All Blogs Are Hideous At Age Eight. It's Quite Normal.

Oh my God, you guys, this blog is eight years old today.

Eight years, I have been blabbering on about whatever it is I blabber on about. No wonder I'm running about of things to say. Can't I just tell the volcano story again? Or the oven fire or the bird or Newark and also luggage cart? Could I perhaps start a business selling ready-made birth stories for today's busy modern momblogger who is too busy writing sponsored product reviews to deal with the whole messy, overwrought emo side of the business? 

Eight years. I was in my 20s, in the city, in an office, in heels. I am currently in none of those things. Now it is: 30s, suburbs, work-from-home-bed-nest, bedroom slippers.

(Though I still own all the heels. I'm just more apt to whine about them when I wear them.)

There's also that whole THREE BOY CHILDREN plot twist that happened along the way. The me of eight years ago would NEVER have seen that coming, and probably would have been a tad horrified at the prospect, which makes me want to point and laugh at her, because man, that uppity bitch totally had this coming. 

At the risk of sounding ancient as all hell and get off my virtual lawn-ish, it's really gobsmackily crazy how different the Internet is now. It was so...small, and yet wildly exciting huge and untamed and new. I didn't even start a blog, I started an online journal. Because that meant you were more writerly, or at least longer-winded and less inclined to edit.

*puts on monocle and holds dainty teacup*

There were no ads or ad networks and the great Sell-Out debate centered around whether it was tacky to put an Amazon wishlist or PayPal button on your site. I had no idea how to handle drama or trolls or criticism or how to even be all that authentic. My early entries manage to be both embarassingly personal overshares and experiments in playing an online character. I was wildly excited to realize that people were reading and commenting and linking, and then I'd go home for the holidays and my dad would advise me to stop wasting my time entertaining my dumb friends online and get back to you know, real writing. 

Anyway, blah blah blah different time new world blogging-as-viable-career-path-cakes. Let me get back to what's really important, to what defines this blog-thing now, eight years and probably millions of run-on sentences later: GROSS STORIES ABOUT BABIES AND WHY BABIES ARE GROSS.

1) We took the boys to see The Muppets on Wednesday. Mini-review: Super-duper fun and awesome, especially for grown-ups, but perhaps about 15-20 minutes too long for little kids. That last quibble was perfectly evidenced by Ezra, who -- during the last of about three quietly emotional turning points in the movie where somebody learns something about the value of friendship -- decided to shriek I GOTTA GO POOP at the top of his lungs. 

2) Then we came home and I was playing with Ike on the couch, lifting him up in the air and making goofy faces at him, like mo-oooo-ooooom, you're so lame and embarassing, and he chose that exact moment to remind me that we are NOT fully past the days of the turbohork and yes, I am using my blog's eighth anniversary post to tell you about the time my baby barfed on my face and it got in my mouth. What of it? BEHOLD, MY LIFE'S WORK. IT IS RICH WITH MEANING AND PURPOSE BUT CLEARLY NEEDS MORE FART JOKES.

(Eight years and counting and I still haven't bothered to learn Photoshop.)

(And as God is my witness I probably most likely never will, because bleh.)

Voices Babbling

So you know what I decided I needed? I needed another blog. Or maybe it was a hole in the head. From which even MORE of my every vapid, passing thought could flow more freely out of.

Anyway, I done got my arm twisted into blogging about...oh my God, you guys, I have NO IDEA WHAT I'M GOING TO BLOG ABOUT. I was actually sold on the idea of these salon-style conversational things we'll be doing with all the Babble bloggers, but we aren't actually doing those yet, so in the meantime I have nothing to talk about. So I'm getting all kinds of weirdly meta over there about blogging and IT'S WEIRD, Y'ALL. Also kind of cricket-y. But! Samantha Bee! And Dino Dan's Mom, whose presence has officially (though surely temporarily) made me the absolute coolest, in Noah's opinion. 

But yeah. If anybody has any topic ideas they want to throw into consideration, go right ahead. I clearly don't know what the hell I'm doing over there yet. (Just don't say cloth diapers, because I KNOW I KNOW I'M WORKING ON IT, and don't say anything about baby food or kid food or gardening, because I have another plan for those subjects, because I will not be happy until I have chopped up every possibly distinct part of my life into the most jacked-up million-slice piechart of blogs EVER. 

