10 Musings on Breast Feeding

It tickles me to death when I post something on CiB and a portion of my 15 readers squee with excitement, "She's back!" It warms my cold, black heart with sunshine!

Please know that this blog will never really go away.  I'm like herpes.  I may go dormant for a couple of weeks, or months, or years (hopefully never that long again), but I'm always here ... under your skin, waiting for 20 minutes of free time to present you with my next cold sore.

Now that that's out of the way, on to the next!

Franco is more interesting than boobs.

Franco licking himself is definitely more interesting than boobs.

My male readership is pretty limited so I don't even feel remotely bad about dedicating a post to breast feeding and pumping.  This is my life now.  And no judgment here if any men want to keep reading.  After all, Derrick is the one who sterilized and assembled the parts of my pump and even read all the instructions and then showed me how to use it.  I was far too out of it early on in Katherine's life to accomplish that on my own.  Or maybe he was just already bored during his paternity leave and looking for a project of any kind.  Either way, I am grateful for his support.

I was so aloof about all of this while I was pregnant, and stupidly didn't take any classes, and only skimmed a Dr. Sears book.  Really, the Sears family lost me when the mother bragged that she had breast fed her adopted child - a remarkable accomplishment, indeed - but then basically labeled all formula-feeders as an army of child-haters.  I tossed it aside and shrugged, "I'll give it a go, and if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out, or if I hate it, I'll quit." And I just couldn't believe breast feeding classes existed at all.  I thought it was just something you did.  Like the cave ladies and their cave babies.

We did take a childbirth class, which was enlightening in some ways, but sometimes the universe has its own plan for you and before you know it, everything you took from childbirth class goes out the window as you're being rushed into the operating room for an emergency C-section.  Childbirth is just one day.  Breast feeding is all day, every day after for as long as you can handle it, and there is no epidural option equivalent.

After I actually gave breast feeding a try, I struggled to put weight on Katherine on my own.  It devastated me.  I knew this in no way determined my ability to function as a woman or a mother, but I still surprised myself by being completely determined to succeed at it.  Thankfully, I had so much support from Derrick, friends near and far, a fantastic lactation consultant, and a stash of Similac to take the edge off the debilitating pressure to perform.  I'm still going 5 months in, but I never feel like I'm "going strong," more like I'm just still ... going.  Sometimes I think about those idiots on 16 and Pregnant and know that if they can do it, surely I can too.  You have to find your motivation where you can find it!

I'd like to present my own experiences below of things I wish I had known.  I hope this is enlightening for my pregnant friends who also might choose to "wing it" with breast feeding.  And thanks to Buzzfeed, it appears many people only like to read things in list form now.

10 Musings on Breast Feeding

1. Breast feeding is the most challenging thing I have ever done.  More challenging than getting into college, succeeding in the workplace, and getting through that emergency C-section without vomiting.

2. Cluster feeding needs to be a priority.  Google it and do it as much as possible.  I had no clue what this was.  The first time I heard someone say it I thought she meant to say clusterf**k.  Life post-childbirth was a very confusing time for me.

3. Clogged ducts can happen, they're terrible, and they will make you want to quit. Those leftover body-numbing Percocets will come in handy when no number of hours or even days of lava-hot showers, scorching hot compresses, pumping, feeding, and knuckleballing yourself will do any good.  I only have 3 pills left so I can only afford to have this happen 3 more times.  Another fun part about this: when you successfully go a few days with free-flowing ducts, you get to say sexy things to your husband like, "I really think wearing these comfy sleep bras all the time is really helping to prevent my ducts from clogging!" Husband: "Umm, great?"

4. You will feel elation and inadequacy, relaxation and frustration, confusion and physical pain, sometimes in the course of 2 or 3 minutes.

5. When your baby is about 3.5 months old, she will become more interested in watching the cat lick himself than in emptying your boob.  She'll be interested in anything that isn't your boob.  Her toys, her dad, anything with a screen - your iPhone, her monitor, and the TV.  God, what fun is breast feeding if you can't watch Real Housewives or text your friends while you do it?

6. You will be hungrier than you ever imagined and you can eat whatever, whenever, and it's awesome.  I'm wolfing down Michael Phelps-level calories and still managing to drop pounds.  When I was pregnant, my doctor said sternly, "You aren't eating for two, you're eating for one." And then after giving birth, "Okay, now you're eating for two, so go ahead, put butterscotch chips in everything!"  I may have imagined that last part.

7.  It is a bigger time commitment than you thought it would be.  Not just that collectively the act itself takes up several hours out of your day, but that you'll only get a break from it for a few hours at the most when your baby is older.  Even if you have help and have the opportunity to sleep longer than 6 hours in a row, your boobs probably won't allow it.  And here you thought that once your baby arrived, you'd have to feed her, sure, but you just didn't realize how much.  Katherine is the first baby I've ever been around so I'm really flying by the seat of my pants here.

