to see Newsies. I wore my favorite shoes ever (the animal print ones, on the right), a Barbie-doll-riffic pair of platforms that have never given me an ounce of trouble, that have always been comfortable despite looking otherwise, that I have literally sprinted down escalators and across Metro platforms in. 

So of course I fell down the stairs in them. 

We were up in the mezzanine — a steep, terrifying old-school mezzanine — but oh, that part was fine! At intermission I got up to pee and realized that the line was already stretching back down the stairs to the orchestra level. I followed the herd down the stairs and...I don't totally know. I THINK I put my bad foot down on the narrow step and wobbled unexpectedly, then reached out for the railing but missed, while at the same time the crush of people behind me didn't realize I'd stopped and knocked whatever remaining shred of balance I had left.

I fell. Face first. I hit multiple steps with multiple body parts — my knees, my shins, my elbows, my shoulder, MY FACE. 

There was nothing to do but roll into it and hope that I would hit the solid floor eventually and would make it there without breaking anything. The bathroom line saw it all, and I heard the collective gasps of a good dozen people. Everyone — including an usher who saw the whole thing and rushed over — asked if I was okay, and I insisted I was, while also wishing they would all just SHUT UP SHUT UP LET ME GO ON WITH MY LIFE I ALSO STILL REALLY HAVE TO PEE.

I was the person everyone would talk about when they returned to their seats. I was Tai from Clueless, the girl who fell on her butt face, the girl who had no business wearing those stupid shoes. 

I turned down offers of ice and first aid (mostly because I HAD TO PEE AND DO YOU NOT SEE THIS LINE), took my shamey place in line, caught Jason's eye in the crowd and mouthed I JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS OMG to him, then inspected the damage in the bathroom. 

My left leg was bleeding — icky wide swaths of carpet-induced cuts — and my right leg was already bruising profusely as were both my elbows. My shoulder ached (that bruise wouldn't show up until later) and the right side of my face around my eye was red and slightly carpet-burned.

I stumbled out and told the usher I'd reconsidered the offer of some ice. They eventually brought me a plastic Duane Reade bag full of ice from the concession stand.

And so I spent the second act trying desperately to ice my various wounds while keeping the crinkly-bag-sounds to a minimum. The humiliated ache from my injured pride, however, raged on. 

(We didn't really care for the show either. Turns out I am a Newsies purist who thinks they changed too damn much from the movie and got all nit-picky about most of my favorite moments being removed. Though obviously my viewing experience may have been clouded by the STAIR-BLOW I TOOK TO MY FACE.) 

I am still sporting a bunch of impressive bruises and cuts, and a newfound ambivalence-slash-terror towards my heel collection. They are assholes and so am I. The end!

BlogHer 2012, Part One (Which Features Very Little About, You Know, BlogHer)

Oh. Hi. I went to Blogher. While there, I cry-talked about my boobs to Samantha Bee, threw a party, suffered a nervous breakdown about said party, smeared unicorn cake on the faces of friends and strangers, fell down the stairs at a Broadway theater, and then brought a life-sized Harry Potter cardboard stand-up home on the train like an idiot. 

This morning I woke up to the sound of Noah yelling, "STOP STARING AT ME!" at the cardboard stand-up. Then he punched it. It fell over.

"HARRY POTTER, ARE YOU OKAY?" Ezra shouted.

(I should mention this was all happening before the sun was up.)

"HARRY POTTER IS OKAY," Ezra reported.

Well, good. I guess?

We are all good here too. I guess? 

I need a little bit more time to get my head and thoughts and photos in order, but here's one story from the very first day, which COULD HAVE been my last, because...well, you'll see:

On Wednesday morning, Jason and I drove up to Pennsylvania to drop the boys off at their grandparents' house. Then we went immediately straight to the train station and finished the trip up to New York. When we got there, it was raining, and so the taxi line was ridiculous.

While we were waiting (with our eleventy million suitcases because he and I BOTH like to bring a lot of shoe options — shut up, we've been married 14 years tomorrow because we see eye to eye on PRECISELY that sort of shit), the car service people were hustling the line, trying to cut deals with people to skip the taxi and go with them instead. 