Anyway. I'm exhausted now from all this thinking. Here, allow me to kind of freak your shit out a little bit:

Noah, at 10 weeks:

Ike, at 11 weeks:

Noah, at 11 weeks:

And Ike:

Hmm. So maybe it is a good thing I'm adding another blog. This one is clearly stuck in reruns, anyway. 

PS Ezra at 12 weeks, for reference and proof that occasionally I do indeed make a slightly different variety of baby.

All Is Love (And Really Freaking Attractive Conference Attendees)

Okay, this is my last post about BlogHer*, I promise. After this, it's back to baby pictures and...um...kid pictures and...I don't know. Deodorants or whatever the hell.

Plus, I'll make this short, because this video pretty much says it all, and says it better:

 

Thanks so much to Ryan of Pacing the Panic Room for -- once again! -- putting together the perfect video of Sparklecorn (AKA The Party That Led Me Briefly Into a Life of Crime & Grand Theft Luggage Cart). And for making the part where I climbed on the table to take bites directly out of the butts of the unicorn cake seem a little less trashy than I think it actually probably was. 

And thanks to everyone who came to the party and danced and laughed and smiled and wore your sparkliest. I hope you had fun. 

Me? I danced my ass off and my hair flat. I can't wait for next year. WATCH YOUR BACK, LUGGAGE CARTS OF NEW YORK CITY. THE SPARKLECORN COMETH AND IT KNOWS TO DOUBLE-CHECK THAT IT'S NOT IN NEW JERSEY THIS TIME.

*Unless y'all are interested in hearing about my misadventures of traveling across the country as a nursing mother sans baby but overloaded with breast pump accessories.**

**Note that no matter what answer you technically give, I am probably going to talk about it anyway. 

BlogHer Part Two Kind Of

My best story from the conference, other than hanging out with old friends and meeting new ones and also MOJITOS, occurred about three hours prior to Sparklecorn. And like ALL of my best stories, this one predictably involves me going to pieces over something trivial. Basically, CAPS LOCKing all over the place, but live and in real time. 

I was trying to figure out how to get five rather large boxes from the package room at the hotel over to the party location next door. These five boxes contained about 4,000 multi-colored glow necklaces and bracelets, which are a Sparklecorn tradition, as everybody uses them for everything from jewelry to belts to tiaras to elaborate full-on glow-in-the-dark costumes. I'd shipped them to myself at the hotel, not realizing that BlogHer had outgrown its quaint days of underground hotel conference rooms and was now taking over gigantic convention centers, because blogging, apparently, is quite a thing with the kids these days.

And it turned out that the hundred yards or so of sidewalk between the two locations were guarded by an old gray wizard screaming YOU SHALL NOT PASS to anyone working at the hotel, because of unions and balrogs and shit, and no one there could help me carry the boxes. 

Now, okay, you should know that in the months and weeks leading up the the party, every year, I probably talk Tracey down off the ledge of planning-related hysteria on at least a weekly basis. It's okay! We have time! Things will get done! Even when we're down to the last-minute wire, I'm actually pretty calm. BECAUSE THIS IS WHY GOD INVENTED OVERNIGHT SHIPPING.

And then, every year, like clockwork, we arrive at BlogHer and promptly switch roles: She takes the "welp, what's done is done, we did our best" zenned-out stance...while I proceed to freaking lose my ever-loving SHIT over every possible detail that could go wrong, because now there is no time to course-correct, no room for error, the people shall not dance or eat cake or get to pose next to life-sized characters from popular young adult fiction and WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. 

You know, it's really just one of the reasons we work together so well: carefully choreographed panic attacks. 

So anyway, this minor hiccup at the hotel package room is like, EXACTLY the sort of thing that causes my brain to liquidify and leak out my tear ducts. I had less than 45 minutes before they closed to figure out a solution, and the only two I could think of were SHOCKINGLY, not working.

(Solution #1: Attempt to pick up one medium-sized box to see if maybe I could carry them myself, one at a time, back and forth, right before dropping it and nearly breaking my fool foot.)

(Solution #2: Call a couple BlogHer people who were clearly busy with 1,500,000 more important details and shriek into their voicemails, then send a text message 30 seconds later like a total asshole.)

I did finally talk to someone at BlogHer, who promised to make a call and send some BlogHims over to help me, but as the minutes ticked by I stood outside the package room and proceeded to quietly -- and with great dignity -- shrivel up and die from the stress of it all. 

