I've Been Duped

A long time ago, I wanted to be a star and appeared in a pilot for a TV show. Before anyone gets impressed, let me set the record straight. My venture into the spotlight was not the glorious 15 minutes I'd hoped for. The show's producer approached me at a club (I know, red flag!) and I agreed to the gig thinking I'd be some sort of background dancer. When I showed up however, the "producer/director/writer" (yeah, ego much?) shoved me in front of the camera and said something to the effect of: "Okay, now talk about what we're doing, what the show is about and be charming!" Off the cuff and no rehearsals. Ever. Let's just say it took a while for me to stop staring at the camera lights like a frightened deer, and it took several more takes for me to stop saying “um...”.

So here's the premise: I was co-host with this other guy, let’s call him "Kelly", a pretty metro-sexual type who sold himself as a 'seasoned actor'. We would trek around town, hitting Salt Lake’s hot night spots and telling all the folks at home how sensational they were. To make a long story short, the producer was an inexperienced, egocentric control freak, his crew quit and the pilot didn't pick up. I really didn't mind too much. The finished product turned out pretty choppy and although I wasn't the worst actor in the crew, my performance was definitely rough. So no, you will never, ever see it.

I only tell this story to give you an idea of why I completely flipped this summer when I casually flipped on the TV before bed and caught the very beginning of a home improvement show on HGTV. The host had just finished telling the lovely couple about the dazzling improvements he had planned. He then turned to introduce his team of professionals and HERE is where all of my assumptions about home improvement shows were shattered. I KNEW CONTRACTOR #1! There was Kelly, his normally perfect hair slightly tussled, and dressed down from his collared shirt and Kenneth Cole shoes to faded jeans and a tool belt. As I watched him deliver his lines and smile while he slammed the hammer, I was beside myself. I always thought the people on screen actually did the construction, but this man was not the do-it-yourself type. I suppose I should have known better, but truth was, I'd been duped. Obviously, the "contractors" were pretty boys who were simply fed lines and filmed pounding a couple nails while the REAL men got to it next door. So now I wonder, who are those real guys that do the dirty work and why aren't THEY on camera? Because they're old, don't bleach their teeth or blow dry their hair? Sounds to me like an episode of This Old House… Okay, so even I wouldn't watch that, but I still don’t like the pretense, fellas.

cute, Cute, CUTE!

So I've been spending Marc's hard-earned money on shoes for Erich. I found this super cute site and ohmygawsh, you HAVE to check out my latest aquisitions:

Rileyroos Sportie in "Wahoo" and "Butterscotch"

They are freakin' awesome. And even cuter in real life - if you can even believe it! Seriously, since I got them in the mail last week, Little E has worn these puppies everywhere. And they're more than just fashionable, when he wears them he can actually stand on his own for up to 15 seconds! Woo-hoo! (Bare-footed he still tries to walk tippytoed.) Also, just for fun I got a couple of these. Holy crap, my kid is so cute!

Gotta Love Lefties

If he keeps pulling off his left sock

does that mean he's left-handed?

wishful thinking...

A Little Peace'll Cost Ya

100 : Approximate # of times Jäger had the runs in the last 3 days

6 : # of times he didn't make it past the threshold

$210 : Ridiculous amount spent on the veterinarian visit

$140 : Cost of one BadA** Jäger-can't-get-into-this-mother trash can (which, by the way looks AMAZING in our kitchen and increased the value of our home by an estimated 2%)

The price of a good nights sleep and coming home to poop-free floors : Priceless. Or $350. I still can't decide.

Not a “Housewife”: a “Woman on Vacation”

So am I the world’s most undependable blogger or what? At least you can’t say I didn’t warn you all I would take another hiatus someday… Suddenly, though I feel the need to express myself more, and I’m pretty sure it’s a direct result of recently switching my day job from a full-time Rubber to a full-time Mudder. (Hey, it almost rhymes.)

I love being home. I have a theory that some women need to spend most of their time around the home and some need to spend most of it doing anything else. My sister and I are perfect examples of this. She’s home with her 3 month old and losing her mind. She loves one on one time with her little boy but the down time is killing her. She actually said to me: “I mean, how many more drawers can I organize before losing my mind?!” I told her to get a dog or write a blog. She decided she’ll try to start a business.

On the other hand, I have every minute of my day planned to maximize my home time. This does NOT mean I’m lazy, People. I still work Saturdays - to keep life interesting and the hotel discounts coming – I’m taking a 5 credit German class, and I keep up on chores and errands. (Okay, okay, so I called a maid. But I do run the errands.) I just love to be at home. I leave for class at the last possible second and come home right after. I run with the dog so he’ll sleep and cuddle with me while I do my homework. I run errands with Erich while he naps so I can let him crawl around my feet while I clean. I fold laundry in front of the TV because I want to watch TV curled on the couch without feeling guilty (so what if it takes twice as long :P). And best of all, I get to see and catch up with friends. I can go out to lunch, chat online, pop over to the neighbors, make phone calls, etc. I didn’t notice how anti-social I used to be while I was working. My worn out line was: “Oh, I can’t, I have to work.” Not anymore! And although I do plan on going back to work or school again, it may be from home and will certainly be on my own terms.. because this freedom deal is addictive. *

*Of course, behind every woman with freedom is a man without it, so this post is dedicated to my Sugar Daddy. Ich liebe dich, Husband, esq.