8. You might fall asleep occasionally and then wake up freaking out that you fell asleep while holding your baby and what would have happened if you hadn't woken up at that moment!?  Then those feelings will manifest as night terrors where you wake up not knowing if you fell asleep intentionally or not, and you'll search frantically for your baby in your covers, wondering how long she has been buried under there, when actually she is right where she belongs, safely asleep in her own bed.  I would actually think to myself, "I see that baby lying in the crib ... what am I going to do with the other baby when I find Katherine in these covers?  I can't put two babies in one crib.  Where is the other baby going to go, and how many more minutes of sleep will I lose while I'm figuring that out???"  I felt like a lunatic and Derrick thought I had officially lost it, but so many other mothers and fathers have told me they did, or still do, the same thing.  Always helpful, Sandy H. even shipped a less-fluffy quilt for our bed so that it might help me return to reality faster when I woke up freaking out, but it didn't help and we were so cold, so we went back to the fluffier, warmer baby suffocator.

9. People to whom you never intended to show your boobs will probably see your boobs.  In-laws, building maintenance men, dog walkers.  If you thought your modesty could be regained after birth, you were so, so wrong.  I spent my birthday breast feeding in the backseat of our car in front of a BBQ joint in Queens.  On a birthday fun scale of zero to roller skating party, I'd put this at about a 2.

10. You will both look and feel completely ridiculous and bovine the first time you pump.  No - every time.  I had been doing it for several weeks before I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror while pumping, and when Derrick got home, I asked how he had refrained from cracking any jokes that whole time.  He said, "Well, you always looked like you were concentrating so hard, I felt bad for wanting to laugh at you." I think that for as long as I pump, through this child and any potential future children, the most embarrassing moment of my life hasn't happened yet as of this writing.

Gotta wrap this up and go feed someone.

Crafts with Katherine

Before you go thinking that I actually seem like I have my s*** together if I am able to pull this off while caring for a high maintenance infant, note that it didn't occur to me to do this until the day before Valentine's Day, and I didn't make most of them until the day after.  I thought about making Easter eggs instead and just being really ahead of the game, but I chose instead to be behind the game for Valentine's Day!

It occurred to me that since Katherine was born, we don't have any hand prints or foot prints of hers of any kind, neither ink nor fossil, and I truly regret that we don't have anything like that from her newborn days.  So I decided I needed to commemorate their current size as soon as possible because they will never be this small again.  I also just really love handmade gifts for Valentine's Day, and am always searching for my next potential Pinterest fail.  

I used a tried-and-true recipe for keepsake dough, although I felt like I just personally discovered fire: equal parts flour and salt, mix in water until it's a workable dough.  1 cup of flour + 1 cup of salt + 2/3 cup water made enough for 3 hearts.

Shape the dough into your desired holiday representative object, and mash your baby's hand right in there.  This was the hardest part and I have no photo evidence of it happening because it was hard enough with one person, more doable with two people but we would need a third person to photograph it.  This took a few tries when I was on my own because if I could get Katherine's hand relaxed and flat, I could mash it into the dough but then she wanted to feel it and squish it all up.  It felt like squishy fun, so who can blame her?  So I had to start over a few times.

Baked hand prints!

Using a silicone baking sheet liner was a good call for this project, although I have to wonder why Crate & Barrel's silicone liners don't fit perfectly with their own cookie sheets?  Fail.

I baked them at 200 for 4 hours and let them cool, then painted with acrylic paint and voila!  Happy Valentine's Day, Dad!

I used Chanel suit colors instead of traditional Valentine's colors.

Derrick says he's putting it on his desk at work, and even if that means IN his desk at work, I am still really touched.  

Grands and Great-Grands, you'll get yours ... soon.  Happy Belated Valentine's Day!

How To Earn Extra Money Without Getting A Second Job

The best time to begin a workout challenge is the day you somehow injure your neck.  It's also a good idea to start working out heavily and competitively on a day you decide to give blood.  And, as an added bonus, if you throw in some beautiful freezing rain, you just might have walked right into the least challenging challenge ever.

Since Derrick and I have been living on such a limited income for the past year and a half, I've decided it's time to start pilfering money from my colleagues so I can afford that extra box of wine every month.  So, I organized a workout challenge wherein whoever (whomever?) works out the most hours after four weeks wins 70% of the entry fees, and whoever comes in second wins 30%.  There are some real Competitive Cathys here at the office, but my coworkers obviously have no idea what I am capable of. 