Enter Tracey and Charlie, on their way to the convention center, and then enter Me, Again, with a whole heapload of bad language and over-the-top hand gestures about THESE BOXES. THAT ARE GOING TO BE THE END OF ME AND EVERYONE I LOVE. 

(Oh, and I should probably have included the detail that since I did not want to put my highly impractical and sort-of miniature party dress on yet, but neglected to pack anything well-suited for the possibility of manual labor, I was standing around in cut-off shorts and that "Born to Blog" t-shirt from the BlogHer swag bag of 2009. It's...a nightshirt. I sleep in it. So...I'm technically in my jammies, which is basically ONE LAYER AWAY FROM THE NAKED STRESS DREAM.)

Anyway, Charlie is all, "I got this." And I'm all, "No, I don't think you do." And then he hands me an alchoholic beverage that appears from thin air and marches into the package room and starts negotiating for a hand truck, which they will not give him. 

I think Charlie maybe just intended for me to hold his drink, but we all know how that turned out. I am sucking rum off the ice cubes when he suddenly shows up with one of those fancy luggage carts from the hotel lobby.

"Did they say we can borrow that?" I am delighted.

"I didn't ask," he says.

My delight turns to fear. 

Now, if you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that I live every minute of my life in dread terror of the Imaginary Authority Figures. You just...don't do shit like that, because it is MILDLY NOT RIGHT, and therefore you might get into MILD TROUBLE.

Basically: I get incredibly nervous and embarassed when Jason takes our stroller on the escalator. Which means I had absolutely no mental coping skills for what was about to happen next.

Charlie loads up the boxes and heads off, while I mew in horrified protest because SOMEONE IS GOING TO YELL AT US (while also looking for an acceptable place to deposit the empty cocktail glass, finally settling on a random table that looked like the glass might get cleared and sent to its proper home because I was not adding STEALING TABLEWARE onto our list of hotel crimes).

But then...we all realize we are kind of trapped. To get to the convention center (while avoiding the hotel lobby with our stolen cart), we needed to go down an escalator. Well, that's not going to work. 

OR IS IT.

I run around in search of an elevator -- there IS one, but there's a crazy line for it and I can't tell if it even goes down to where we need to go or just up the guest rooms and while I'm standing there trying to figure it out I realize Charlie is totally taking that motherfucking luggage cart down the escalator.

"WHAT ARE YOU OH MY GOD NO HOLY SHIT," I start shrieking. Or something like that. Maybe in tongues. Anxiety tongues.

"THIS IS HAPPENING," Tracey yells at me. 

I ride down the escalator sitting down, trying to breathe with my head between my legs because this. This Right Here. The sight of a stolen luggage cart stacked with boxes of 20-cent party favors that I was unsure if we had any right to carry ourselves in the first place, precariously and illegally riding down an escalator: This is what broke me. 

Dear readers, that man got that luggage cart down the escalator and out the door without so much as jostling a single package. 

And what's more: NOBODY YELLED AT HIM. I mean, besides me. I don't know if I ever shut the fuck up. 

We got outside and of course I continued to be a complete non-believer. "STAAAAAIRS!" I wailed. "THERE ARE STAIRS!" 

Yes, there were stairs. But there was also a windy sidewalk ramp through a decorative garden. Charlie, who by this point is pretty much my personal lord and savior, treks the cart up the ramp and into the convention center, where Tracey and I finally manage to regain some control of the situation and insist that HE TAKE THE ELEVATOR, instead of trying his hand at riding an up escalator, you know, for kicks.

At some point, I manage to chill out. Probably once I realized we'd gotten all the packages delivered to the ballroom before the Voices of the Year keynote was even over, so we had time to go hit the cocktail party and pour more liquor nerve tonic down my throat. 

And that is the story of how Tracey, Charlie and I faced challenges and overcame obstacles and saved Sparklecorn with a single stolen luggage cart and only a couple small safety violations. The end!

PS I have no earthly idea what ever happened to the luggage cart. 

BlogHer Part One But Not Really

God, isn't BlogHer just the worst? First, we all bore our readers with ZOMG I'M GOING TO BLOGHER posts. Then we go to BlogHer and don't post anything because we're so busy and crazy or can't get on the hotel wifi or are basically, just drunk as shit the whole time. 

Then we come home and don't post anything because we're so tired out from BlogHer. Or if we do post anything, it's all, "ZOMG I'M SO TIRED FROM BLOGHER." And then followed by some random crappy photos we took with our phone that don't make any sense because you totally had to be there and stuff.

