Whenever Cody starts spouting off law school blah blah my eyes glaze over and I nod catatonically. I really want to care. Really I do. But a lot of it just doesn’t compute. It’s safe to say he keeps talk of federal jurisdiction out of our conversations and I don’t bore him with the finer points of why you must slowly sweat your vegetables before adding them to the soup.

Fast forward to Friday night.

I received an email with an attached contract that I needed to sign for a new gig I’m about to begin (SQUEE! shh.). I started to read it over and wouldn’t you know it, my eyes glazed over and my brain started to shut down. So I called Cody in from the other room.

“Hey dude, wanna read a contract?”

Boy did he. He read that thing like I read Perez Hilton. Focused. Intent. Interested.

And when he was done he let me know that according to this contract I was under obligation to do something I didn’t want to be doing and that there was no way out and no way of changing it once I signed it.

Really? It said that? Because all I saw was “blah blah money blah blah”.

Anyway. He said that I should write what I wanted added into the contract and send it back to be added in.

Me? Write what? But I don’t even…I but I, how do I?

Cody flippantly said “I’ll write it.”

I thought “Ha ha sure he will, like he’ll really write a clause into a contract for me so I can protect myself.” And then it dawned on me. “HE CAN WRITE A CLAUSE INTO MY CONTRACT SO I CAN PROTECT MYSELF!” In that one moment it dawned on me that all this time my husband hasn’t been with me he’s been learning how to write legal garbage to protect people like me who don’t get legal garbage.

SWEET!

You see, Cody’s school brain has been growing and getting infinitely smarter. I just don’t see his school brain much. But I do see his home brain a lot and sorry to say it hasn’t gotten quite as smart as his school brain has, so it’s easy to forget just how book smart he is.

My mom is a computer programmer. It’s easy for me to forget that my mom is a class A computer geek until I see her surrounded by some of the supreme uber dorks she works with typing seven hundred words a minute in insane computer languages.

Then there’s my dad. He could tell you the ins and outs of any piece of furniture he sees. How well it’s made, where the wood came from, how it was put together. He could even reproduce it down to the exact detail if you gave him enough time.

My sister knows every dog and cat breed ever to be ever, and the pros and cons of every single one.

I have another friend who eats breathes and sleeps music. The other day at lunch I asked her why everyone sucks at singing happy birthday and she went into stuff about octave jumps, seventh notes and funny pitches. Who knew?

And then there’s me. Any one of you who know me in real life probably know better than to ever ask me a baking question again because chances are I GAVE YOU AN EARFUL and you could have cared less about half the stuff that poured out of my mouth. I am fluent in bake speak. And I speak it liberally.

So what about you? What language are you fluent it? What question could I ask you that would set off your “speak”? What are you dorky at? An expert at? Even if it’s something as small as knitting tea cozies, tell me. Tell the world.

You know, just in case someone needs a perfect tea cozy. Or whatever.

Cody and I were going to get a new car. We looked at new cars. We test drove, we compared, we fell in love, we decided (Toyota Camry Hybrid, black with leather moonroof smart key heated seats and ooh uhmm mmm). And then we ran into all the crap that deals with loans and law school and limits and blah blah have I mentioned graduate school blows?

Anyway.

Instead we’re going to be practical *snort* and fix his 1998 junker in hopes it will last ten more years long enough to drive it dead. (We’ve already put twice as much into fixing it in the last year than we bought it for. gag gag gag.)

So it’s in the shop with a two thousand dollar quote. BUT! When repairs total over $250 at this particular shop you get a loaner car while they fix your busted up car. Sweet right?

Sooo, you’ve got a young mom with a camera, a car seat and a Cheerio wielding toddler in your office, what kind of car do you pick for her? (You get to choose from the Chrysler, Jeep, Dodge line.)

Pacifica?  Maybe.

Caravan? Sure!

300M? Totally.

Neon? Okay, if you have to.

But apparently Bruce figured me a sassy (albeit impractical) kind of gal. So he hooked the moosh and me up with a two door convertible. Uh huh, that’s right.

(If you own this car I’m not making fun of you, it’s a lovely car. Just not so practical in Indiana for a mom. Just sayin’.)

See how the top is down and the sky is kind of gloomy? Like it’s about to rain? Yeah, that’s because it was gloomy and about to rain. And kind of cold. And yet we were the ones driving down the road with the top down because I was the one stupid enough to show the moosh that the damn roof came off in the first place.

But the moosh is in love, she believes this car to be the reincarnation of AWESOME.

