"You really could afford to talk more."

The same guy that once said to me: "You're really pretty, but it's because of your personality," also once told me: "You know, you really could afford to talk more." I wanted to tell him that he really could afford to talk less. But he was my boyfriend's best friend, and I didn't want to start a fight, even though that boy was the King of back-handed compliments. Nevertheless, that comment has always stayed with me.

To this day, I often wonder if I'm expressing myself enough, or if I really could "afford" to say more. I used to be a shy kid, but I'm pleased to say that the more life I've experienced, the more confident and emboldened I've become. These days when I have something to say in a social or classroom setting, I generally say it. I have even reached a certain level of confidence where, although I'm not clever enough to do this often, I'll say something slightly off - that will, at the very least, make one person in the room smile to themselves while purposely avoiding eye contact. It feels good.

I am very aware that on occasion, things I say aren't always as hilarious to other people as they are in my head. But that awareness, I've decided, is just the price of individuality. I've discovered that it's extremely satisfying to knock my own socks off - everyone else is just a bonus. I also seem to have unconsciously made it a goal to become really good at witty banter. I'm still working on it, but paired up with the core personal belief that I'm actually really quite hilarious, I'm sure I'll go far.

The fact of the matter is, if you think I'm less than mildly entertaining, then it just means you don't know me very well. I am most definitely more than mildly entertaining. In fact, I constantly remind my husband that he is severely missing out by not staying abreast on every word I type on my various stay-at-home-mom social outlets such as Facebook, Google Talk and Twitter (follow me, if you dare: melbohn). When he finally catches up, I do declare he is never disappointed. Neither am I.

Because I'm a Cold, Heartless Beyotch.

Pay It Forward DO OVER.

Because the first 3 responders to my Pay It Forward post didn't follow the rules and post the same thing on their blogs, they have been disqualified. Come on, guys! Rules are RULES!!

"The first 3 people to leave a comment on this post will receive a handmade (or possibly store-bought) gift from me during this year. When and what will be a surprise. There's a small catch though...Post this same thing on your own blog and then come back and leave a comment telling me you're in. Remember, only the first 3 comments receive the gift!"

And THIS time: Post first, then comment. Ahem.

Binkie Boot Camp

Much to my chagrin, today marks the beginning of the end of binky use in our house. No binkies will ever be allowed in Erich's mouth again. My once beloved and trusted soother and scream stopper has slowly been doing it's dirty work on my son. I felt so betrayed by my little assistants when the pediatrician told me today that they have given E a pretty significant overbite. Ah!! Stupid me - of all people, as someone who wore braces for 3 years to repair the damage of my own finger-sucking, I should have known better. But he is so young and it's something that I never really considered, especially since he really only uses them at night (and occasionally as the previously mentioned screecher plug).

So that's it: I say they're OUT! Wish me luck, though, because this could be a looong couple of nights. And because I'm going to try to (gently) nudge Erich's teeth back every chance I get. (He'll thank me in 12 years when he doesn't have to wear head gear to school and be teased by his siblings.)

Lies, Lies, Lies

If you know my husband fairly well, then you are well aware that I have been stalking you for the past 6 months. In January, I began shaping my thoughts: what to say and how to say it. In February, I sent you the first email. The first of many, many, many emails. I begged and pleaded with you to send me something, anything, about my husband's younger days. I compiled all of these entries and created a 100 page book and an hour long video; my goal: sum up Marc's 30 years on this planet. And, if you know my husband fairly well, then you are well aware that this is no light task.

I believe I emailed about 500 people. I never officially counted, however the list of email addresses filled 6 pages in Word... so I estimated. To compile these memories, I emailed everyone in Marc's inbox - it was the ultimate in Bohnspam (I did learn from the master, after all). It was quite an adventure: the secret email account, the phone calls, and having to obsessively cover my tracks. After quite a bit of nagging, I received a tremendous response and found myself swimming in memories. Actually, drowning is more like it. I was in over my head.

For the past 5 weeks, I have devoted every spare (and not so spare) second to this project. To say the least, my domestic, wifely, and motherly responsibilities have suffered greatly. My dog has gained weight, my husband has been forced to wear dirty underwear more than once, and I fear my son's attention span has been shortened from all the cartoons I let him watch (even if they were in German). And on top of all this: a thick, woolly blanket of Lies, Lies, Lies. ("Oh, we didn't do much today, hun.. we just went to playgroup and hung out for a couple hours." or "I had to babysit the neighbor's kid all day - it was crazy!" or "I had the worst cramps, I couldn't do anything but sit on my butt.")

I actually have one of those uncommon husbands that asks how my day went, so my defense is that he pressured me into it. However, I knew that if I just picked one or two events to discuss in the evening, I wouldn't be asked to detail the entire day. I soon started making quick jaunts to CVS seem like they took hours. Little did Marc know that I never kicked my rear in gear until I saw him sign out of Google Talk - then I knew I had half an hour to clean, start dinner and move things around (laundry/papers) as though I had actually been productive. Oh, and then make up stories about my daily activities.

I was a bit of a basket case, people. My insides (psychologically and physically) were knotted up for weeks, but the hardest part was concealing all of my stress from Marc. I was smiling my way through hypertension and hair loss. It was worth it, though, and as I wrote in the forward to his book:

"Now that my mission is accomplished, I'm entirely resolved on two things:

1) I could never be a double agent. Leading a double life is absolutely miserable, and
2) I'm married to the most wonderful man in the world. . ."