Ugh. I hate when bloggers do that.

***

This is a photo I took of my roommate taking a photo of the leftover room service cart full of half-eaten breakfast items that we pushed in of Jason Mayo and TwoBusy's room across the hall from ours. Because. I don't know. WE HAD TO.

The morning after Sparklecorn. Still covered in eye makeup, glitter, unicorn tattoos and a vague sense that I embarassed myself and future generations in a wide variety of ways, the least of which was climbing on a table and taking a bite of the four-foot-tall unicorn cake's ass. 

And I have absolutely no explanation for this one, except that it is one of like, 17 different blurry versions that I took. So clearly, whatever is happening here was important at the time.

*** 

So basically, nine-plus weeks of newborn-baby-related sleep deprivation (on top of however many weeks of pregnancy-related sleep deprivation), followed by two nights in a row of partying until 2:30 am local time (AKA 5:30 am your time, you stupid dumbass), all squished together with two cross-country flights in the span of 48 hours, then back home to the non-sleeping-through-the-night baby and minus any naps....carry the one....divide by the square root of the weight of all the swag you abandoned in your hotel room to make room for your electric breast pump...and...

Yeah. I'm pretty beat. I can kinda see through space and time right now. 

***

ALSO!

It fell out on Friday. Jason managed to stall on the tooth fairy thing until I got home so I could do it, which, in retrospect was not all that's cracked up to be, once you c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y slide your arm under the pillow and feel around for this tiny, practically hollow tooth and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove it and then c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y put a ridiculous amount of hard-earned cash in its place...only to suddenly get really, REALLY grossed out by the nub of a tooth you're now holding in your hand that your husband is all, "DON'T THROW IT OUT, WE NEED TO SAVE THAT" and you then look around you at your life and realize that holy shit, there are like, 200 of these stupid things that are going to fall out and require you to touch them and then pay money for the privilege of doing so in your future. 

But still. I was awfully sorry to miss this one. 

(NOTE: Usually, this is the sort of photo I would crop to make sure none of y'all saw the giant bag of trash hanging out in the recyling bin in the back corner there, but since this was taken on Jason's watch I feel okay leaving in there. Even though I have been home since Saturday night and it is, in fact, still there. LAY OFF ME I'M TIRED.)

(NOTE NOTE: Jason took them both for haircuts while I was away, thus ending our summer of ragamuffin-where-is-that-child's-MOTHER-style chic.)

(NOTE NOTE NOTE: Today is our 13th wedding anniversary. Here, sweetie, I got you some kids.)

And Then Suddenly, BlogHer!

OH RIGHT THAT.

I leave tomorrow. I am not packed. I am not caught up with any of my deadlines for later in the week. I am undeniably sick with a cold and woke up this morning to an Attack Of The Eyebrow Zits, Like WTF I Never Get Eyebrow Zits But IT SURE DOES FIGURE. I am currently calling my hair salon every hour on the hour to inquire about cancellations because my roots are visible from space and my color has faded to a drab strawberry blonde that does not look particularly good on me, although it sure does coordinate with the zits around my eyebrow.

(!!!!ZITSWTFBBQ!!!!)

Yesterday I spent -- no exaggeration -- five solid hours on the phone attempting to rectify an emergency posters situation for Friday night's legendary BlogHer/MamaPop Sparklecorn shindig, as in we had no posters because of a communication kerfluffle, and I needed to order so many posters that my online shopping cart was crashing AllPosters.com. That's a crapton of posters, you guys. So five hours, it took to manually order each and every poster over the phone. Five hours of qualifying to a sales rep named Allison that yeah, okay, yes, I am ordering ANOTHER Justin Beiber poster but it's meant IRONICALLY. Now give me every freaking Lady Gaga poster you have, post haste!

I actually felt a pang of sadness when I hung up, because I was really going to miss her. 

Speaking of missing people...

He's not coming. He's just too little and the flight is just too long, and since I went back and forth and back and forth about my decision to take him or leave him or just stay home, work obligations be damned, I couldn't even coordinate with someone local to help me out on the flight, like I did the year I brought Ezra. My mom offered to come with me but flights hotel room money etc. blah. I am confident that breastfeeding is established enough that it will be okay once I return, and Jason is more than capable of keeping our children alive for a couple days on his own. So I am lugging my breast pump across the country for all of...oh, not even 48 hours, as I arrive tomorrow at five pm and will hop on the first plane out of Dodge on Saturday morning, probably while sobbing in a hormonal little puddle because my baaaaaaaaaybeeeee.