I am reminded of an office workout pool Derrick joined back in Colonial times when he was working.  He ate nothing but beef jerky for weeks and on the day of his final weigh-in, he fasted and wore three pairs of sweatpants and three sweatshirts and worked out for hours in an effort to lose every ounce of water he could afford. 

He won several hundred dollars, which we presumably blew on food.

Yum.

Road Rage

As excited as we were to leave for the holidays, we are equally excited to be back to our boring routine and back to our own bed!

Some people don't look forward to a good, long road trip, but we do.  We love zoning out on the interstate, rocking out to early '90s jams, and the inevitable and immediate feeling of contrition after a giant double burger from Wendy's.  Oh, it hurts so good!

Our trip down to North Carolina was full of memorable moments, all of them involving eleven hours of Derrick shivering in the passenger seat, pale as a sheet (well, paler than usual) and battling a crippling stomach virus. 

We were sad for Derrick, but as usual, we were way more sad for ourselves, because not only did we have to drive the entire way, we also didn't get to enjoy any of Derrick's hilarious road rage antics.  Luckily for us, he was as good as new for our drive back up to Philly, and we learned so many new foul phrases we could never have imagined in our wildest dreams!

We tried to take his mind off of things with some light conversation.

In all seriousness, it isn't too difficult to steer Derrick back into a happier frame of mind.  Sometimes, a little Lady Gaga goes a long, long way.

Happy 2011!

Happy New Year, CiB readers!  It has taken a few days for us to recover from the holidays and get back into the swing of things.  In fact, we have been about as relaxed about getting back to Cats in Baths as this cat in a bath seems to be about being in a bath. 



We have been delinquent bloggers because Derrick is off in Australia and New Zealand for two weeks so we have the whole apartment to ourselves, so obviously we have been dancing around in our skivvies as much as we want, like Risky Business meets Swan Lake, but with more falling, more wine-drinking and fewer blinds on the windows (you're welcome, world!).  We have also discovered some incredible new TV - My Strange Addiction or Freaky Eaters, anyone?

We will have new regular posts starting again on Monday! 

And thanks to Lynn B. for the video tip!

Christmas Hiatus and Our First Drawering of Franco

We are super excited that Christmas break is finally upon us.  Derrick has one more final exam and then we're off to North Carolina to perfectly split our time equally between our two families!  You can't let anyone get jealous of anyone else so early in your marriage.  Remember that, ladies.

Part of our time is going to be spent holed up with Bill and Sandy H. off the Blue Ridge Parkway, minus internet, and the rest of our time will be spent eating Derrick's Mamaw's Balls of Fury.  Get your heads out of the gutter.  They're peanut butter-butterscotch balls, they're about 5,000 calories apiece, Christmas is incomplete without them, and you will die unhappy and unfulfilled if you never get to sink your teeth into one of Mamaw's balls.

It should be a really fun drive tomorrow.  12 wrapped gifts, 11 bottles of Leigh Ann's hair products (those points don't just happen, you know), 10 Christmas playlists that we hope Sandy H. won't deem obnoxious (Destiny's Child Christmas tunes, hello!  Classic!), 9 DVDs for when DirecTV gives out in the mountains, 8 extra pounds I've already gained since Thanksgiving, 7 weathermen predicting wintry mixes, and ... 6, 5, 4 of ... something, 3 bottles of Prosecco, 2 cat anxiety pills and 1 super fat and adorable cat who would eat the partridge and the pear tree if given the opportunity.

So... good-byes can be awkward, much like the number 2011.  Which is when we'll be back.  Seriously, 11, what's the deal?

The Tacky Christmas Lights

Last year in our first year of marriage, Derrick and I were ultra-lame (lamer than usual) and didn't even bother to get a Christmas tree.  We blame the fact that Derrick was at the end of his first semester of law school and was hibernating at the library studying for finals and didn't have time to get one.

This year is different!  We were bound and determined to get our very first family Christmas tree!

Weeks ago, we thought ahead and picked up a stand and some lights, even stopping to discuss how many we thought we would need.  "300?"  "Yeah, that should be enough."

Yesterday, we braved the cold, winter Philadelphia streets in search of the perfect tree - nothing could stop us!  Except wine and brunch, but then on we went again in our search!

A whole half-block away we picked up our tree and brought it home.  Derrick carried its heavy, bountiful body up the stairs of our walk-up and hand-sawed its trunk.  After an hour of preparation and balancing, voila!  A perfect tree, ready for decorating!

I swiftly got to work on the lights after bragging to Derrick about how good I was at string-lighting a tree.  But something was amiss.

We had accidentally picked up lights with WHITE CORDS instead of GREEN!!!  Not only that, we barely had enough to cover the top half of the tree!

