A game!

if we make it fun
maybe it will become fun
let’s think positive

Here’s the first installment of a brand-new game!!!

What Just Made Kari Gag?

A) yawning

B) watching the wee-er one try to eat cheese and brush her teeth at the same time

C) seeing waterfalls of snot cascade from the wee-er one’s nose onto the bedsheets

D) all of the above

This game is too easy…


language fits and bursts
wee-er one dictionary
translates the yelling

The wee-er one is all kinds of chatty now. It’s improved her mood and mine because, you know, communicating is a good thing. She has a fantastic way of mixing sounds that I want to document because I know it won’t last long. So, without further ado, please enjoy the Wee-er One Abridged Dictionary of Common Words. Not in alphabetical order, because I am tired.

Memolade – lemonade
Head-o – Jello
Miss – kiss
Shit – seat or sit
Howsher – shower
Aught-tise – outside
Taco – Tucker
Poop – poop, or butt, depending on what she’s pointing at.
Ticky – cookie
hitchy – chicken
Bopper – diaper
tie – cry
hay – hair
bish – brush (as in teeth or hair)

There are more but I have to go collapse in a chair now. It would be nice if I could sleep again. Stupid sleep, forsaking me.

let’s be creative

why sit and panic
make that big brain work for you
it owes us big time

OK. We need a better word for "spotting." Something more positive and less scary. Maybe a japanese-esque phrase would work.

Happy Life-Affirming Uterine Flecks

Super Fun Drops of Promise

Underwear Speck-tacular



Exciting Display of Womanly Prowess

rouge a la panties

Who else has a good idea? You guys are smart. Show me what you got.

ugh and whew and ugh

Take one 10-week pregnant mama + a giant scary horror show gush of blood + intense cramping + a panicked trip to the OB and what does that equal?

A sonogram of a healthy looking baby and a diagnosis of "sometimes this happens."

WTF? Sometimes "this" does happen to me, and it always ends up with me having outpatient surgery and a sad story.

I am mystified at what happened this morning. If I didn’t have video of the sonogram I wouldn’t believe it. I’m still having a hard time believing everything is OK. It doesn’t seem OK.

But I will be positive. I will think happy thoughts. I will embrace the morning sickness. I don’t know what else to do.

I am grouchy

eyebrows in V shape
eyes are squinting, lips puckered
run now, while you can

I am grouchy right now. I was doing fine until I made an ill-fate decision to go through the drive-thru to pick up my vitamins at the pharmacy. It took FOREVER. There were only three other cars, in two lines, and yet, as the 20 minute mark rolled passed I was ready to drive over the grassy median and bolt.

Then, a stop to pick up french fries at Wendy’s. A little treat for the kids (and me) for having to wait so long in the car. Moron Wendy’s guy gives me some crazy ass backward wrong change and cannot figure out how to fix it. Finally fixes it. Fries too hot to eat.

Almost home. Three dudes are standing in the middle of the street waving at me. I think, "Fuck. Car-jacking." because it’s been that kind of errand-running trip. Nope. Not car-jacking, they are stopping two lanes of traffic – during a green light – so that a flatbed oversived semi-trailer can back out of a construction site. Ten minutes go by. The trailer at first almost tips over because the driver has taken out an entire curb and caused the trailer to go diagonal on the four wheels on the side (or six wheel, or whatever). Then he nearly jacknifes it. The light is green and then red and then green and then red and traffic is backed up a mile. Finally, the truck recovers, the crazy dudes exit the street, the truck blocks the turn lane during the green light, and eventually I make it around him and we get home.

Cold fries now. Very angry children. Grouchy mama.

Why do running errands have to be so difficult? Why am I always hungry and yet always nauseous? Why did we buy a house with stairs? Why is the dog shedding his aerodynamic ass hairs all over the couch? Why won’t Hillary Clinton drop out of the race before the whole democratic party goes up in flames? Why won’t my face stop breaking out? Why is the ice maker broken now that I finally want to use it?


Hmph. I have to go eat now. Because that is all I do. I am so tired of eating. Boo eating.

belated fawning

easy demeanor
flowing skirt, lots of laughter
just as I had hoped

When you get to meet someone you admire – even briefly – there is always a flicker of doubt beforehand. Will the person be an asshole? Will they acknowledge your existence in the world? Is it worth trying to meet someone you hold in such esteem, when there’s a risk your illusions will be shattered?