I actually don't want to talk about it anymore. It's obviously making my eyebrows break out. 

(Also not talking about the possibility of missing Noah's first tooth falling out while I'm gone and Ezra...well, Ezra just doing everything awesome and hilarious that Ezra always does, BUT I WILL BE MISSING IT.)

Standard BlogHer spiel: If you see me, for the love of God please say hi, though be prepared to be hugged. I am really good with blog/commenter names and Twitter handles but kind of shitty with faces, so please don't think I'm an asshole if I squint at your attendee badge for a minute or two while my feeble hamsterbrain makes the connection. Or if I leak breastmilk on you. Though I promise to take every possibly precaution to prevent that from happening. 

And Sparklecorn is Friday night at 9 pm, no RSVP required (HOORAY), so please come because it is going to be insanely awesome. DJ Skribble. Drinks. Dancing. A cake that will blow your mind. And free Justin Beiber posters at the end of the night, if you're lucky. 

I Really Hate Coming Up With Titles Some Days. (There. Done!)

And two days later...it's still a boy!

What? Not quite as exciting anymore? Damn these follow-up posts. They're such a letdown.

I spent all day yesterday in rapid reverse-gear, solely fixated on my older existing-model child and visiting our kindergarten options for next year. A variety of special education flavors and regular strength. I started off the day with a pre-existing belief in one of them, only to end up with that belief shaken and stirred and coming home to wail that I DON'T LIKE ANY OF THEM, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. One option is too this and the other is too that. 

I still haven't come to any great revelations about the day and the experiences and what I saw, other than to randomly decide that I think I'm going to sign Noah up for a karate class. That will solve...none of the big issues at hand, but it's a DECISION. About SOMETHING. Everybody golf clap. DO IT. 

Oh, and I bought like, five boxes of chocolate truffles. They were on sale, because they're tied up with Christmas ribbons, and they're practically PRESCRIPTION truffles. Because once again, I showed up at my OB appointment having gained zero pounds. The baby is growing just fine -- super more than fine, if the ultrasound measurements are any indication. His (HIS!) size puts him (HIM!!) about a week and a half ahead of his gestational age. So that's good! He's big and breech. Fantastic. Meanwhile, I can't even keep pre-pregnancy jeans up over my newly bony ass because the baby is getting EVERYTHING while I'm just trying to stay upright in the face of the never-ending preschool germ onslaught. 

But this simply means 1) my pregnancy cravings have been booted to the very top of the priority list, so all I have to do is MENTION that hey, Indian food sounds kinda good to me right now, and BAM, I am stuffing my face with all the Indian food I want, and if I want Chipotle for dessert, my husband is like, legally required to not judge me, plus 2) truffles, and 3) milkshakes. 

In fact, right after the ultrasound, Jason and I went out for breakfast (sausage, egg and cheese sandwich with a full-fat grande Cafe Mocha) and then hit the grocery story to pick out a celebratory dinner (filet mignon, creamed spinach). He's getting kind of worried about how his cholesterol is going to survive this pregnancy, but I'm sorry, honey, it's OUR BABY. SACRIFICES ARE REQUIRED. 

Over breakfast, we agreed that despite having the baby's name about 99% decided for sure, we'll keep it a secret anyway. You know, in case we change our minds or a serial killer with that very name suddenly starts dominating the newspapers for the next four months or so, and besides, we're still currently going back and forth on a middle name.

AND there's the little detail that the name we love and really want is technically a nickname for another name that we're just so-so about. It's a nice name, but not one I really see us ever using. So do we give him the full name, just so he has the option of using something less casual-sounding someday (and weirdly, it's a MUCH easier name to pair middle names with), or just skip the whole "formal name we never actually intend to use that just complicates the birth announcements and school forms" thing and just...name him what we plan to actually call him. 

This is all bothering me much more than Jason. AS USUAL. This was evidenced by him just casually dropping the name out loud while talking to him mother no more than an hour after we agreed to keep it to ourselves. And of course his mom HAAAAAAAAAATES it and thought he was JOKING, like you can't honestly be SERIOUS, you're not really going to CALL HIM THAT. Which wigged me out even MORE, because I thought the conversation would mean Jason would say we had to start ALL OVER, but then he hung up the phone and was like, "Uh, you realize the simple fact that my mother hates it just makes me like the name even more. You should probably get used to this concept at some point, what with having three boys who are going to become teenagers and adults someday."