And this is how I became the dork driving a bright blue car down the road in 58 degree weather with looming rain clouds, the roof open and a small curly headed banshee shrieking with joy in the backseat.

Did you know that meme rhymes with theme? So it should really be spelled meem instead of meme but whatever that’s not the point. I don’t do memes. Except when the person who tags me is her. Then I do them. Because hers is the first blog I ever fell in love with. She’s the one who taught me the meaning of meme. And she’s the one who wants to know six unusual things about me. So she gets what she wants.

1. Cody took me skydiving for my 23rd birthday. He stayed safely on the ground with the bitty moosh while I hurtled out of a plane strapped to a highly attractive South African instructor named Phish with a swoon worthy accent. He said I was the best American student he had ever had. I then seriously considered a career in skydiving, for about 48 hours.

2. I do not watch rated R movies. Haven’t for years. However, my three favorite movies are rated R. They became my favorites before R rated movies became obscenely offensive to me and have yet to be replaced. They are as follows-

When Harry Met Sally-“You made a woman meow?” by far the best movie ever made. Ever.

Snatch-“Yeh lek degs?” Brad Pitts best role. Ever.

Love Actually-“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion love actually is all around. ”

I always cry at the airport over complete strangers for this very reason.

3. This one isn’t actually about me, but since we’re on the subject of movies and Cody likes to consider us one person (“WE need to clean the kitchen.” “WE need to get the oil changed.” “WE need to make dinner.”) even though WE means ME, I’m going to add this one. Cody loves movie soundtracks with the power of a thousand burning suns. Especially instrumental ones. If you only knew how much time WE‘ve (seriously, we) spent looking for soundtracks you’d be shocked. His favorites? Gladiator, Transformers, Braveheart, Last of the Mohicans, and Finding Neverland. Currently playing in the other room? Pirates of the Caribbean.

4. I cannot, CANNOT handle people brushing their teeth. In real life, on TV, even just thinking about it gives me heebie jeebies and a slight gag reflex. I however can brush my own teeth with no problem, unless I bite the bristles. *gag*

5. I know I’ve mentioned this one before but it deserves to be mentioned again. I have never ever set foot or toe or right index finger in a tanning bed. Never. Never have, never will. Pasty is awesome. Cancer sucks.

6. I am incredibly superstitious. While I won’t go into exact specifics on the history of these superstitions because it would be very long and possibly boring not to mention you’d think me a complete loon, I will tell you some of the things I do or don’t do in relation to my superstitions.

• I will never let a pole come between a friend and me while we are walking, after seven years, Cody is even more aware of this one than I am. (My previous best friend and I are no longer friends because I broke this one, seriously.)
• I never take steps with one shoe on and one shoe off.
• I never look at a funeral procession as to avoid counting the number of cars in it.
• I never waste salt.
• Right sock always goes on first.
• I always get out of bed on the right.
• The mirror breaking, black cat and ladder ones are all observed.

And that’s all I’m going to tell you, there’s more, so many more. But just looking at this list makes me want to make fun of myself.

So that’s six. And I won’t be tagging anyone because long ago I dubbed my blog the place where memes and awards go to die and that still stands true to this day.

In general I am not an angry driver.

In general.

Unless you pull one of these four bunghole moves while sharing a road with me.

a. Blocking an intersection. Hey derfwad, if the road on the other side of the intersection is full don’t park it in the middle of the intersection hoping you’ll get through before the light turns red. Because you won’t. And when you don’t, We’re going to be grumpy stuck on our side of the intersection with a green light because you never learned patience and common courtesy.

b. Turning left on yellow and half or full blown red. DUDE, wait a couple minutes for the thumping green arrow or the beginning of a yellow. Wherever you are going will still be there in two and a half minutes. Your fellow motorists will also not swear under their breath at you and send you noxious bubble gut juju’s.

c. Speeding through a yellow and a half or full blown red. DUDE, yellow means SLOW DOWN. Not speed up. Okay? It will really help clear up a lot of the previous complaint if you’ll get your panties out of a bunch and slow down and stop for one red light. Seriously.

d. Butting your way to the front of a merging lane. OH! How this one ticks me off. If it says “lane ends, merge left/right” THEN MERGE LEFT OR RIGHT. Don’t speed up past all the sign abiding drivers to get to the front of the line, hold the rest of us up while you aggressively butt your way in with your blinker on at the very last second, stupidhead. I learned a little something in second grade, maybe you missed it, BUTTING IS RUDE. Always has been, always will be.