VSoM

Well, I ended up writing for VSoM a little longer than I had planned, but at least I have a few more posts to show for it (that otherwise would not have been written). Check 'em out:

"Can You Put a Price on Forever?"
"Grey Matter"
"Stranger-than-the-Average-Mormon"
"He Started Out a Straight Up Punk"

Jarvis Cocker is still a Cocky Rocker. And I like it.

I feel so lucky when I catch quality moments on the radio. I feel smart, happy and proud to know a fun piece of information that I can impress others with. Today I caught Terry Gross interviewing Jarvis Cocker on Fresh Air. Jarvis Cocker is famously known as the former lead singer of the Brit-pop indie band Pulp and infamous for mooning Michael Jackson onstage at the Brit Awards in ’96. I used to be really into his music, thanks to the influence of my older sis’, and this interview made me burn with nostalgia for those tunes I used to love.

My favorite part of the interview is when Jarvis bashes rock music. In his words, rock is just so “I HAVE MY MESSAGE FOR THE WORLD AND YOU MUST LISTEN AND IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.”

“Oh give me a break, please,” he scoffs.

Jarvis goes on to say that he prefers pop music because, unlike rock, it doesn’t carry with it an inflated sense of its own importance. Although some pop songs have profoundly affected him, they didn’t try to do it. Music can be profound, but usually by accident. It doesn’t get there by taking itself too seriously and striving for profundity. (I can certainly agree with that after recently renting Music & Lyrics... no profundity in that one.)

I decided this guy is so cool (there's just something about those glasses) that if I ever have another son I should name him Jarvis. Then I realized that in German, Jarvis sounds like Yarr-fiss. Now, I don’t know what a Yard fish is, but I certainly don’t want my son to be mistaken for one. That leaves me with Cocker… Cocker Bohn. Niiice.

A Letter to The Blog

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry, Blog! I feel like I've abandoned you. I do miss our good times, but I've been keeping very busy. As it turns out writing serious posts can be pretty time consuming. The past few weeks I've written about being Single and Mormon, Ghosts, and Dads. I'm ready for some lighter fair again, though. I'll come back to you soon... if you'll have me.

On my knees,
Melbo

Adultery... Again

I know I shouldn't flaunt my scarlet letter so recklessly, but I've posted two more blogs on VSoM. Here's one on Family and another on Gay Marriage.

I'm Having an Affair

I'm having an affair... with another blog. And I won't be ending things anytime soon. For the next couple of months I'll be writing for VSoM on Wednesdays. The topic this week is Moms.

Deutsch on the Gehirn

In honor of Erich’s Swiss & German roots, we’ve decided to try to raise him “auf Deutsch.” I’ve been learning to speak German through Post-it's around the house, Marc’s diligent tutoring, and the language learning software Rosetta Stone. I was studying almost daily until I started working again 3 weeks ago. Since then it’s been going… okay. Marc used to bug me to study constantly, but soon realized life would be too busy until he’s done with school. Just yesterday he informed me that he would be a "German studying Nazi" once finals are over. I knew he was only joking that he would be strict, like Seinfield’s "Soup Nazi" (“No soup for you!”), so I took joy in pointing out the undertones of what he'd just said. He’s so cute when he blushes.

In some of my Rosetta Stone lessons I have to match phrases with pictures. My most recent lesson was about size. Fat is “dick”, thin is “dünn”, and very is “sehr.” The sentence below reads:

“The women are very fat.”

I call THAT a German lesson. I’m glad I’m learning the important things first!
Now... do you think those women know they’re in that picture?

Erich - 14 weeks

I love him.

Happy Conception Day

Happy Conception Day!

We're pretty sure we conceived our son exactly one year ago today.

awwwwww!!!

I told Marc that for his gift I would wait a day to tell him that I'm pregnant again. hahaha....

The Great Debate

To G or not to G? That is the question.

I’ve decided to ditch Erich’s landfill cloggers and live a little greener. That’s right friends, the Bohns are going cloth. I used to think cloth diapers would be a lot of work but many friends have convinced me otherwise. No more pins and plastic covers, diapers of the old days are Pintos compared to what’s out there now. And although I’d really like to be creative and resourceful like some people I know, I’m just not that dedicated. So I’m ready with my credit card, but there are options galore and I simply can’t decide between the Mercedes and the BMW.

I’ve narrowed it down to two brands:

gdiapers & bumGenius

.