I told him he was a jerk who should respect his poor, long-suffering mother's opinion more. Except this time, because she's like, totally wrong and stuff. 

Anyway! One last order of business and I'll free you from this meandering mess of barely-connected ramblings: We launched a fun sister site to Mamapop this week, thus expanding that haphazard empire beyond TV/movies/gossip and into the "LIFESTYLE" realm of blogging, which I think mostly just means "interesting shopping/beauty/health/techie/nerd crap that is not about TV/movies/gossip but we still really want to talk about." I dunno. I didn't read that far down the memo. All I know is, IT'S FUN AND I LIKE IT. Also, it's called Moxiebird, and I hope you'll check it out. 

We Called Them Rinse & Spit Cups, Even Though We Never Did Either Of Those Things

This photo is for my sister, who is currently pacing a hospital waiting room while her daughter, my niece, undergoes emergency gallbladder surgery. You know, for kicks.

Yeah. It's kind of an inside joke. Which would ideally involve each and every one of those cups filled with shots of contraband Pinot Grigio. On Christmas morning. While huddled in the guest room under the guise of last-minute present wrapping. Which may or may not have actually happened. 

Anyway.

Between that and another week full of chemo treatments and bargain-basement platelet counts, I'm in a giddy sort of limbo where I don't feel particularly funny, nor do I feel capable of being all maudlin and introspective. I'm just sort of spent. Maybe I just need a drink. Or a hug. Or some kind of chocolate-y boozy drink that could be the equivalent of a hug. 

Come to think of it, those mini-sized Dixie cups seem like the perfect serving size for a pregnant woman to safely consume alcohol in moderation. Plus look! At the packaging! The cups have ARMS. I feel comforted already.

Meanwhile...

1) I am recapping Top Chef All-Stars this season at Mamapop. Unfortunately, several of my personal Top Chef All-Time Most Disliked Douchebags are back again. Fortunately, my hatred gives me strength. Delicious, bacon-foam-flavored strength.

2) New column up at The Stir, in which I pretty much guarantee myself an immediate whack in the face as the Quirky Behavior Pendulum swings back in the other direction and takes me out in the process. 

3) There's enough new advice columns up at AlphaMom to prevent you from making any stupid life choices, particularly ones involving being productive at work on a Friday afternoon. Heavens, no.

4) We have a winner in the Windows 7 phone giveaway thingie, and it's...Mrs. Q of Nuclear Momb! With apologies to those of you who tirelessly commented on that post each and every single day possible, Mrs. Q won with a single, solitary comment that she left without even realizing there was a giveaway involved in the first place. This tells me that during the next electrical storm, we should all either stand directly next to her...or as far away as possible. Definitely one of those two things. 

5) Once I accomplish a fifth thing, I will type it here. In the meantime, I'm going to eat the shit out of something unhealthy and high in butter content. Golf claps for me and thing number five!

Bouncy

Yo. Homes! What up. And stuff. I hope to publish something real ("real" being completely subjective because you know everything I post is complete and utter indulgent nonsense) later today, but Noah's off from school thanks to VOTING and DEMOCRACY, so it's kind of crazy. 

But I realized there's some housekeeping type stuff I should tell you about. So yes! I have lured you and your RSS readers here on false pretenses! You expect to be entertained and instead find yourself informed! I am evil, and should be destroyed.

1) As some of you may have noticed, the Bounce Back column at AlphaMom has been MIA the past couple weeks. The truth is, I was fired after failing a random drug test. Okay, not really. Mostly, I felt like it was getting silly for me to be writing a column about postpartum issues almost TWO YEARS after having a baby, so Isabel and I agreed it had more than run its course.

2) Of course, you are still more than welcome to ask questions about crazy postpartum craziness at the Advice Smackdown, that old beloved workhorse that's still going as strong as ever. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. It definitely has evolved more into a parenting-type advice column than the hair-and-skin-care questions of Olden Tymes, but I'm still happy to answer pretty much anything you throw at me, be it pregnancy or baby food or sticky social etiquette or ideas for how to get your hair to stop doing that thing. Or substitute "hair" for "enraging tantrumming toddler." I am also glad to play impartial referee for "who's right and who's an asshole" type of situations. I love those. Anyway, the email for that column is still amyadvice[at]gmail.com. Hit me, dawg.

