New-ier and improve-ier for 2007.


How to ensure you will get laid tonight, Part the Second.

Inspired by HG

Veeg: I so hate getting dressed right now, nothing fits right, I look like a cow, blahblahblah, whinewhinewhine.
The Weez: Why don't you leave Small Child with me and go buy some new clothes that make you feel pretty? And maybe get some shoes for fall, too.




I am very excited for the premiere of "Lost" tonight. I have a total crush on one of the main actors. No, not Matthew Fox; Dominic Monaghan.

And if you know without looking it up why that makes me a total, total dork. . . well, then you have absolutely no room to cast stones, my friend.


Look at what's happened to me. I can't believe it myself.

As I wandered the aisles of the grocery store last night, I was mowed down by a retired superhero.

The dude was navigating his cart like SpeedRacer on crystal meth. He winged me as I was leaning against one of those frozen foods deep-chest freezer thingies. Let me reiterate: I was pressed up against an object on the very edge of the aisle. And while my preggo self is slightly pudgier normal, I certainly am not SO much larger than the average bear that I could actually be obstructing the flow of grocery carts simply by bending forward to get a frozen pizza.

But, I digress. What is important here is not actually the fact that I was hit in the back with a speeding metal object. What is important is the appearance of the owner of said speeding metal object.

My assailant was about 6’4”. Weighed in about 180, maybe 190. His head was festooned with what would best be described as “white man’s ‘fro.” His bushy eyebrows sat above a beaky nose and an utterly unironic bushy mustache – think Chuck Norris, but thicker.

His knobby knees and elbows were flapping with a purpose, the midpoints of what would charitably be termed “scrawny” arms and legs. And practically every inch of scrawniness was clearly on display, because of his choice of attire.

He had chosen to clothe himself in a navy blue ribbed tank-top. The kind that sometimes are referred to as “wife-beaters.” Except this one was emblazonned with a red-and-white screen-printed star logo. The tank top was tucked into (!!!!!) a pair of itty-bitty boxers, which was also blue and festooned with American-flag-esque stars. As a nod to current fashion, he had the waistband of the already-teeny boxers folded down.

His feet were adorned with flip-flops that I believe had once been red, but now had faded to a muted shade of pink.

As God as my witness, I swear I was plowed over in the supermarket by the Greatest American Hero. And age has not been kind.

Believe it or not. . . .



Bad, bad signs.

1. Cold Stone Creamery opening half a mile from my house. This does not bode well for my goal of *not* gaining 50 lbs with this pregnancy.

2. The fact that I actually kinda like that blasted Ashlee Simpson song. God help me.

3. Marking the "end" of your first trimester by a weekend of non-stop digestive encores.



An email convo with the WB.

From: Work Boyfriend
Sent: Thursday, September 16, 2004 2:05 PM
To: Veeg
Subject: Suck

I got shot down for my Milwaukee job. I was told to wait another six months.

From: Veeg
Sent: Thursday, September 16, 2004 3:10 PM
To: Work Boyfriend
Subject: RE: Suck

So, what extravagant item are you going to buy to console yourself?

From: Work Boyfriend
Sent: Thursday, September 16, 2004 2:12 PM
To: Veeg
Subject: Suck

A beer truck.

From: Veeg
Sent: Thursday, September 16, 2004 3:14 PM
To: Work Boyfriend
Subject: RE: Suck

Y'know, if you drove that bad boy around like an ice cream truck on weekends, you'd make a killing.

From: Work Boyfriend
That's my plan. Now that the local college students are back, the money will flow like water.

From: Veeg
I suspect you would wind up drinking a lot of your profits.

From: Work Boyfriend
Is half considered a lot?

From: Veeg
It depends on the whole you started out with. Statistics are meaningless, remember, NumberBoy?

From: Work Boyfriend
The truck will probably put me in the hole to start out and my business promotions will probably put me even farther behind, followed up by the consumption of ‘test product’ for R&D tax credits, clothing allowance, fuel, custom paint jobs, custom billet wheels, custom painted matching custom motorcycle, spokespeople, models, legal fees, Mexican border patrol payoffs. I don’t that the whole is going to be very big at all.

