I’m here.

Got into town late yesterday.

I have one day to re-coop and get ready to get back to work tomorrow.

I want to cry.

Wait. I have cried. A lot.

I don’t wanna work! *read with horrible whiny toddler tone*

(Yes, that’s how I truly feel.)

Lots of updates and stories for you, which I will begin to share tomorrow sometime. I’m fried.

Until then bloggy friends.

I missed y’all so much.

Hi ladies! Sara from Suburban Oblivion doing the guest blog thing today. I was at a total loss of what to write, so I pulled out my yet-to-be-used webcam. Purpose there being I can usually write like no tomorrow, but put me in front of people and I start babbling like an idiot. I may have temporary writers blog, but as you can see, there is no such thing as babble-like-a-fucking-idiot block Enjoy.

Sara Vlogs for Temporarily Me

i want you to want me.

these, friends, are VERY true words.

i, Ali of Cheaper than Therapy , have been happily married for almost 10 years. yes, it’s true. and that husband? he wants me, he needs me, he loves me, he begs me. he does all those things that cheap trick sings about.

shouldn’t that be enough? feeling wanted (and in my case over-wanted) by the love of your life?

no. it seems it’s not enough. at least not to me. or to most of my friends, for that matter.

there’s something about the attention of others that makes us feel, well, wanted. while the attention from our husbands is sweet, and certainly doesn’t go unnoticed, it’s ever-present. come on, how many of you have asked the question, “will you still love me if ________?” and how many husbands still say yes? ALL. well, certainly if they know what’s good for them.

unsuspecting strangers, like we saw on Bachelor: Freakshow Edition last night, wouldn’t necessarily still love you or want you if you, say, had webbed feet or something…or if you could turn your body into a pretzel. p>

There’s nothing quite like walking down the street and getting honked at, or whistled at, or even getting the up-and-down once-over and the smile. Unfortunately for me, i have yet to experience any of these ego-boosters.

yes, i realize that some women are reading this right now, gasping, shaking their heads all “i don’t like to be whistled at!” but, i assure you, they are lying. everyone likes to be noticed. it’s as simple as that.

If you are a reader of my site, you’ll know that i, like most women i know, have self-esteem issues. I see faults and flaws. I see lumps and creases.

but on sunday night, when we went out with friends, i decided to bring out the big guns, literally. we were only going out for dinner, but i had spent the entire day in lulus and a hat, and decided i wanted to look nice (also, the week before i had completely underdressed for the Yorkville crowd and i wanted to make up for it). I wore a shirt that’s been hanging in my closet forever. i didn’t have the guts to wear it. and i didn’t even know how to wear it. but i brought it out, and wore it. and my husband couldn’t stop staring at me all night. i rendered him speechless. i NEVER do this.

and for the first time, probably ever, i turned to him and said, “i am smokin’ hot for a mom of three.” and i really meant it.

so, now i can proudly allow my son to wear this shirt to school:

and i will sit and wait for my honks and whistles…

Hi! I’m Laural from The Misadventures of (Mommy) Laural, and I’ll be blogsitting for Sam today. Luckily she gave me several days to think about what I was going to say, because a) I have never done this before and b) Sam’s blog is very different than mine. Her only guideline was that no asterisks were allowed, and one of my rules is no swearing allowed…

You can see my angst.

But, I’ve decided that blogsitting is an awful lot like house-sitting. And, so I got thinking about what it would be like to visit Sam’s house. I’m guessing that she’s the kind of person who would leave the cupboard full of yummy food, tell me to help myself and enjoy my visit.

So, here I am, feet up, sitting on my couch and enjoying my visit to Sam’s place (eating Hallowe’en candy) and I am ready and willing to discuss the one issue I’ve been thinking about for awhile … POOP – I’m sorry Sam …. Shit!

Here’s the thing. I’m a mom to a 3-year-old and poop has been on my mind a lot lately. Matt has been a trooper as we’ve been toilet training and have given up the diapers. And the occasional accident doesn’t really bug me – as long as it’s pee.