3) And! And then! I will also be doing a couple expanded super-sized Advice Smackdowns a month. They won't be tied to the Q&A format but will be more like "topical think pieces," which is how Isabel describes them, because that sounds better than "Amy rambling for awhile about stuff." The first one of those will go up later today. 

4) Hey! Remember that time I mentioned lip-syncing to Miley Cyrus in my backyard during a Labor Day party? The video evidence is now online. My performance is really... embarrassingly enthusiastic, I have to say.

5) I don't actually have a fifth thing. It just feels wrong not to have one. 

Dogged Determination

I got an email the other day from someone asking me if, by any chance, I was ALSO the author of a different blog. Like, a blog beyond any of the other four frillion sites I contribute to, maintained under someone else's name and life story, all sneaky-seekrit-identity-like. 

I cannot even imagine having the copious amounts of free time one would need to pull off something like that, and also the organizational skills. Like, is this the blog where I'm a boring suburban mother-of-two with a penchant for sucker-punching my readers in the vaginas at the end of every post, like "funny funny Star Wars run-on-sentence funny BAM! EMOTIONAL KAPOW! WHO'S CRYING AT WORK NOW, SUCKAH?" Or is this the blog where I'm a fabulously carefree 20-something in Los Angeles who blogs about all the interesting people she sleeps with and spells everything The British Way, because she thinks it makes her sound fancy? Or is this the blog where I'm a 40-something dude who posts a lot of Stargate fanfic and bitches about all the major dramazzz at this year's ComicCon? I AM SO CONFUSED. I DON'T KNOW HOW SUPERMAN DOES IT.

Anyway. So I get this email and click through to the other blog in question -- you know, just to make sure I WASN'T maintaining a second secret blog identity (maybe I had a stroke? or am taking too much melatonin and sleep-driving to all-night Internet cafes?) -- and it was Hyperbole and a Half. Which. You know, MAJOR COMPLIMENT THERE, for anyone to possibly think Allie and I are the same person, even though we have both been repeatedly harassed by vicious geese, because she is so, so much funnier than me. And probably you. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. 

ANYWAY. OH MY GOD. THE POINT! IS! That thanks to that email I got all sucked up into an Archives Vortex, that thing you do when you just start clicking "previous entry" over and over again and then next thing you know it's two in the morning and you're reading stuff from two years ago that you maybe even actually READ two years ago, but it's like when you turn on the TV and there's that one rerun of Cheers or Seinfeld or the Star Trek One With Tribbles and you've seen it before but it's one of your FAVORITES and you have to watch it anyway. Because it's AWESOME, and maybe only reruns once every couple years! This is your chance! Until TV Land reruns it again next Sunday, or whatever.

Wait. Shit. That wasn't actually my point after all. 

No, my point REALLY is that I read this entry about Allie giving her dog an IQ test, and it made me laugh a ridiculously snarffily amount, and then, because it was -- again -- two in the morning, I started eyeing my own dog, who was sleeping on a piece of paper next to her dog bed, probably because that paper was something important and her underside gets all oily in the summer. 

I totally should give her an IQ test, I thought. And then post the results on my blog, which wouldn't be copycat-like at ALL, because one single solitary person thought our writing styles were possibly kind of similar already! We might even be the same person! YOU CAN'T PLAGIARIZE FROM YOURSELF. FACT. THAT'S HOW WORMHOLES GET STARTED. 

At this point I wisely decided to go to bed. 

Only to wake up a few hours later thinking: DOGGY IQ TEST TIME, BITCHES.

Test One: Problem-Solving Ability

This involves hiding a treat under a can, and seeing how long it takes your dog to knock the can over. 

I thought a full-sized can would be unfair for Ceiba, since that would be like me expecting you to knock over one of those orange road-work barrels with only your nose, but using something like a tomato paste can seemed maybe too easy, so I went with a small plastic cup. I hope this does not invalidate my very scientific results.

 

To her credit, Ceiba definitely seemed to know the treat was under that cup, though she was at a complete loss as to what to DO about this confounding conundrum, other than 1) sniff the cup, and 2) stare at me.

 

I DO NOT UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAAND.

 

ALSO, FUCK THIS SHIT.