The project turned out amazing, and each story and picture I surfed through gave me a deeper understanding of Marc and the experiences that shaped him. And when I finally presented the masterpiece, he was blown away. He loved it, and I was even able to throw him a little surprise party/movie screening (even though I got lazy in the end and he sensed something was up). He was also pretty surprised that I was able to find the doll he had as a boy that his parents threw away, "Penny" - a 40-year old antique that I've already had to give stitches to twice. (She's still wet in the picture from her 10 hour Oxy Clean bath.)




SUCCESS! All my hard work paid off, as well as the mountains of help from countless others. (Especially of note are Marc's parents and my wonderful friend, Maryanne, who sacrificed two weeks of her life to work on my video!) Thank you everyone, and I promise not to stalk you again for at least another 30 years!

Happy Birthday, Marc, you old man! Ich liebe dich!!

And that's the story of why my blog has sucked lately. As a special treat, here are some pictures of Erich at his Papa's party. We stripped off his chocolate cake smeared shirt and he decided to wear this ribbon all day instead (of his own volition). This makes me think I shouldn't watch so much Bravo around him (you know, the channel that women love because it's focus group is gay men)...

Home Improvement and My Mom

I always love it when my mom comes to visit from Wisconsin. We get to hang out, play with Erich, go shopping, she washes my dishes.. and Marc's favorite: she fixes up our house. I'm telling you, this woman is a machine, a do-it-herself-er through and through. Unfortunately, I don't share her adeptness or desire for home repairs, but I swear I'm the best bucket and flashlight holder this side of the Mississippi! When she came out here a few weeks ago, our #1 project was the garden. It took a couple of years, but I think I've finally learned the difference between annuals and perennials. Here's finished product (I know, I'm terrible about putting the hose back!):

We then took a well deserved break to see the cherry blossoms in DC.


Then she and my dad spent a few hours digging a nail clippers out of the garbage disposal (I still call it wasn't my fault). Notice me holding the flashlight and covering my face like a pro.


Then we tore it up. The yard, that is. Because apparently dog urine kills grass. Actually, this is something we knew quite well, but laziness won us over far too often, resulting in a plot of dirt and dead, yellow crud. Marc & I finally got fed up with being the white trash of the neighborhood, so Maw & I removed all of the acidic garbage and gave the remaining dirt a good toiling.


But the sod came in a few days late, and my teacher had to go home, leaving me to finish the job.. alone*. And guess what: I DID IT! I bought and laid down the sod all by myself**. And if that isn't wild enough, I MOWED IT last week. I suppose I might have a little of my mama in me afterall.


* If you're asking why I had to do this alone, then you've never been married to a lawyer.
** Our neighbors leave a bunch of random stuff(i.e. a birdhouse, tiles, shoes..) on their front porch at all times. Please don't take that as a reflection on us.

The Prince of Darkness

While working at the spa a couple weeks ago, I made a quick stop at the front desk. Suddenly one of my coworkers turned to me and spa-screamed “That’s Ozzy Osborne!” I quickly scanned the lobby but I only saw a large black man in street clothes and a lady with long black hair wearing a robe.

Assuming the girl didn’t know what she was talking about (seriously, not to stereotype, but do Hispanics even listen to heavy metal?), I told her that’s not Ozzy, that’s a big black guy! On second glance, however, I realized that standing next to him wasn’t just an ugly old lady, that was the Prince of Darkness himself! He looked just like himself, too, glasses and all. I think it was the robe that threw me off at first – the reason why I diverted my eyes so quickly. If I could choose which celebrity I would like to have standing 15 feet from me in a bathrobe, it probably wouldn’t be Ozzy, but heck, it’s still cool!

Apparently his highness performed at the Verizon Center that night with Rob Zombie, and was suffering from the flu. He was so sick, he was drinking tea onstage and spraying his throat after every song. That must have been his motivation to visit our little spa. We didn’t seem to help him out much, though. What a trooper!

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.

Baby On Board

Guess what, World?!!!

I’M PREGNANT!!!

First, the facts:

1. It’s a BOY
2. I’m 21 weeks along
3. Due January 15, 2007 (Barely missed the tax write-off. Oh well!)

Secondly, What I Love So Far:

1. Showing my Belly Off – I’m a proud mama, and if you land in our home any evening, you’ll get a full dose of my beautiful, round, exposed belly. Sure, I practice more modesty at work, but I have no qualms about tight shirts. I love anything that screams “Look at my gut!”

2. The Ultrasound (or Sonogram, whatever) – Even though prodding my full bladder for an hour felt like a form of Chinese Torture, every second was too short. I couldn’t take my eyes off of that squirmy little monster.

3. Feeling the Little Guy Move – Fascinating, comforting and sometimes irritating, it’s the funkiest feeling ever. Even more satisfying was the first time Marc got to feel it. I’m afraid I’ll feel so empty when it’s gone (or relieved? I don’t know, ladies, you tell me!).

4. Cleavage – I’m not sure if the mama or the papa is happier about these developments. It’s pretty great, though.

5. Doting – Everyone wants to take care of the pregnant lady! I haven’t carried anything heavy at work for months. Apparently lifting a bag of lotions will give me a hernia. Well, just in case they’re right, who am I to take that kind of a risk?

6. Father and Son Bonding Time – Here’s where I get all mushy. The moments Marc spends whispering to and rubbing my belly are my favorite of all.

7. Eating Whatever I Want – I’m so obsessive about my cravings that my sweet hubs has learned not to say anything as long as I’m within reason. (Even when I’m not, he’s learning to be careful.)

And finally, the reasons it’s not so great (I’ll gloss over these). They include: midnight trips to the bathroom, sleeping on my left side (my poor shoulder), moving at a snails pace, and being sleepy, forgetful, cranky, moody, achy, and suffering a wide array of digestion issues. The list goes on, but I'm told I’m “lucky” because at least I didn’t puke!!