The poo does me in.

But I deal. Because he’s my child. And I love him. He also has a slight aversion to flushing the toilet. And, there’s something pretty gross about walking to the bathroom and seeing a fresh turd sitting waiting to be flushed.

But still I deal. Because I love him.

And we push on and I’m hoping by the ripe old age of 4 he’ll know that poop is private and you flush it.

The thing is … apparently some people never learned that. These people I’m referring to are the people I work with.

Up until April I used to work on my company’s “executive floor” where I rubbed shoulders with the CEO and senior staff. Some may call that a perk. It was fine. But, what I appreciated more was the fact that the toilets on that floor were self-flushing. I never gave a second thought to my co-workers’ bowel movements. But then I moved to a new floor. With new bathrooms. THEY ARE NOT SELF FLUSHING!!!!

Do you know what this means???? Nothing you say? That is because you are normal, and you flush. Apparently for my co-workers it means we do not flush. And I walk in to a floater at least once a day.

At first I thought this was just a mistake. But, it kept happening.

And you know what else I noticed? As another group of co-workers moved to a new location that renovated with, you guessed it, self-flushing toilets, the floaters became a bigger issue. Multiple times a day I walk into a bathroom and I see more poo.

It’s like someone is using their bowel movements to say Fuck You to our management who have not yet deigned to equip our floor with self flushing toilets. Yes, we have great vacation days, fair salaries, and a pleasant work environment, but the flushing capabilities of our toilets are causing people to revolt.

It’s bizarre. And nauseating. Especially nauseating since for the last 3 months I’ve been hiding my pregnancy and occasionally I have morning sickness. And, let’s be honest, when you’re going to puke you’ve gotta move fast and the last thing you want to burst into is an unflushed toilet.

But, I’m not about to take this sitting down (hee hee) so I decided to figure out the pooping bandit. For the last week I’ve been stalking the bathroom frequently. Now that I’ve come out with my pregnancy, no one thinks twice about me running to the bathroom frequently. And, let’s be honest, while stalking the pooper I do take the time to pee because I usually need to.

And then the other day I thought I found her. It was someone I’d never seen. I walked in, right into a stall (that I thought she’d walked out of) and there was that characteristic floater.

Aha! I thought. I ran out of that stall and said “I think you forgot to flush.” She started to laugh. And admitted it wasn’t her, but added that she has a tendency to visit our floor’s bathroom because it’s even worse on her floor. The reason – she’s convinced it’s because half of her colleagues got moved to the new area that was renovated with the self flushing toilets. As she said, “there’s less people but more messes. WHY?”

Why indeed? I tried to convince her to join my hunt for the poopers, but she mumbles something and walked away. I hope I don’t bump into her again.

So, I decided to give up my quest. It is a little weird to ask people if they are flushing.

So, I did the only thing that I could actually do. I found out who is responsible for the building renovations (which we are undergoing) and I’ve made my suggestion – auto flush toilets for all! Sure there are many many ways to make a difference in this world. And, someday, somehow I will. But for today, and just for today, I’m out to change my workplace one turd at a time.

And, until I sort out this issue and our toilets are self flushing, I’m going back to the executive floor to pee. Afterall, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and I have had it woth my co-workers’ shit.

Holla!

It’s Jennifer from Playgroups Are No Place For Children. Sam invited me over to play, so here I am, sharing a story about my fear of the dentist and a story I promised my husband I wouldn’t share. Good wife, I am.

***************

The other day, Tate and I both had dentist appointments. He had only 1 cavity. Me? I had 2.

Tate really loves to win. He especially loves to receive rewards *ahem* for his winnings.

He informed me that protein deficiencies are the leading cause of cavities in women of child-bearing age.

Nice try.

***************

Did you read the above line about me having TWO CAVITIES?!?! I’ve only had one other cavity in my entire life and now I have TWO. I blame my two pregnancies (or my love of Chocolate Malt Ovaltine) for this unfortunate turn of dental events.