After a few minutes, it appeared that Ceiba forgot that the treat was even under the cup in the first place, and kept looking for it elsewhere. Over here? Over here? Now back over there again! Wait, over here! Still nothing over here, let's try back over there again!

I thought, perhaps, that my dog is simply a visual learner, and this test was unfairly skewered against her skills, so I switched to a clear glass. Maybe if she could SEE the treat, she'd be a bit more motivated?

 

NO. SERIOUSLY. FUCK THIS SHIT. AND YOU.

Score: 1 point.

Test Two: Escape Skills
 
This one involves tossing a towel or blanket over your dog and seeing how long it takes them to escape.
  
 

WAAAAAAAT.

She actually did pretty well on this one! It took her about 20 seconds to get free, although she did run directly into the TV cabinet first, but the testing criteria doesn't mention any point deductions for headbutting large obstacles, therefore I am awarding her the full 3 points.

(ROCKY FIST-PUMP DANCE!)

Test Three: Social Learning

Stare at your dog. After three seconds, smile at your dog. They're supposed to see this and come over in search of love and validation and who'sagooddog who'sagooddog and etc. At the very least, there should be some tail-wagging. 

Results: Inconclusive, because Ceiba never made it through the initial three seconds of eye contact before she charged over to me, all FOOD? YOU HAVE SOME FOOD? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME BECAUSE YOU WANT TO GIVE ME SOME FOOD? I WOULD BE HAPPY TO ACCEPT SOME FOOD OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU SMILING AT ME INSTEAD OF GIVING ME SOME FOOD?

I skipped scoring this one, mostly MY DOG DOESN'T HAVE A TAIL, YOU ASSHOLES. Way to make her feel self-conscious about it.

Test Four: Advanced Problem-Solving

A god-awful hybrid of past failures. Hide the treat under the blanket or towel. See how long it takes dog to find it. 

Results: Ceiba immediately deployed her patented make your beddy digging technique that she uses to, well, make her beddy, before collapsing in an exhausted I've done nothing all day heap. She has also destroyed our couch cushions and multiple decorative throw pillows with it, but BOO-YAH, if it didn't help her find that treat in just over 30 seconds.

 

If you would ever like her assistance in recovering buried dead bodies in the woods, email me. Just make sure they smell like compressed turkey jerky first.

Score: 3 points

(OBNOXIOUS CROWD SOUND EFFECT THAT FRAT GUYS DO THAT ACTUALLY SOUNDS NOTHING LIKE A CROWD)
 
Test Five: Manipulation Skills

This test requires that you build a low table that your dog cannot get her head under. Then you hide a treat underneath it to see if it occurs to her to retrieve it with her paw. This presented a challenge, because 1) my dog's muzzle is the size of a roll of pennies, and 2) my dog has a somewhat long history of getting her head stubbornly stuck in places, so I didn't want to use anything that could possibly crush her puny head like the overripe plum that it is.

I went with a heavy package of Ikea curtains I've been meaning to hang up since, oh, 2006, propped up by couple Sookie Stackhouse novels. 

Since I wasn't sure if that was Ceiba's preferred vampire franchise, I added a magazine with Taylor Lautner on top. 

The results were astounding. It took Ceiba less than three seconds to retrieve the treat. Unfortunately, she went with violent brute force instead of dexterity...

 

IMMA GUNNA EAT U

 

YEAH. I FUCKED THAT SHIT UP RIGHT. *Z SNAPS*
 
Score: Obvious test proctor error. Student should not be penalized. 3 points. 

Test Six: Language Recognition

An easy one: Shout random words at your dog in the same tone you usually use to call her name and see if she knows the difference. If she stays put, call her name. If she comes only to her name, congratulations! Your dog is not a complete moron.

Words Ceiba responded to in a super-excited, running-over-and-jumping and OMGOMGOMG fashion: Refrigerator, movies, tangerine, Sookeh, dumbass.

Words Ceiba ignored completely: HER ACTUAL NAME.

Score: 1 point for enthusiasm; sticking the landing. 

Ceiba's final score was a measly 11 points, which puts her in the Your dog is not too bright, but is most likely very cute range, and thankfully the testing website did not include a caveat or asterisk that added "provided you find seizing hummingbird-eared hamsters on stilts to be 'very cute'" or something. 

Basically, I just spent an entire morning scientifically proving (and documenting!) something that I (and the Internet!) already really knew: My dog is pretty damn dumb.

 

Good thing she coordinates with our floors so nicely.