Phew. Okay. I don’t complain much on this blog, I don’t like to do it. But I will have you know that I can write all these complaints in truth because I am not a yellow light speed up red light left turn stop in the middle of the intersection butt my way to the front driver. I am usually even able to let all those bunghole drivers slide past me without even a smidgen of irk.

But today?

Not so much.

If we could all drive our cars as grownups with the basic courtesy and manners we learned in kindergarten the world would be a much happier place. Okay? Okay. Thanks.

I dare you to find a better gift for mother’s day than a big soft muffin top.

But not the muffin top made by too tight jeans. Muffin tops made by muffin top pans.

What’s a muffin top pan you ask? Only the two coolest most amazing pans in my kitchen.

IT ONLY MAKES MUFFIN TOPS.

Oh, uhm, mmm, nom, nom, nom. What? Oh, right.

Happy Mother’s Day, yo.

Being a mom pretty much rocks.

I’d just like to throw out there that picking a new car with your spouse is much like trying to pick out a new pen!s.

He wants power with lots of get up and go, I want comfort and reliability. Cost is obviously a concern. But so is performance. You want it to last a long time without much maintenance but not be so flashy with the bells and whistles that it stands out in crowd. But then again you don’t want what every other Tom, Dick and Harry is driving around. It needs to be fuel efficient or you’ll never really enjoy using it in today’s economy. Size is important, you obviously don’t want some little dinghy thing doing your everyday bidness but you also don’t want something so big that it becomes in hindrance. (Parking in tight spaces, hello?) Preferably a color you both like with soft supple leather to cradle your body when on long road trips. It obviously has to be practical or people will start thinking you’re compensating for something. And don’t forget the whole used vs. new debate. Do you really want one someone else has probably clipped their toenails in and took for a ride around the village a few dozen times with who knows what riding shotgun? Think of the things that could be hiding under the hood of those with “experience.” *shiver*

At the same time his is just a few drives away from dying. Can’t take too long to decide because mama needs daddy to have a good reliable “family wagon” or her whole day is thrown off.

Don’t even get me started on the convenience of push button start, DVD navigation and dual climate control.

Can you just imagine?

You know what body of mine? We need to talk. I know I told the people at the DMV you weigh 125 lbs. and that it’s a wee bit of a fabrication. But you know one of my New Year’s resolutions is to get down to the weight on our driver’s license if even for a day. You know how I hate to lie.

Is that why you’re so angry at me?

I had such grand plans for starting anew after my 26th birthday. You know the whole “spring has sprung” “spring cleaning clean sweep” garbage? I was going to take really good care of us. I was going to feed us really well, take you to the gym, firm you up a little. I know, I know, I’ve been a total slacker since Florida. But you’re the one that let some virus bacteria bug of death take residence. You could have said no! Don’t come in! We don’t want to be sick! But did you? No! You invited that bugger right in to plop down in the Barca lounger that is my lymphatic system and watch the remainder of the NBA playoffs with a non alcoholic beer in one hand and massive amounts of phlegm in the other.

C’mon body, you know I hate basketball.

And don’t try to make me like you with that whole “But with all the coughing you’re doing you’re developing killer abs!” bit. I see right through it. And this whole losing our appetite and even if we get one we couldn’t use it because it hurts to swallow anything more than water and a handful of pills? Stupid. That’s right, I said stupid. Couldn’t you have picked a better time to have gotten sick? Like when Cody’s around for longer than four hours in the middle of the night or when the weather outside is sucky or when I’ve just gone to the grocery store? Even better! How about next time you get sick you plan a time when there’s ugly doctors at the hospital? Huh? Is that too much to ask?

Seriously, I thought I was going to die when Dr. Hot touched my ankle to see if my fever had gone down. Do you really need to reproduce our leg hair that quickly and in such great multitudes? I tell you, it’s completely unnecessary!

I’ll tell you what body. When we get better I am going to show you who’s boss. I am going to feed you so much broccoli and whole grains you’re not even going to have time to crave cupcakes and Skittles. I’m going to drag your flabby rear to the gym so often you’re going to be begging for mercy. Oh, don’t think I won’t do it? Oh I will. Just you watch.

What? You want a tan like all of your other body friends?

NO!

I won’t even let our skin see the light of day without a minimum of SPF 50. And that big goofy hat I wore today? You know the one everyone made fun of? The one that has its own planetary orbit? Get used to it body. Because our head is going to be wearing it all summer. Oh you’ll thank me later young lady. When all of your other body friends are big wrinkled leather bags with skin cancer you’ll be singing my praises. And the praises of my big goofy hat.