I’m not what you call a “fan” of going to the dentist. I barely made it through just having my teeth cleaned. I hate when they poke that sharp tool into your teeth to check for cavities. One false move and you could end up with a nasty gash. Sitting there with my mouth open and not being in control of how much water the hygienist is spraying also freaks me out. Drowning, people! I’m afraid of drowning at the hands of this crazy lady squirting water in my mouth! And then that little suck-up-the-water thingy. Ewwww. I hate that.

Also, I’m perplexed as to why the hygienist makes conversation with you when you’re obviously not in a position to respond. I worry about nodding my head in response because of DROWNING or SUCKING accidents.

Don’t even get me started on the noises you hear while sitting in the dentist’s chair. Gaaaaarosss. Squirting water, suction noise, and of course, the worst noise…the buzzing of the tooth polisher. Even typing “the buzzing of the tooth polisher” makes me cringe.

So yeah, I’m not handling this I have 2 cavities thing very well. It is very possible that the dentist and the hygienist will have to tackle me to get me into the chair to have these cavities filled. Hopefully they’ll give me lots and lots of laughing gas. Or beer. Beer is good, but not if it’s in the spraying thing. I don’t want to drown in beer. That would be bad.

Am I the only one this freaked out by the dentist?! Send tips on how to get through the nightmare known as having a cavity filled!!

“Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” Right? Right? Can I hear an “Amen!” from my peoples out there in mommybloggerland?!

My name is Megan and I write usually totally non-cliche mommyblogger stuff over on Velveteen Mind. However today, today my friend Sam’s friends, I’m gonna hafta go all mommyblogger on your asses. Yep, it’s just one of those days.

Last night, while poking random keys on my keyboard, knowing I needed to go to sleep but not being able to commit to the idea, I glanced over at my more or less hidden-under-to-do-lists calendar and noticed that I was slated to guest blog over here at the utterly beautiful temporarily me. Damn. I totally forgot. That’s not like me. Especially because I was psyched to play in Sam’s sandbox for a day, even if she wasn’t going to be here to play with me. How could I forget?

I am full of good intentions. Bursting with fantastic ideas. Overflowing with inspiration! Yet I lack follow-through. I embrace procrastination. I am brimming with excuses and distractions waiting to be indulged.

Deep down, I’m a powerhouse writer and Super Mommy. Housewife Extraordinaire! The next big thing to hit your computer screen and join the league of Ladies Who Launch!

Unfortunately, it’s sometimes tough to get down to that deep-down powerhouse through all of the crap in the way.

Perfect example– Take a look at this here book I bought a million months ago. Momfidence! by Paula Spencer. I’ve been trying to finish reading this book for a looooong time now. It’s not that I can’t read quickly, no, I can devour a book in hours flat. Nope, it’s that I can never find this book within my own home. If it’s not hidden under a pile of laundry, toys, or art supplies, then it is up on a shelf drying out from the latest drink to have been spilled on it.

Today, it magically appeared on our train table. That’s bits of dried Play-Doh you see, along with a dinosaur magnet, empty glitter glue pen, and a (probably incredibly old) Gerber Puff. Nice, right? Yeah, well, we live here.

Momfidence! is full of great ideas. Full of inspiration. Full of perspective. Momfidence! is also covered in strawberry milk. Pages stuck together with glitter glue. Buried under the giant jigsaw puzzle we just bought (what dimwit had the good idea to buy a giant jigsaw puzzle here? for toddlers?). Momfidence! is smeared with jelly. Smells a bit like a dirty diaper that was plopped on top of it by a distracted mother. And all but unread.

I am Momfidence! I am a book with torn covers and warped pages. And I love it.

The tagline for my blog at Velveteen Mind is “Relish the Velveteen. Revel in the Threadbare.” I live that every day.