Both have their advantages and disadvantages; however, I won’t bore anyone with the details. Frankly I don’t feel like typing it all out. But it’s the funniest thing; I’m really excited to be more “hands on” with my child’s puddles and squirts (that’s what we call poo & pee in our house). It will feel good to help the environment in my own little way. (Man, I’m such a liberal.)

So there I was tonight, researching my new obsession with my little angel cuddled in my lap, playing with his own latest obsession, his hands. I was reading up on the Stacinator, a diaper cover that’s supposedly a “great way to stop day and nighttime diaper leaks,” when Erich suddenly became squirmy. I lifted him up to find brown leakage all over us and his blanket. Oh, the irony just kills me. That Stacinator thing sounds pretty fabulous.

Various Stages of Mormondom

I just made a guest post on a blog called Various Stages of Mormondom. It’s a site devoted to discussing issues from the perspectives of people in various stages of Mormonism, ranging from fully active to atheist. A weekly topic is assigned and each person has their day to shine, while a guest blogger is invited to post every Sunday. I was invited to participate as today on the topic of Resurrection.

You can check it out here:

Various Stages of Mormondom

If nothing else, make sure to tune in to the site next Sunday. Marc will be bringing the house down.

Propagating the Species

God has a plan for new mothers. It’s called memory loss. By overloading our systems, eventually all the pain and turbulence morphs into bliss and becomes one big blur. This is how the human race continues to thrive.

My final week of pregnancy I could have run a marathon to force thiat child out. Then while I was in labor, the pain was so bad ahat a shovel to the head would have felt better. I opted for the epidural over the shovel, but I waited long enough to guarantee the contractions were a pain I’ll always remember, not only to rub it in my son’s face one day, but so I don’t fool myself into thinking that a natural birth might actually be a good idea. (It’s not.)

The hospital stay was traumatic in its own right. Dozens of strangers shoving their way in my room at all hours to fill out forms (those were Marc’s guests), to poke and prod Erich and me, to throw off the sheets and examine how things are going “down there” and ask when my last “pee pee” and “poo poo” was (like, they do know I’m not the baby, right?). Don’t even get me started on the Nazi lactation nurses fondling me every two hours while smashing Erich’s face into my breasts. The only person that didn’t wake me up was the food lady, and she was the only one I waited up for.

It didn’t take long after settling in at home to have my first emotional/mental/physical breakdown. I lasted 24 hours before I sent Marc out in a blizzard to fill my prescriptions. I stayed home with a body that wouldn’t function, a baby that wouldn’t nurse, and breasts that wouldn’t stop growing. (Normally I wouldn’t complain about the last one, but I wasn’t thinking rationally at the time.) Another epidural would’ve been welcome, but I settled for an ocean of tears and the beloved Percoset my darling husband brought home. Ice packs, heating pads and oxycodone saved my life. I spent the next month healing, sleeping, nursing and trying not to poop. At least my kid is freakin’ adorable.

Now that my 13 week old sack of potatoes is sleeping through the night (10 hours last night!), babbling through his huge gummy grin and keeping his once 2 hour feeds at less than 40 minutes now, I’m starting to forget. My higher power is putting His Magic Eraser to work, obliterating traumatic portions of the past few months. Forever recording my experience in the blogosphere wasn’t likely part of God’s plan for new mothers, but He has a special plan for me. I’m beginning to forget what it felt like, but I hope by writing this, I don’t forget what happened. I propagate the species by accidental fertilization. It’s happened once, and it could happen again. At least next time I’ll know what to expect.

Don't Know Whatcha Got 'Til it's Gone

Toning up a post-pregnancy body is like reassembling a cake that’s fallen on the floor. Some pieces fit back where they belong but there are ultimately chunks leftover, and you really end up wishing you had swept the dog hair from the floor before baking. Right now my stomach looks like I pushed my thumb into a ball of playdough (thumb print = belly button). I’m hoping I can get at least some definition back, but I’ll have to accept the fact that some of my cake/playdough might be forever laced with last nights stuffing: Lumpy. Discolored. And maybe a little salty.

The realization came last month, about a week after giving birth to my little baby boy. Looking in the mirror, I noticed several red marks across the top of my bum. These mysterious painless “scratches” came out of nowhere. Jäger hadn’t jumped me from behind any time recently, and they definitely weren’t Marc's handiwork (for as beaten up as I was, I wasn’t letting that poor guy anywhere near my booty.)We had been dealing with a bit of a mouse problem at the time, but I think I’d remember a giant rodent clawing at my ass. That left only one dreaded explanation for these unsightly blemishes: stretch marks. I had survived my entire pregnancy without a single one... or so I thought. Truth is, while in my “enlarged” state, I purposely avoided checking out my bare backside out of sheer terror. Well, that and I didn’t have enough mirrors to look at it anyway; twisting in any direction certainly wasn’t a feat I could manage without assistance. In any case, I’m told these lines too shall pass, or at least fade into “flat silvery streaks.” Great. With any luck I’ll have a tinsel butt by next Christmas. Though be it a rock hard tinsel butt! Bounce a quarter off that, Santa.