Now, I admit we have done this in DC a lot: usually at the airport, where there are typically a dozen car service limos queued up. They've dropped passengers off and are hoping to score a return fare and extra cash and will drive you home for about what a taxi will charge you anyway. We've done it a lot and have never died once. 

But there we are, in New York City, and some random Russian dude is offering us a ride and I'm doing that thing where you stare into space, pretending to not even listen because no, thank you...when I realize Jason has negotiated and agreed on a fare and is walking off with said random Russian dude. Okay-y?

So I follow, thinking that hey, this is probably not the best idea, but also thinking that we're talking about a limo/towncar service, so it's not like this is the WORST idea, like if we just agreed to take a ride in some random Russian dude's random unlicensed minivan oh my God it's just a random unlicensed minivan.

!!!

His friend was driving, parked illegally while the other guy went out in search of suckers passengers, and of course every alarm bell possible is clanging around in my head...but the first guy was already loading our suitcases into the back of the minivan.

You guys. I know. This was so bad and so stupid and YOU SHOULD NEVER DO THIS EVER. It's New York 101, dumbshits, and the only explanation for why Jason and I continued to cheerfully climb into a couple strangers' random unlicensed minivan instead of running back to the taxi line was that we didn't want to make a fuss. If we were going to get kidnapped by Russian mobsters, well goddamnit, we were still going to be polite about it. We were going to be the most cooperative victims ever.

Once we started driving, I glared at Jason, like I cannot believe you just agreed to let us get chopped us into tiny pieces and hurled into the Hudson River all to shave 15 minutes off our transportation time.

And he looked back at me, like I know. I'm sorry. I was just thinking about that thing your hair does in the rain. 

I pulled out my phone and debated...texting? Tweeting? Loudly making a phone call to someone with our exact location and circumstances to casually let our friendly Russian mobster overlords know that SOMEONE KNOWS. SOMEONE CARES. GOLDISH METALLIC MINIVAN HEADED DOWN 6th AVENUE. SEND HELP. 

Instead, I just nervously played Angry Birds. The Russian guys were much more interested in the real estate listings anyway. They seemed to be debating a move to the suburbs. 

Fifteen minutes later, we were in front of our hotel. The driver hopped out, handed our luggage off to the bellhop, thanked us and wished us a good visit. Then drove off to (presumably) make a few more extra bucks on a rainy day. 

(Us, later that night, in a licensed pedicab that charged us more than the Russian minivan.) 

(STOP EXPECTO PATRONUMMING AT ME, HARRY.)

This is My Brain at 3 AM

(Click to embiggen.)

(You'll never guess what time it was when I made this. NEVER.)

(I AM SO TIRED AND I HAVE THE HANDWRITING OF A SERIAL KILLER.)

 

(Indecent) Anatomy of a Sponsored Post

(This post is a work of hyperbole and wild exaggeration. Any resemblance to actual sponsored posts, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed in the making of this post, but one living room sofa was, kind of.)

Step One: You get an email asking if you'd like your site included on a proposal for a sponsored campaign. Please to respond by EOD. 

(Or more accurately, you FIND an email asking if you'd like your site included on a proposal for a sponsored campaign...usually a few hours after the EOD deadline, dammit.)

At this point the campaign is usually very far off ("timeframe is late Septemboctovemberish.") and the topic is impossibly vague and squishy-sounding, like: WRITE A POST ABOUT BEING A MOM. HEALTHY KIDS. RECYCLING. CLEANING PRODUCTS. SKRILLEX. 

Step Two: You of course reply in the affirmative. Yes! I absolutely have something to say about cheese/identity theft/breakfast cereal/dry-erase markers!

Even if you actually don't, it's best to just say yes because 1) 99% of these things go absolutely nowhere and you'll never hear about them again, and 2) Whatever! You totally have until late Septemboctovemberish to think of something anyway. 

Step Three: Forget about it completely. Be in the midst of some major naturally-occurring life storyline on your blog, the kind that will make the sudden appearance of sponsored content feel completely jarring and annoy the maximum number of readers.