From: Veeg
My favorite part? Clothing allowance! Brilliant.

From: Work Boyfriend
Beer truck driver has to have a uniform, and that uniform has to be drycleaned.

From: Veeg
PleasePleasePleasePlease let me design your beer truck driver uniform. Please? If you let me do this, I will never insinuate that you might be gay or mildly retarded ever again.

From: Work Boyfriend
You think I am mildly retarded?

From: Veeg
No! Of course not! Perish the thought!

. . . or was that your response to my request to design the uniform? Because, that would be a valid point.

From: Work Boyfriend
Fine. You can design the uniform. Keep it respectful.

From: Veeg
Yay! I'm thinking "Old Elvis."

From: Work Boyfriend
This can't be good.

From: Veeg
Viva Las Vegas, baby.


Mem'ries. . . of the way we were.

So, if you hang around a certain group of blogs (see: Babes and Bitches), you may have gathered that a bunch of us are getting together in Chicago in the near future.

The planning and logisticizing has caused me to remember the LAST time I met up with online friends in Chi-town, and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad hangover that resulted.

A.K. was in Chicago for business, so I made the drive down to have some girly time. Of course, by the time I got through rush hour traffic to the funky, urban-kewl hotel, it was pretty late. And I was more than ready for a drink. If memory serves, we hit the mini-bar, since the room was on A.K.'s corporate expense account.

We headed out to dinner, at a fabulous Mexican restaurant. Much wine was consumed, mitigated only slightly by the utterly kick-ass coffee we had with dessert. Oh, yeah, I'm pretty sure we ate dinner, too.

Full, and well on our way to tipsy-ness, we made our way down to a bar recommended to us by our concierge. I believe it was called the Cloud Bar, but a quick Googling tells me that no such place exists. However, since it was a good four years ago, it wouldn't surprise me if it had closed.

At the Cloud Bar, we drank several sour-apple-tinis. However, that soon started to put a crimp in our budget, since the drinks were around $10 apiece, and we were sucking those puppies down like it was our job.

Right around the time we switched to beer, we met The Luster Brothers. Or, so they said. These fine gentlemen were happy to supply us with beer; share their cigars; take us for a spin on the dance floor; and admire our fine, fine feminine figures.

Luster Brother Numero Uno has the distinctive honor of plying me with Theeee Worst Pick-Up Line in the History of Ever:
Baby, you may not have it in the chassis, but you SHO' got it in the ass-y.

Really? I mean, it's probably a cultural thing, since I am the ultimate white girl, but the rhyming equivalent of "you've got no tits and a big ass" does not exactly make me want to show you all my special tricks.

And now, let us take a moment review our consumption to this point:
Mini-bar liquor. Check.
Wine. Check.
Hard alcohol. Check.
Beer. Check.
Cigars. Check.

Do you see where this is going? So very many of the cardinal "keep your sorry ass from being too hungover to function" rules, just shattered. Because we are stupid, stupid girls. But pretty.

There may have been very, very drunken cellphoning of our respective husbands. There also may have been butt-snuggling (due to my state of extreme intoxication, I can neither confirm or deny). There probably was snoring.

There was *definitely* the unpleasant comparison of the flavor of one's mouth in the morning to the flavor of one's mouth if it had been shat in. There was *definitely* vomitting, sometimes just once (ahem), sometimes multiple times and in multiple venues (A.K.!). And there was *definitely* questioning of the wisdom of meeting for lunch at a sort of dive-y Cajun restaurant. Urrp.

However, there were also many lovely memories. And lots of laughing. And a digital rack shot or two.

And now, several years later, we are moms. And probably slightly less stupid (no less pretty, though). Our ability to tear it up is likely dimmed. But I suspect we shall give it our best shot. Stay tuned.




On my way home from work yesterday, I found myself behind a semi truck and trailer. On the trailer was a makeshift bumpersticker, fashioned from strips of duct tape and permanent marker. It read:
I love to service women. Please let me do your bidding.