I relish the moments when my brain is firing at capacity, when my focus is sharp, when my attention is brilliantly shone on my children, when no one is wrestling or pinching or spilling or falling into sharp objects. When kisses are given unbidden by sweet baby lips. When the velveteen is plush and clean and lovely.

But those things usually only happen on days when the moon aligns with Jupiter or some such nonsense that I can’t count on nor begin to understand or anticipate.

So I revel in the threadbare. My velveteen is not always plush and clean. Sometimes it is sticky and matted. But that means it has been touched. It means it has been loved by busy hands that don’t hesitate to grab and squeeze before washing off the evidence of toddler life.

I revel in the threadbare. My velveteen may not always look lovely to you. You may be distracted by the threadbare patches. You might wonder why I don’t take the time to mend those threadworn spots. But I invite you to touch those, too. There you will find the threads of motherhood. The foundation on which all of this lovely velveteen can cling and build up and shine.

Why should I fuss over the threadbare? Why should I hide it? Why should I fix it?

I want you to know that I am real. I want you to know that I have been loved. I want you to know that I am loved. I want you to know that you are welcome to love me, too. Touch me. You can’t break me. My foundation is strong. I can hold you. I can hold all that you can bring to me. I can hold all that you are.

My velveteen will not always be plush and lovely, but it will be loved. I have a lifetime of spilled milk, smeared jelly, and stinky messes ahead of me. Sometimes I clean them up, sometimes I don’t. I am a book with torn covers and warped pages. I am a mom with tousled hair and sticky-finger-stained clothing. I am a mom with lively toddlers who live out loud. They run. They fall. They play. They hug. They spill. They smear. They yell. They kiss. They sing.

And sometimes I sing with them while cleaning up those messy bodies. Particularly when I think no one is listening. This is me, threadbare. Revel with me.

* * * * * * * * *

Bath Street’s Back! Wash Your Bahday!

Okay, I can’t get the video to load, so here’s the link above.

Good Morning! I’m Dana from The Dana Files. Before I begin I must tell you that I don’t have a funny sex story to share today. I know. Many of you are disappointed and others have no idea why I’d start a blog post with this type of confession.

You see, the last time I guest-posted for someone, I revealed something that happened in the bedroom and my husband was not pleased. I suppose it was my own fault for bragging about how funny it was to write something of that nature on someone else’s blog. Ha ha. It still cracks me up.

I’ve decided to share with you all a story from my young, single, drunkity-drunk days — back when I was 19 and carefree. Man. That was like nine years ago.

So anyway. The year was 1998 and I was employed as a bartender at my father’s tavern. My dad had no rules about drinking under age. It was allowed (for me at least) as long as I did not drive a car and did not get arrested. He never actually said these words out loud, he just sort of implied them. If he wanted to live in the same house as my very Catholic mother, he had to at least pretend he was laying down the law.

I remember it was a Friday night in July. My friend Liz was my relief bartender and at the end of my shift I stayed out to hang with her and some of the regular patrons.

We loved to play a variety of music on the jukebox — a mix of Ani DiFranco, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Green Day, The Eagles and Van Morrison to name a few. It was a new-age hippy thing.

Somewhere around 2 a.m. I got this funny, insane, ridiculous idea to stand on top of the bar and strip. Naked. In my own father’s tavern. In front of customers — persons who knew my dad very well and I’m certain would be eager to tell him what his presumably smart, responsible daughter had done the night before.

I took off my clothing piece by piece (except for my underwear) and danced around a bit. Liz encouraged several customers to stick dollar bills into my panties — except one guy gave me a twenty. I walked away with about $60. (Boy was that a cheap thrill for them!)

It was the most fun I’d had in ages, and the sense of power I experienced was something I never felt before.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of my telephone screaming. I lived in one of the apartments above my father’s tavern and my roommate Rhonda was hollering at me to get up and answer the ringing nuisance.

“Hello…” I said, my throat was dry and my voice cracked.

“Goddammit,” I heard my father’s voice. “What the hell were you doing last night?”