How could I have been so careless?  Christmas is Derrick's favorite holiday.  He even has a Christmas Excitement Dance that involves him jumping up and down yelling "CHRISTMAS!  CHRISTMAS!  CHRISTMAS!"  Here's how it goes:

So you can imagine his disappointment when he saw our tacky white-cord-lighted, awful Christmas tree.  He was devastated.  I had failed as a wife.

After a few tears, we jumped in the car walked 10 blocks to our car and drove around in search of proper tree lights.  For whatever reason, the first store was completely out of normal-people lights, but they were brimming with giant LED lights, snowflake-shaped lights, Jesus-shaped lights, red, blue, purple, pink, gold lights, and any other unnecessary novelty light you can think of.

I decided we would steal lights off of someone's house before we went home empty-handed.

Thankfully, the second store we went to had industrial-sized coils left, so we went home with 800,000 perfect lights.

Christmas was saved!

The Stupid Ballet

I took ballet for several years as a child, but I quit after 6th grade when the other girls got way too snobby Sandy H. offered to buy me a horse.  But I never stopped loving ballet.  Sign me up for a viewing of Center Stage any day!

A few years ago I decided to share my love for this art form with Derrick and combine it with his deep, mad love for all things Christmas: I took him to see The Nutcracker!

At first he went all "reluctant boyfriend dude" on me.

But he soldiered on and went with me anyway.  What a champ.

When the curtain opened, he was still skeptical, but then he heard the irresistible and recognizable melodies, which, he wants me to add, he used to play in symphonies when he was a brilliant child musician prodigy.

And then more magic unfolded.

And then...

And now Derrick loves The Nutcracker.  Giant Christmas trees can change anyone's mind about anything!  We just bought our tickets for the 2010 P. Family Nutcracker Viewing today.  Yay, Christmas is coming!

The Interviewee

The other night I had the most tremendously painful nightmare.  I was suddenly hired back at a girls' summer camp in upstate New York that I had worked at in the summer of 2001 teaching horseback riding. I was so looking forward to another summer of riding horses all day, every day!  But then I was told that I would not be teaching riding because I was hired at the last minute and all the riding instructor spots were filled.  Instead, I would be teaching public speaking.

For me, public speaking is the quickest route to a complete out-of-body experience.  I once had to introduce myself at a career networking event at UNC and talk about the event planning job I loved for ten teeny, tiny seconds, but mostly I remember blacking out after babbling about the giant ribbon-cutting scissors and how totally awesome they were.

I also equate public speaking with interviewing for a job.  You're put on the spot and expected to simultaneously think and speak coherently.  I don't do either of these things in real life anyway, and certainly not at the same time, so sitting down to be interviewed generally leads to a sweaty, red-faced, dry-mouthed, nervous meltdown.

I can't put a thought together.

I draw blanks.

To break the ice, I try to be funny, but end up telling horrible jokes that even I would otherwise find offensive.

No one laughs at said jokes except me.

When it dawns on me that things aren't going well, I become totally desperate, so I beg for mercy, and make empty promises laced with sappy sentiments.

Once, the pressure was so intense I actually popped a blood vessel in my eye in the middle of an interview.

Derrick is a champion interviewee and has tried to coach me.  And he has failed.

Luckily for me, my current boss has similarly spastic tendencies.

Thank goodness.

Hating Duke Without Borders

Sandy H. reports from dinner time in Morocco:

"Tonight we sat next to a guy who went to Duke. He was an a*#hole."

Not that we needed any more of an explanation, because our most recent run-in with a Duke grad involved him calling us "slow-minded" within two minutes of meeting him for having gone to UNC, i.e. the Southern Part of Heaven.  But Derrick wanted to know more, so we had to ask why, specifically, this guy was an a*#hole.

"I - I - I - Me - Me - Me - My - My - My.  He SAYS he was head of a 300-person law firm (your dad doubts it).  Thinks Chapel Hill is not a 'real town.'  I said, 'Have you been there lately?'  'Many times!'"

We have to interject here and ponder the existence of Durham as a "real town."  We would call it a "real ghetto town," a "real ugly town," a "Voldemort is real and he lives in this town..."  We could go on.

Sandy H. continues: "Is thrilled UNC was bad in basketball last year, hopes it happens again, does not like Roy.  Coach K is the world's greatest coach.  Has traveled everywhere, done everything, knows everything.  I could go on but this re-cap is ruining my morning."

Ours, too.

"It was a challenging evening, but I've been proud of me.  I have conversed with everyone, even a*#holes, and said nice things about everything, even Duke.  Nearly killed me."

Our friends over in London, like us, hate Duke with an infernal passion undying, and encountering obnoxious Duke people outside the U.S. border only adds fuel to that lava-spewing cauldron of hatred.  You can read all about their trans-continental hating here and here. 