That all sounds very dramatic, and I don’t mean it to. I just mean to say that when you’re on the cusp of meeting someone you really, really hold in high esteem, you get a little nervous.

This is how I felt on Monday when I went to see Mary Roach talk about her new book, Bonk.

I have been in love with Mary Roach’s writing since reading Stiff, her first book. And as I devoured Spook, her second book, I fell even more head over heels. She is the kind of writer who can take any subject (like cadavers, in Stiff) and make it not only accessible, but fascinating and ironic and hilarious. Her use of footnotes just kills me. Kills me! Because it is so awesome. These little facts and asides and notations are so wonderful and interesting and funny and surprisingly integral to her writing that I look forward to them on every page.

As I read her work, and reread it, all I can do is hope that one day I can write as wittily and smartly and wonderfully as she does. Mary Roach is someone to aspire to be. And yes, I really do hold her on that kind of pedestal. So the chance to get to go hear her speak, and to have her sign a copy of her new book, and have a quick chat with her was almost more than I could bear. I truly thought that as I stood there, breezily chatting with her about footnotes and how they drive editors crazy, I was going to burst into flame.

But I did not. I stuttered and stammered and flushed and turned blotchy and had a hard time holding eye contact, but I did not accidentally catch on fire. And as she signed my book, she added a footnote – the first footnote added at a signing, she said – and I felt like such a contented happy dork.

So, thanks, Mary Roach, for signing my book and for briefly chatting with me about your lovely footnotes. Thanks for the personalized footnote, and thanks for elevating writing to the degree that you do. Thanks for being so real and so gracious and so cool.

It was a great night.

not the cool kid

wonder what it’s like
five hundred comments per post
mommy superstar

There are so many mommy blogs out there. I hardly read any of them.

Every now and then I will pop over to one of the super popular ones, but for some inexplicable reason I can’t read more than one or two posts without getting tremendously irritated. This makes no sense because a) I am basically a mommy blogger b) the posts that irritate me are sometimes pretty funny.

This leads me to believe that I don’t like popular people just because they’re popular and/or I am an asshole with problems stemming from buried jealousy and out-of-control egotism.

It’s interesting to me to think about this (I fault the rampant egotism). Am I really jealous of the Dooce’s out there? Not really. I don’t want people making satiric websites about how I’m screwing up my kids. That is something I am happy to do myself. But on the other hand, I see these sort of inside-joke-y posts from mamas who have just come back from some unnameable, unspeakable, top secret, invite-only mommy blogger advertising expo/conference type thing and I think, "Well, damn. It sure would be nice to be famous enough to get invited so that I could say Hell No."

It’s the same conundrum I’ve had since my school girl days. Would it be nice to be the girl who has a brand new outfit to wear to school everyday, and all the boys hanging off of her? Probably not as fun as you might think. Do I enjoy being the girl who wears the same sweatshirt three times a week and who starts the underground "newspaper" making fun of the Girl With The Clothes? Waaaay more fun than you would think.

So why do I feel such vitriol towards my "successful" "peers" out there? They could care less about me, which doesn’t bother me. I am happy to keep ignoring their blogs as a sort of continued protest against the mainstream (even though I am about as mainstream as one can get). And yet, I feel compelled every few months or so to drop by one of these blogs and be driven completely bonkers. Bonkers! For no reason!

It is like the local band going to see Pearl Jam and complaining the whole time about how much Eddie Vedder has sold out, even while buying the new album.

Surely there are other people who feel this way? We can start up the Snobby Blogger Conundrum Consortium. Fun! And we’re too old to get a detention because of it!


Things that I am not doing:
eating queso
cleaning my fridge
writing anything important
watching TV
wearing clothes that are less than eight years old
making money

Things that I am doing:
reading the Terror (awesome, by the way)
sitting in a chair
vaguely keeping an eye on the wee-er one
daydreaming of wood floors
listening to Buena Vista Social Club
imagining that Tina Fey wants to be my friend

It’s time for Sousa again

you will never guess
not in one gamillion years
what happened last night

Click here for some very important background music.

The wee-er one slept in her own bed! All night long! Without nursing once! I KNOW!

It’s a miracle, but I can’t take credit for it. My mother-in-law is here and she slept in the wee-er one’s room with her last night. Apparently, though, the wee-er one woke only once with a small whimper and went back to sleep. When she sleeps with me, she wakes every hour and a half to kick me in the head, nurse, pinch me, nurse some more, and pull my hair.

This is quite an accomplishment. We are celebrating by being grouchy and demanding pirate booty.