Step Four: OH HEY IT'S TIME TO WRITE ABOUT THAT THING YOU AGREED TO SIX MONTHS AGO, WHICH HAS NOW CHANGED THE TOPIC ON YOU FOURTEEN TIMES AND SENT OUT FOUR DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF TRACKING LINKS AND LOGOS — please use the SECOND version we sent, not the most recent, thnx — AND NOW THE CLIENT WANTS PRE-APPROVAL ON YOUR COPY, WHICH THEY WILL NATURALLY HATE, AND COULD YOU PUBLISH IT ON SUNDAY AT 10:43 PM SO THEY CAN GET MAD AT YOU FOR FAILING TO LIVE UP TO TRAFFIC EXPECTATIONS? 

Step Five: Profit! Well, after sales commissions, taxes, and the fact that you were desperate enough for content that you went out and like, bought props, and paid a babysitter to take your children to the pool while you stared at your laptop for hours in writer's-block-related terror because you have nothing interesting to say about cat litter.

***

Point is, sometimes sponsored posts can be a lot more work than you anticipate. (NOTE: This is not a sponsored post, though I guess it is technically brought to you by First World Problems.) Sometimes your first draft or idea ends up being completely unusable, because the scope of the campaign or desires of the client change, or because you end up with a giant penis-shaped stain on your sofa.

SAY WHAT.

So last week I had that handy-household-tip campaign from Pine-Sol, right? (NOTE: That campaign was not at all an example of the off-the-rails campaign detailed above, for the record. Nothing but love for the Pine-Sol people. This clusterfuck was ALL ME.) It was originally going to run before we left for the beach, and I decided to write about my couch. For Ezra had scribbled all over the arm with a ballpoint pen:

(A ballpoint pen that my husband BOUGHT for him. Because it was in the shape of an ICE CREAM CONE. Because the man has learned NOTHING and should probably read more MOMMYBLOGS for AUTHENTIC, REAL-WORLD ADVICE, brought to you by the letter NO and the number HEADDESK.)

So I always use hairspray on pen stains. Plain, cheap-as-possible hairspray, preferably. But then the campaign date got bumped back a week, and in the craziness of packing for the beach, I completely forgot to buy some. The only stuff I had was some Paul Mitchell "extra-body volumizing finishing spray," which is LIKE hairspray but...not. I don't know? What is "finishing spray," really? What am I even spraying on my head? I honestly can't tell you, but it seemed like maybe a bad thing to spray all over a prominently visible part of my couch. 

And then I packed it before remembering that I at least wanted to do a test patch, like on the underside of a cushion. (Where there are probably also pen stains. And red wine. Possibly curry. Our sofa has a wonderfully aged patina of TOTAL FILTH.) 

So on Sunday morning, Jason packed up the car and I desperately looked around for an alternate Stain Solution that I could quickly take before-and-after pictures of. Just so I could get the post written and scheduled without depriving my children a minute of all the fun we were surely going to have, since this was before the week devolved into wanton property damage and ridiculous vet bills. 

A quick Google search suggested that rubbing alcohol was excellent at removing ink stains from microfiber furniture. Ah! Yes! I knew that. I have that! LET'S DO THIS THING.

In my haste, I had neglected to really think a few things through. 1) I didn't do a test spot, but instead went immediately whole-hog with the alcohol all over the arm, 2) There was NO WAY the couch was going to fully dry before we left, so I probably wasn't going to get a good "after" photo, especially since my hair dryer was buried in the bottom of a suitcase that was already out in the car, and 3) DUDE YOU FUCKING DREW A PENIS AND NUTSACK ON YOUR COUCH. 

Well. THAT'S not very brand-friendly. 

I frantically tried to soak up the alcohol, while dabbing more in other places in an attempt to camouflage my accidental artwork. Then I paced around in circles, hoping that it would dry AND that the pen stains would vanish along with it, because I COULD STILL SEE THE STUPID PEN. 

The good news: 1) The alcohol really did get rid of the pen stains, and 2) dried in time for me to take one final "after" picture.

The bad news:

Hello! Welcome to my home. Please have a seat next to the Sell-Out Penis Outline of Fail. 

(ANY FURNITURE COMPANIES LOOKING FOR COUCH-RELATED SPONSORED POST OPPORTUNITIES PLEASE INQUIRE WITHIN. I WRITE REAL GOOD FOR YOU CHEAP-LIKE PROMISE OKAY?)