Lord Voldemort, Hannibal Lector, Hitler's ghost,
and the douchey kid who wrote I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell all live here.

Martha's Calendar

I remember the first time I made my mom buy me picked up a copy of Martha Stewart Living.  It was the summer of 1998 and Sandy H. and I were driving through New England after my summer at Choate (I wasn't quite fall-winter-spring semester Choate material).  We were in Maine and I was snuggled in the back seat of the rental station wagon with the July MSL, adorned with a cover picture of a beautiful homemade yogurt-currant-blueberry parfait: a perfect 4th of July cover that drew me in to a lifetime of domestic low self-esteem.

As we drove past the Bush complex in Kennebunkport, I finished digesting my MSL, and I confirmed exactly what I always knew I wanted to be when I grew up: rich.  And a collector of fine antique pie birds, an owner of magnificent Friesians, a grower of prize gourds, an entertainer of white people, and an all-around domestic goddess, even though I despise the title "domestic goddess."

I had this new idea for a blog last night and then I got really sleepy and dozed off for a little while and woke up being pissed off that I had totally forgotten about my new blog idea.  Then I picked up my November issue of MSL and turned to one of the first features that I have always found wildly entertaining: Martha's Calendar.  And then I remembered my new blog idea.

Martha's Calendar is totally and utterly absurd and worth the subscription price just to get a small glimpse into her schedule.  I've read that it's cut down by at least 90% for each day, and it's still beyond what any human is capable of doing if you work at a full-time job and need to fit in at least four hours of craptastic TV a day.

I'm not entirely sure, but in 2011, I might be living Martha's Calendar for a year and blogging about it.  It's kind of an aggressive goal, because when I told Derrick about it, he said, "Did you see what you would need to do on November 5th?  She's traveling to Manitoba to watch the polar bear migration, then she's touring the arctic tundra and viewing the northern lights."

Yeah, that would be hard to do.  So would all the gardening and composting and taking care of the chicken coops, what with the fact that I live in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of a major urban center.  It's also not entirely original, in more ways than one.  It could be great for me though; I've been dying for an excuse to start horseback riding again!  And I know Derrick is tired of eating lemon-rosemary grilled chicken with steamed carrots.  Wouldn't he just love it if I whipped up some farro salad with oven-roasted grapes and autumn greens with parsnip-apple mash?  What the f**k is farro?

I may just have to settle for going to the zoo and watching the polar bears migrate from their feed bin to their lap pool, and viewing the light-polluted sky of north Philadelphia.  Which would be technically, if not Martha-perfectly, correct.

As if I needed another reason to love her.  
Would you please look at those ridunk Frenchies.

Pennsylvania Mania

At a lunch time outing with some office mates the other day, the conversation that started off gabbing about other office mates took a decidedly more interesting turn: crazy sex laws.  I don't know how we got here, but we did.  Maybe because I was talking about how Derrick is thinking about bringing another wife into our marriage to spice things up.

We decided to do a little research on the illegal things we do without realizing it, and focused our search on the state in which we currently live.

In Pennsylvania, it is illegal to sleep on top of a refrigerator outdoors.  It's illegal to sing in a bathtub.  It's illegal to sweep dust and dirt under a rug.

Derrick's and my marriage would not be considered legal if it had been performed in Pennsylvania because neither the bride nor groom can be drunk during the ceremony and it's illegal to shoot off a cannon at a wedding.  That, and we both passed out on top of our outdoor fridge after the consummation.

During our research I did see a stupid law that I already knew about from many years of touring hundreds of college campuses with Sandy H.: that it is outlawed for more than 16 women to reside in a house together because it constitutes a brothel.  This is a favorite wake-up tactic employed by tour guides across the state when discussing sorority life and Greek housing.  You can always count on someone's obnoxious dad to make an obnoxious joke comparing sorority women to prostitutes.  Then that dad's child would be all like, "Ughhhhh, DAD!  GOD, you're SO ANNOYING!  Ughhhh!"

Then the tour guide will follow the rest of her formulaic plan and talk about how even though it's a large school, the classes are small and you can get to know your professors really well!  Last night she went over to her professor's house for pizza with one of her classes and she's going to be babysitting for another professor this weekend.  Why is it that every tour guide dines on pizza with and babysits for her professors?  We didn't know a single person at any of the colleges we attended who did this. 

Anyway, back to the brothel law.  This is a stupid law because I'm pretty sure an effective brothel could be achieved with just 15 women.  Pretty sure the Maison Derriere in Springfield managed it ...



"We Put The Spring In Springfield" Lyrics

You could close down Moe's or the Kwik-E-Mart
and nobody would care
But the heart and soul of Springfield is
our Maison Derriere!