Immediately, I was overwhelmed with questions. Did the driver of the truck put this information on the trailer himself? Or was it placed there by some merry prankster OTR buddies? If it was, indeed, a self-made job, was it a one-time thing? Or was the application of duct tape and scrawling of the message part and parcel of his standard preparations for a cross-country trip? And when the drive was over, did he remove the tape, or leave it as a "service" to his fellow drivers?

Most importantly. . . how well does this method work for him? What kind of women, if any, respond to this appeal?

I was tempted to honk and flag him down to satisfy my curiosity, but I refrained. But if any of you see him heading down the highway, and you have some time to kill, do a bit of research for me, would ya?



Hey! Let's do the limbo rock!

So, here I am, teetering on the brink of. . . well, everything. And oh Lordy, does it suck.

Let's enumerate:

House stuff: My current home is totally trashed. There are boxes everywhere. There is shit spilling out of closets. There are piles, and bags, and stacks. There is most emphatically NOT clean, serene, usuable space. There is also not a firm move-in date from our builder, but we think we've determined a weekend by which we feel pretty comfortable assuming the house will be completed and closed-on. Five more weeks of living in a pit. Huzzah.

Job stuff: I start my "new" position with the finance group next week. I do not know what building (or part of the city) I will be located in. I do not know what I will be doing. I have turned over most of my current responsibilities. . . which leaves me with a grand total of nada to do for the week. And there's not much good on-line furniture shopping to be done that I haven't visited 80 kabillion times already.

Preggo stuff: I am in the oh-so-fun stage of being too uncomfortable in regular clothes, but not having enough bellay to properly fill out maternity stuff. I've also had the pleasant experience of moving beyond puking, but not fully into non-puking. Instead, I just spent most of the weekend dry-heaving. It is something other than awesome, I'll tell you that for free.

Whee! What a total upper I am today. Hopefully, I shall be funnier and more chipper tomorrow.



Damn you, 007.

Bond Girl's post about her fast-food fetish has made me spend several hours today battling a monster craving for a Fiesta Burrito from The Bell.

How rude.


More about my boobs.

I was rudely awoken last night when I rolled over onto my side, and the sensation of my nipple bouncing off of the mattress caused bolts of pain to shoot through my chest.

Today, it feels like I was hit in the pecs with a baseball bat. WTF? I'm not going to need to use these things for like, six-and-a-half more months! Calm down, boobs!




So, my dream entry from two days ago may have perhaps made it sound as though the Work Boyfriend and I are having some sort of illicit affair.

Let me clarify. I am not having an affair. The Work Boyfriend. . . yeah. He pretty much is. And now he's talking about leaving his wife.

I am not sure what, exactly, prompts people to reveal intensely personal things to me. I'd like to think that it's my non-judgmental, namaste-baby aura, but probably it is just that they suspect that since I can keep my mouth shut about my *own* sordid past, I can do it about theirs, as well.

Anyway, WB revealed his indiscretion to me in an email, and told me that he's seriously thinking about filing for divorce and running away with his new honey. Moron. The worst thing that he's ever managed to come up with as a reason for wanting to throw away his marriage? His wife is a little bit shallow, and kind of a fame whore.

She's also beautiful, talented, very sweet, and utterly in love with him.

But. . . she wants to live in a nice house, and drive a nice car, and have a handsome husband. And WB is feeling stressed out and trapped into a material-driven life that he didn't really ever envision for himself.

And has WB, y'know, TALKED to his wife about his fears and concerns and stresses? No. He has not.

Again, I say unto thee: Moron.

It makes me crazy, because if someone can't see for themselves the utter folly of throwing away one relationship for another when the going gets rocky. . . how can you MAKE them see it?

The answer, of course, is "you can't." And yet, I feel compelled to try.

WB is obviously not the only moron 'round these parts.



Mama needs a new pair of. . . well, everything, actually.

It was unwelcome, but hardly suprising, when my lower abdomen began its hearty protests against my button-fly Ann Taylors last Friday afternoon. I’ve always hated clothing that was tight on my stomach, and being knocked-up does nothing to alleviate that hatred.

Since I was having a suck day anyway, I cut out early and did some shopping.