Stupid Medical Tricks

1) On Friday night, Jason slammed the car door on Noah's fingers. When I tweeted about it later, while the two of them were off having a Great Emergency Room Adventure Involving All The M&Ms, I felt compelled to include all 12 characters of the word "accidentally." You know, just in case anyone might think he did it on purpose, or for fun. You don't get to be thousandaires on America's Funniest Home Videos without the occasional grievous bodily injury, son. Now hold still. KASLAM!

An x-ray revealed that his fingers were fine. Just bruised. He had to wear a metal splint on his pinkie for a day or two, which mildly cramped his Lego building abilities but gave us all ample opportunity to point at his hand in horror and exclaim that oh my God, Noah, you're turning into a robot!

Noah: You're just kidding, right?

Asshole Parents: No, we're totally being serious.

Noah: (deep, weary sigh) Stop. 

Asshole Parents: Oh my God, Noah, you're turning into a ro-

Noah: I'll be in my room. 

2) Yesterday Ezra woke up with a swollen face and jaw. At first we thought it was another mosquito bite but on closer inspection turned out to be...huh. Not a mosquito bite. What the hell? The lump was hot and he squealed in pain when we touched it, and within 10 seconds I was like, HE HAS THE MUMPS. GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH SAYS SO.

Of course, Ezra has been vaccinated against the mumps, but I was certainly not going to let that detail stop me, especially if you Google "mumps after MMR vaccine" and start reading about an 80% effective rate and the fact that Ezra is still a few months away from getting the booster shot and and and...

Not the mumps. A clogged/irritated salivary gland. That had all but cleared up on its own by the time we got to the pediatrician's office. They told us to give him hard lemon candy to suck on for a couple days.

Ezra: Candy?

Asshole Parents: Yes! Prescription candy!

Ezra: I LOVE GOING TO THE DOCTOR YAAAAYYYYY!

Asshole Parents: So hey, can I make his four-year visit appointment while I'm here? And please put him down for every damn shot you've got back there, mwa ha ha.

3) Later, I walked into a toddler bed that's been cluttering up our narrow upstairs hallway for...oh, I don't know, about two months now? We put it there because we intended to move it to the attic, but it won't fit unless we take it apart, and despite being from Ikea and owning approximately eleven thousand other things from Ikea, we have been completely unable to locate a hex key that fits into the screws. So we can't unassemble it and fit it into the attic. So...we've just left it in the hallway and been sort of scooting carefully around it ever since. Good plan.

Anyway, that's how I broke my pinkie toe for about the fifth or sixth time in my life. I've lost track. The first time I broke it was on a beach trip with my church youth group and I stubbed it on the back of my friend's heel while we were walking. We were both barefoot, and of course no one believed me that my toe bone had just literally cracked in half right then and there because it wasn't like I stubbed it on steel-heeled combat boots or anything. Sack up and keep walking. The church van couldn't find any free parking so we've gotta meet it on the other side of the bridge. 

Later that night, the ER doctor held up an x-ray of my foot and asked, "What was your friend wearing? Steel-heeled combat boots? Good God."

But there's not really much to be done about a broken pinkie toe, no matter how bad the break, beyond taping it to the next toe and trying to stay off of it. Because my bone really had broken all the way through (and because it was a slow night in the ER and I had good insurance), they gave me crutches and a special shoe. But then the first time someone asked me what happened and I had to answer, "I BROKE MY PINKIE TOE," I decided I really didn't want to use the crutches or the special shoe. Apparently even I had a limit to how big of a drama queen I was comfortable being.

POINT IS. My pinkie toe never healed right and basically cracks under the lightest pressure. If I stub it, I break it. It swells up and turns a variety of interesting colors and I hobble around for awhile, cursing mildly under my breath the whole time.

So I broke it again last night, no x-ray or doctor's visit required, because my toe-taping skills are quite practiced and excellent. Plus, it's a PINKIE TOE. We only care about pinkie fingers and rogue salivary glands in this house, these days. I need to up my injury game, man. 

Oh God, now everyone knows that I am a total klutz who lives with a random toddler bed in the hallway AND that I paint my nails with sparkly polish from the Kardashian Kolors Kollection and I AM SO EMBARASSED.