We're the sauce on your steak
We're the cheese in your cake
We put the spring in Springfield!


We're the lace on the night gown
The point after touchdown
Yes, we put the spring in Springfield!


We're that little extra spice
That makes existence extra nice
A giddy little thrill at a reasonable price!


Our only major quarrel's
With your total lack of morals
Our skimpy costumes ain't so bad
They seem to entertain your dad!


The gin in your martini
The clams on your linguini
We keep the *boing* in Springfield!
We remember our first visit
The service was exquisite!


Why Joseph, I had no idea!
Come on now, you were working here.


Without it we'd have had no fun
Since March of 1961.
To shut them down now would be twisted.
We just heard this place existed!


We're the highlights in your hairdo
The extra arms on Vishnu.


So don't take the *boing*, we won't take the *slide whistle*,
Yes, let's keep the *crash* in Springfield!

Curvy and Creepy

I would say that watching Paranormal Activity shortly before bedtime is one of the best ideas I've had in a while.

There's no better way to soothingly ease your way into your work week than to go to bed with your husband like normal in your scary, creaking, old apartment, having just watched a movie about a young couple going to bed like normal and being woken up night after night to be terrorized by a demon.

Derrick is uncharacteristically not as terrified as I am at the moment, but that probably has more to do with the fact that he missed about half of the film thanks to the unfortunate and inevitable accompaniment to day drinking: the evening hangover.

But before I go off on a tangent about how I'm not sure who among the two of us should be more embarrassed that I outdrank him at the Eagles-Falcons game, let me get back to this insane and amazing movie.  I have to wonder how a film that looks like any idiot with $400 and a bedroom could have made it ended up grossing $193 million at the box office.

I must come up with an idea for a low-budget scary movie soon - something that can yield totally ridunk returns.  Come to think of it, although he is extremely cute and fluffy - and "curvy," as they say on Say Yes To The Dress: Big, Franco can be pretty creepy when he just stares at you for a few minutes and then disappears for several hours (seriously, where does he go?  Our apartment is like 300 square feet!).

Check it out: 90 minutes of this guy looking into your soul and then just walking away.  I see nothing but dollar signs.

He killed that toy mouse just by looking at it.  
Will you survive Franco's death stare?

Taking Advantage of the Faint of Heart

I love the shizz out of this time of year.  It's like a non-stop orgy train of cool-weather holidays starting at Labor Day with stops at my birthday, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's, with a sprinkling of sweata weatha and the occasional spice cake or two ten!

No more sweating yourself to sleep!  No more banging your head against the wall for NOT appreciating that ice maker while you had it.  Adios, Hermione Granger hair, you can use your hair dryer again!  No more walking around the apartment in your underw--- meh, I don't see any reason to stop doing that.

I might love Halloween and its accompanying movies a little more than the average person.  I once became obsessed with owning a DVD of Practical Magic, even though I recognize that it's probably one of the worst movies of all time, and one that both Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock would rather forget was ever made.  I drove to every DVD-selling storefront in a 50-mile radius looking for Practical Magic.  Did I think to call ahead anywhere?  Of course not.  My brain was overwrought with witch obsession!  I encountered one Best Buy employee who was at first puzzled by my quest, and then for some reason found it worthy of his judgment and ridicule.  I stomped off empty-handed and finally had to give up, order it online and waaaaiiiittt for it, ughhh! 

Derrick and I were just friends before that fateful night when I got him drunk and informed him that we would be together forever.  During that "just friends" period, we went to see The Ring.  I absolutely love this movie and will watch it at any opportunity.  This movie scared the shit out of Derrick, and though he won't admit it, it still does to this day. 

There is a woman in the movie-within-the-movie in The Ring, who stands in front of a mirror, brushing her long dark hair, and then she turns around slowly to look directly at the viewer.  It is tinkle-your-pants freaky.  So sometimes when I know Derrick is behind me, I'll stand in front of a mirror with my eyes really wide, and then I'll slowly turn around to look at him without blinking or smiling, and he totally wigs out.  That's not freaky - that's just funny.

Watch Samara's creeptastic video yourself for an inspirational way to freak the shit out of your loved ones!

Duh..... What Country Is Asia In?

Sometimes I wonder what Derrick sees in me.  He is brilliant, gifted, was valedictorian of his high school, received a full merit scholarship to The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and is now pursuing two post-baccalaureate degrees in three years.  I, on the other hand, house the incredibly useful knowledge that the '90s one-hit-wonder "Crazy For This Girl" was sung by Evan and Jaron, who were identical twin Orthodox Jews.