Oh yes you will, don’t give me any of that. Shape up body. We’re in this together, and if you want to go wearing that red swimsuit we just got to the pool this summer you’d better start listening to me.

Hey! Don’t turn your back on me! I’m talking to you! Hello?

Want to see what I can to with a pound of butter and two pounds of sugar?

Sure you do. Linoleum Dynamite has all the answers.

*hint* They’d be perfect to make for Mrs. Fussypants week long SURPRISE virtual shower going on over at Blissfully Domestic. (Though it will really only be a surprise for a few moments today.) Be sure to wish her all sorts of luck on Baby Boy #5 over at her shower page.

Want to see what I can do with my political prowess *snort*?

Sure you do. MOMocrats has a guest post by me, go read it.

It’s almost as good as my cupcakes.

Once upon a time there were a bunch of girls in Chicago who wrote about their lives on the internet.

Two of them went home, got busy and got knocked up. One of them is in the above photo. And it’s not me. Or her.

And then there was this other girl who’s womb decided it had been vacant too long also.

That was approximately 37-40 weeks ago. Wow, time flies when you’re not the one having to worry about morning sickness, an ever expanding belly, back pain and weight gain.

The time has come for Her Bad Baby, Cheesy Chicken Baby and Chicky II to make their entrance into the world. Hopefully with epidurals, full time nannies and very understanding younger siblings. The ladies hosting their virtual baby shower asked the rest of us to hand out our best advice.

Wait, I though we decided advice was a bunch of baloney?

We did?

Okay.

Just making sure.

Closest thing I have to advice for you ladies on numero dos? Well, let’s just say it came from Sex and the City.

“One is an accessory. Two is a lifestyle.”

But don’t trust me. I’m still on number one.

Best wishes to all three of you, and the other eleventybillion pregnant women, new moms and soon to be adoptive moms out there in the world. Stay close because I’ll need some better advice than my own if I ever get to number two. Want to help welcome these babies into the world too? Want the chance to win stuff while you’re at it? Here’s how to do it.

And really the best advice I could give is that if you don’t already read all three of these ladies you need to start. I was blogstalking them waaay before I knew what a feedreader was and at a time when I thought Technorati was a kind of dance. And with the promise of stitches and sore boobs in the very near future they’re going to need all the support they can get. And I’m not talking nursing bras, people.

Do you ever put off going to the doctor because you’re just sure that as soon as you get there your symptoms will be gone and you’ll be looked at like a crazy lady over-exaggerator?

Yeah, me too.

That’s why I was so pleased last night when I went to the ER with my throat nearly swollen shut and a temperature of 103.4. Call me bonkers but you’d have to be a real pro to fake that. Right Ferris?

Bueller?

Bueller?

And as fate would have it, the doctor that came in to treat me was hot. Hot, hot, hot. I’m pretty sure Cody even thought he was a little hot. Doctor Hot looked me over, made me convince him I wasn’t pregnant, stuck his face in my swamp mouth, had me pee in a cup and told me I had nice teeth *swoon*. Then Doctor Hot had me gargle some thick solution known as viscous lidocaine. Or what I like to call “the solution to make me stop calling you Doctor Hot and not want you near me ever, ever again thankyouverymuch.” The stuff was so nasty that as soon as it hit the back of my tongue I gagged and involuntarily hurtled forward so fast I knocked the glasses off my face with the faucet. Gag. Ick. Cody’s exact words were “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t gargle it.”

Suck it viscous lidocaine. I’d rather not be able to swallow.

I was given a good old fashioned acetaminophen/ibuprofen cocktail, a diagnosis for some sickness I can’t pronounce but starts with a P and ends with an X and a prescription for an antibiotic, Vicodin, and what? Viscous lidocaine. I lost the last one somewhere between here and the pharmacy, whoops! (Okay, kidding, the pharmacy actually didn’t have any so they had to order it, blah, blah. But I still may “forget” to go pick it up.)

I’ve taken my first Vicodin. I’m waiting for something dramatic to happen. Like, you know, feel better. But in the mean time I have to thank all of my neighbors (K, N, A and A) who have heeded my squeaky hoarse plea to entertain the moosh while I sleep, drink and pee this thing out of me.

I’m now going to go grumble and limp around my house doing my best House impression sporting a pink umbrella as my flame tipped cane.