When I was preggo with the Small Child, I was contracting at the International Firm With The Horrible HR Director. The IFWtHHRD required (courtesy of the Horrible HR Director) business professional wear at all times. Even though it was a manufacturing company. Even though simply walking into the building required steel-toed shoes and safety glasses. Yes, I’m bitter, why do you ask?

So, my current selection of maternity clothes runs toward the tweedy, the suited, the matronly. Lots of pantsuits. Lots of solemn jumpers. Lots of ensembles that can only be completed by the addition of the eighth level of hell – the maternity pantyhose.

This pregnancy? I find myself ensconced at the Iconic American Company. At which wearing a skirt prompts questions about whether I have an interview somewhere. At which pants that aren’t denim and a t-shirt without writing on it constitutes “dressing up.”

I am sartorially unprepared for this pregnancy.

Or, I should say, I “was.”

The casual maternity fashions out right now? Cute, cute, cute. Asian-print wrap tops. “Boyfriend-style” layered tees. Cargo pants. Low-rise jeans. Ruched jersey tops. Sheer boat-neck sweaters. Also, lots and lots of options for lower-half pieces that don’t have the God-awful “koala bear” panel. (Did I mention I hate have stuff press on my stomach?)

I’m not loving the ubiquitous poncho, but hey, you can’t have everything, right?

Now I just need a couple pairs of new boots to augment my sassy mama style.



What Dreams May Come.

My grandmother lived in an old boarding house -- full of multiple staircases, deliciously mysterious nooks, "secret passageways." I spent many childhood hours hidden away with books and apples in my artist's garret-cum-smuggler's cove-cum-fairytale tower that was her upstairs landing.

However, when it appeared as the setting my dreams last night, it didn't offer me any comfort.

I wound throughout the house, confronted alternately with my husband, who was cold and distant; the Wife of Work Boyfriend, who was heartbroken and tearstained (and also, wearing an unfortunate pink hibiscus-print sun hat); and various and sundry Ghosts of Boyfriends Past.

My husband floated through the french doors in the dining room and told me he was tired of our relationship not improving; tired of putting his goals and ambitions and dreams on hold. We want such different things out of life, he said, maybe we should just go and pursue them.

Wife of Work Boyfriend sat on the stairs and sobbed through her fingers that she couldn't believe that I didn't warn her that her marriage was in trouble. I tried to explain that I don't actually *know* her, and wouldn't she feel better if we just got rid of that silly hat? But to no avail.

Work Boyfriend himself simply made cameos -- flitting into view at the other side of the room, or on the upstairs balcony, or anywhere that I couldn't actually get to him to ask him what the HELL he was thinking, and remind him that he really loves his wife, and that their problems are not insurmountable.

I awoke with a throat aching with choked-back tears, a full hour before my alarm was scheduled to go off. A long walk, a hot shower, a good cup of coffee. . . still can't quite remove the pall of abandoment and failure that kicked off my day.



Big Boobs/Small Brain.

That is the stage of pregnancy I am in right now. I'm busting out of all my 34Bs, and I'm no longer smart enough to be able to SPELL "34B."

To wit:

Busty: I wore an oxford-type shirt to work today. I had to go to the company store and purchase a shirt to wear UNDER the button-down top after my mischevious mammaries managed to pop my top open three times in 45 minutes, exposing me to various and sundry, including my soon-to-be new boss.

Brainless: I lost my car keys. While dropping my kid off at daycare. A building which I was in for a total of *maybe* three minutes (not counting the time I spent LOOKING for the car keys, which would total somewhere closer to half an hour). I found them in the Small Child's wipes box, which I had filled with the new wipes we purchased yesterday (and also, apparently, my car and house keys).



Century Club.

So, in looking over my Blogger dashboard last night, I realized that yesterday's post brought me to The Big 100.

Does this mean I can be syndicated now?


Today, I am wearing a black-and-white print floaty skirt. The Small Child looked at the pattern with some interest for a few minutes, and then declared, "Is SNOW, Mumma!"

I explained to her that they were actually called "polka-dots," to which she replied, "oooooh."

Then she stuck her finger into the side of my leg and exclaimed "Poke!"