Scene: Lunch time at Jimmy John's

Derrick: I won't be home until late tonight because I have a meeting with my business venture team.  We're working on a project that could take us to Asia, South America, Australia or Europe.  It's pretty cool because the team is diverse and made up of me in finance and private equity, two guys with military backgrounds, and two girls who were in marketing and private equity.  Hopefully we'll be able to strategize this initiative with some dividends and diversify our portfolios with some other words that are big.

Leigh Ann: *blink*... *blink*...

Leigh Ann: I was watching Teen Mom yesterday, and it was so funny because Gary was buying flowers for Amber because she was going out on a date with an ex-con she met at Wal-Mart, and instead of saying he thought it would be a "nice gesture," he said "nice GUESS-chur."  HAHAHAHA!

End Scene.

Luckily for me, Derrick is always willing and able to come down to my level.




"Numbers are hard!"



I'm The Douchebag

Sometime last year, I remember a normal, average night hanging out at a bar with some friends, when all of a sudden the bar became swarmed with business students wearing dress shirts, ties, blazers, and boxer shorts.

I like to imagine this event began with second-year MBA students telling first-year MBA students "Yeah!  We do this every year.  You go out in your boxers and we do a bar crawl.  It's awesome."  And then when the first-year MBA students show up in their boxers to bars with fully-clothed second-year MBA students, they realize that "Yes, we're being hazed!  This is awesome!"  Welcome to the world's most obnoxious bar crawl, where attire is described as "business on the top, party on the bottom."  Indeed, it's the mullet of outfits, and is just as charming as a mullet itself.

There I stood last year thinking, "Psssh.  I will never participate in this event.  What a bunch of tools."

I remembered this as I pulled on my skull and bones boxers on Saturday and watched Derrick iron my white button-down shirt.  (That's right.  I can't iron.  I don't even know how to turn the iron on.  You got a problem with that?) 

I remembered it as I walked across the park as quickly as I have ever walked in search of other reluctant douchebags like myself, dressed like idiots. 

I remembered it as I kept drinking and then forgot what I was supposed to remember because it was, in fact, awesome and a lot of fun.

When in Rome, you have to drink the Kool-Aid.  Or something like that.



"Kourtney, do these match my ascot?" 



Dear Nerds: It Gets Better

There is a wonderful campaign going on over on YouTube and beyond called It Gets Better, which is aimed at gay youths and encourages them to persevere through the excruciating years of middle and high school.

We are inspired and want to start our own campaign to encourage one particular young demographic near and dear to our hearts, letting them know that these years don't last forever, and it gets better!  Our target: nerdy, awkward straight girls.

We know just how you feel.  We were just like you.

You think having long hair is automatically pretty because D.J. Tanner has long hair and it's pretty, but really your hair is just bushy, frizzy and way too long?  It's okay.  One day, you'll figure out how to use styling products and a blow dryer.

You're embarrassed about those braces?  Have you ever seen anyone with straight teeth before, or no?

Kids in your class make fun of your flat chest?  One day, you'll appreciate the wardrobe your flatness allows you to have.

Boys ignore you now, when they're not making fun of you?  Who cares?  One day, you'll be married to a private equity banker!

Classmates make fun of your big forehead?  Eh, nothing we can say here, except moisturize it like crazy and you'll have the most wrinkle-free forehead at your reunion and they'll all be jealous!

You like The X-Files?  A lot of people like The X-Files!  Why is your private equity banker husband making fun of you for this?  Whatever.  He likes Star Trek.




"Y'all watch The X-Files last night?  It was rad!"



On a more serious note, I am devastated by the recent string of suicides by young people, and humiliating others for sport is the opposite of cool.  This piece is intended to make fun of no one but myself.  It gets better, y'all!



T.W.W.: A Public Service Announcement

I was cruising down the main drag of campus yesterday on my way to meet Derrick for a soupy burrito bowl at Chipotle and the following things made me sad:

1.  The freshmen were all born the same year that The Real World was still casting people with actual life goals the first season of The Real World premiered.

2.  No one invited me to their frat parties.

3.  There were freshman boys who were dressed better than I was.

These were the least of my worries.  This walkway was crowded, and I mean like Mumbai crowded.  I heard pieces of thousands of conversations and it felt like that scene in What Women Want where a pre-anger-management Mel Gibson is overwhelmed by hearing every woman's thoughts all at the same time.  

But the thing at which I have to shake my angry, wrinkled, age spot-ridden fist, which is connected to my decrepit, Medicalert bracelet-wearing wrist, is this generation of whippersnappers and their insatiable need to text during any millisecond of pure mundane activity.  The texting while driving is crap-my-Depends scary, but I'd like to do a public service announcement about T.W.W.: Texting While Walking.