“Dad, nothing. Really. It was nothing..” I said. “I don’t know what you heard…”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Dad interjected. “But I saw the tape from the security cameras!”

Oh shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit! I forgot about those!

“Oh my god, Dad!” I said. “I’m sorry…”

“I don’t want to hear it. Do you know how awful it is to check the tape and see your daughter topless? And dancing? ON THE BAR?” he yelled.

“I…umm…I’m…sorry,” I sputtered.

“If you ever do that again, you better make sure you turn the goddamn cameras off,” My father lectured. “And make sure you burn this goddamned tape before it finds it’s way to your mother’s hands!”

After I hung up the phone I started to laugh. My father said it was alright to strip, I thought. Okay, maybe he just implied it. (Wouldn’t it have been funny if I became a porn star? Ha. Ha, ha, ha. I can’t stop laughing.)

Needless to say the tape was destroyed and I couldn’t look my father in the eye for weeks. I was mortified. And the customers? They felt it was necessary to give me shit about my strip tease every chance they got.

But even though I still feel terrible for giving my dad half a heart attack, I must admit that night was one of the best I’ve ever had. Strip club here I come!

(You know, when I lose 100 pounds and look like Katherine Heigl.)

Well, hi there. It looks like I’m your first guest poster and I’m oh so honored that Sam asked me. I’m Karly of Wiping Up Snot. Sam recently did a guest post for me about the femullet and I now get many googlers coming through looking for information about femullets. So, really, how could I pass up the chance to pay Sam back? Femullet, femullet, femullet. Hi Googlers! How ya doin’?

Alright, on to the guest post.

Against my better judgement I am going to tell y’all a little story about me and my weird plumber problem. You see, everytime we have to call a plumber its pretty much guaranteed that I’m going to embarass the fuck outta myself.

The first time we called a plumber my husband was at work and I hadn’t showered yet. I hate people seeing me un-showered so I jumped in real quick before the guy got there. After I finished I dried off and ran naked to the laundry room because I HATE dressing in a hot, steamy bathroom. It makes my clothes feel all damp and I immediately start sweating and then I need another shower. So, it was off to the laundry where I had a basket of clean clothes. My laundry room is at the back of the house and there is a window with no blinds or curtains, but that didn’t stop me from standing in front of that window and quickly getting dressed. Only I wasn’t quick enough. The plumber, for some stupid reason, was walking around my house and just so happened to be passing the laundry room window just as I was getting ready to put my bra on. There I was. Completely naked. Alone. With only a piece of glass seperating me from THE PLUMBER. The guy who was about to come clean the feces from my pipes. When our eyes met each other’s through the glass it was a tender moment to be sure.

I quickly pulled my shirt and pants on and ran from the room and thought about slitting my wrists, but quickly decided that he knew I was in the house and would become suspicious if I didn’t answer the door.

We did not speak of the nakedness. We pretended that it never happened. He fixed my toilet and I never called that plumbing company again.

But wait! A year or so later and my plumbing was messed up AGAIN! This time all the drains in the house were backing up. So we called a different plumber. Again, the husband was at work so I was left to deal with him alone. This time I was smart enough to be dressed long before he arrived.

My mistake this time did not involve me being naked. It involved me leaving my VIBRATOR sitting in the bottom of my bedroom closet. Who would think to move it after all? It was IN THE CLOSET! ON THE FLOOR! HIDDEN AWAY!

But, no. Our bedroom closet has a panel that can be opened up to allow access to the shower plumbing. And guess who needed to get in there? THE PLUMBER! And so he MOVED everything that was in the floor of my closet out. HE MOVED MY VIBRATOR FOR ME. He picked it up with his dirty plumber hands and he MOVED it.

The next time a plumber is needed you can be sure that I will be somewhere far, far away and my husband will be the one to be seen naked by the plumber. Maybe he’ll be looking at porn and…you know…when the plumber gets here. That’d be good payback, for sure.