I was dodging kids left and right who weren't looking where they were going and didn't care - like a game of human Frogger.  I am too young to have ever played Frogger but old enough to comprehend references to it.  Thank you, Seinfeld reruns!

Don't even get me started on something terrible I witnessed a few weeks ago: T.W.S.I.T.B.C.S.N.L.: Texting While Skateboarding - In The Busy City Street, No Less.  SRSLY.

The following is a short news clip of a magnificent Staten Island girl named Alexa who was casually texting while walking one day without a care in the world when she suddenly fell into a sewer manhole.  My favorite part is that everyone in this video is pissed off at the city for leaving a manhole uncovered temporarily for servicing, and never once does the girl say, "Yeah.  I ended up covered in the most foul Staten Island shit because I'm an idiot."

Dear Government Leaders: We've Discovered The Key To A Successful, Peaceful Relationship With The Middle East

When it comes to gimmicky chain restaurants in America, The Cheesecake Factory is a particularly fun target of ridicule in the snooty Preston House.  The absurdity of its portion sizes is eclipsed only by the ludicrousness of its sub-par yet vast menu selections, but perhaps not by the obesity of its clientele - myself included.

Don't get me wrong.  I love a good gimmicky American chain restaurant.  I could eat every meal at On The Border, if for no other reason than the fact that once, in an effort to control the jackal inside me that just eats whatever is in front of it, I ordered the three enchilada plate, but I wanted two of those enchiladas to be wrapped up in a to-go box.  Apparently overwhelmed by my request, the waiter brought me a to-go box with three enchiladas, a plate with another three enchiladas, and an enchilada on the side.

On Saturday night we were at a party with one of our favorite new couple friends in Philly who recently moved here from the Middle East.  According to the husband, a business associate of his was also a member of a Middle Eastern royal family, and became obsessed with The Cheesecake Factory on his most recent trip to America.  He had its food shipped to him anywhere he happened to be in the world whenever he wanted it, and also had an aching desire to execute a corporate takeover of the chain.  Because.  He.  Loved it.

So many choices!  It's like the perfect American dream was wrapped up in a pie crust and tied with a bow made of fettucini alfredo.  We can choose our leaders, we can choose our paths, and we can choose between the doner kebab and the barbecued pork sandwich.

I declared my weekend successful after appreciating the image of a multi-billionaire Arab prince at The Cheesecake Factory at the local mall, surrounded by high schoolers on prom night, pregnant rednecks about to get engaged, and obese citizens on scooters and oxygen.  The prince lusts after a giant pile of coconut shrimp and jalapeno poppers, his mouth watering through laminated page after laminated page of the endless menu, trying to decide between the fish tacos, the Hungarian goulash, the sushi, the spicy Hawaiian calzone and the alligator gumbo.  Save room for the Oreo-caramel cheesecake, y'all!

This:

Image Courtesy

Plus this:

Image Courtesy

Equals a dichotomy of confusion and awesomeness, represented by this firework question mark:

Image Courtesy

THIS JUST IN: White People Love Sweaters, Hate Unsanitary Living Conditions

Mom, Derrick and I had a delightful weekend doing all sorts of fun things that white people love doing: looking at art, going to Williams-Sonoma, wearing sweaters, eating overpriced cheese, and visiting Chinatown.  We even passed by a restaurant there that I hadn't yet noticed, and it was a great one for Sandy H. to see, since it was called The Dumpling House.  Mom has called me "Dumpling" for many years, but often just shortens it to "Dumps."  At least Bill H. makes up for this by calling me "Angel."

In other Cats in Baths news, Derrick found a fecal treasure last night left behind by yet another rodent roommate.  We have decided to take matters into our own hands and we're getting a black snake to release in the apartment.  If that doesn't work out, we are going to be welcoming a new feline friend into our family.  I found a cat on PetFinder named "Hunter."  I immediately knew this was the cat for us.  That's how shelters name their cats, like Native American tribes - did you know that?  You have to earn your name!  I don't want a cat named Sharpens Claws On Antique Oriental Rug or Uses Sleeping Owner's Hair As Litterbox.  I want a cat named Thirsts For Mouse Blood.

Hunter wasn't at the shelter we visited, but there was a play room that housed a stunning white cat with blue eyes and a sweet black cat whose brain stem was attached to his spinal cord with a paper clip.  He could hardly function and would randomly fall over since he didn't have control over any part of his body.  The stunning white cat would walk all the way across the room to swat at the poor handicapped cat for no reason and make him fall over.  I tried lecturing the stunning white cat about how not to treat those with head injuries, but instead of listening to me, she looked at Derrick as he was filling out an adoption application, and jumped onto the clipboard to use as a launching pad for her next destination.

The stunning white cat might just be enough of a jerk to fill the job opening!