The Stockade B&B

Since being a road warrior and traveling domestically for roughly 3 years, I have learned to mix it up a bit when it comes to lodging.  Typically, I stay in Hampton Inns or Hilton Garden Inns.  Boring.  Sometime last year I vowed to "enjoy" my stays out of state and try to find different hotels/boutique lodging.  Enter: The Stockade Bed and Breakfast.

Located off of Highland Rd. in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the Stockade plays host to several hundreds of people throughout the year.  From the outside, the house looks kind of like a stucco/tudor fusion.  I know what you're thinking-- huh?  When I first came here, I was hoping for an endless front porch, Antebellum style, ferns hanging from the ceiling.... nope.  This is just a huge old house that appears to have been modified over the years.

When you walk in the front door, the stairs are immediately to your left and straight ahead is a sunken in living room (which is huge), complete with a grand piano, mini fountain/greenery pool, large fireplace.  Basically, this room would house an amazing Christmas tree.

Upstairs is 4 large bedrooms and full baths.  Each room has a name, such as "The Garden Room."  Two of the rooms have a private balcony however, all of the rooms would be just fine as a master suite in anyone's home.  Go online and check it out!  www.thestockade.com

While staying in Baton Rouge, I have to head over to Mobile for the day as well as HOPEFULLY see a plantation or two.  While visiting last year, I saw a few plantations however, I'd love to see them all.  My favorite home was Oak Alley.  Look it up.  Biggest disappointment?  The Myrtles, which happens to be featured in almost every "Haunted Homes" television special.  I didn't see any ghosts.... not even a chipmunk.  Another great day trip is to a Mississippi home called Rosswood.  Gorgeous.  I want to live there.

I know I've blogged about this before however, on an almost daily basis, I day dream about owning a large home on an even larger piece of land.  I complain about my hubbie not doing laundry however, doing daily chores in old home sounds great.  Learning the homes quirks, every nook and cranny sounds exciting.  History of a home is as important as its furnace and roof.



Smiegel (smee-gull)

After combing through My Documents on my laptop, I came across several pictures of Greta F. Pants.  Taken in her first few weeks of life on Earth (post womb), I am gobsmacked with how big she has gotten.  Enter: tears.  She was so cute and tiny and smooshie and soft.  Greta made little baby pteradactyl noises and LOVED to be held.  Tear, tear.  On one visit, I was able to have her sleep with me (on my chest) and it was like ingesting 5 lbs of Xanax.  Soooooo relaxing.  In fact, I think she was farting in her deep, relaxed state.  I love her mucho now, but it makes me sad that she isn't a little baby hobbit anymore.  Her little clothes were like potholders with pieces cut out.  Her little sockies were essentially 1/4s of Kleenex.

THEN.......

NOW.......

She is now 8 months old and thriving.  I'm going to start telling everyone my niece is a genius.  Just kidding.  I hate parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles like that-- I'm sorry to break the news however, babies aren't geniuses.  Perhaps when middle school rolls around and your kid can do AP Calc or say, do the New York Times Crossword puzzle with a PEN (not a pencil)..... then we can talk MENSA.

Below is a list of things I like extra lots involving Greta F. Pants:

1.)  She is a great singer.  Her voice is like a mix between Mariah and Bjork.

2.)  She farts alot and farting is always funny.  Always.

3.)  Greta's momma dresses her in sweet gear.  Most of the time, GFP's get-up doesn't match, which is awesomely creative and defining amongst her playgroup friends.

4.)  Greta's feet are as fat as they are wide as they are long..... sort of like a tuna can.  This configuration makes shoes impossible which = awesome.  Fat baby feet.  Yummy.

5.)  GFP's flowing locks are like Smiegel from Lord of the Rings.... which is ironic because Greta is from the Shire.  There are few here and few there, growing in an outward fashion.  All hairs are soft and fine and baby-soft, like a baby bird or a baby puppy.



A Mix Bag

I'm counting down the hours til Carrie, Greta and my mom get to Chicago!  Finally, some visitors!  It's always extra spicy around the house when Miss GFP is in the mix.  Greta's pteradactly noises fill the hallway, her farts lighten the mood and her soft baby hairs make all the problems in the world go away.  Perhaps we could have Greta get on Skype with Iran and cure all that ails them?  She would most likely reach for the screen, drool a little then make weird noises....... wait, didn't Bush Jr. do that his entire time in office?

I miss the Teen Mom recap last night.  I'm sure Dr. Drew had a field day with his magical passive aggressive yoda-moves in making the deadbeat dads look like a-holes.  The biggest zero was Ryan, father to Bentley and ex to Maci.  What a loser.  Take the dip out of your mouth and get a job.

the Shitshop

I need a hobby.  Perhaps I should elaborate a bit.  I have many hobbies: walking the dog, gardening, baking/cooking, cleaning, organizing drawers, petting my dog's ears for maximum softness maintenance, blogging, etc.  Maybe it's the cabin fever (or lack thereof since we have had next-to-nothing with snow this winter) or simple boredom, I need some shit to do. 

I worked from home yesterday.  Amidst the e-mails and loads of laundry, I realized our house was already clean.  Mark that off the list.  Chris' closet was just cleaned out.  Check.  Cooking at this phase in pregnancy makes me want to barf.  Check.  Dog was walked.  Shit.  What to do?

Maybe I should go to the "shitshop" (Chris' naming) and buy some craft crap?  Scrapbooking?  Basketweaving?  Puffy paint?  Jewelry making?  Clearly, the weather needs to warm up so I can go outside..... or else I'm going to start washing the floor with a toothbrush. 

I know once baby comes I'll be up to my eyeballs in chores and have NO time for hobbies.  I guess I should sit back and enjoy this time instead of pine away.  All things aside, I like to be busy.  I'm not the type of person to sit in the bathroom for an hour reading a magazine.  Get in, get out.  Make the most of the day.

Belly Bands

Adrienne drove out to my crib yesterday for a lunch date and some shopping.  Being that we are both with mammal, choosing a lunch spot was harder than expected.  Neither of us are hungry for anything (in general)-- no particular food sounds extra appealing.... which makes picking a restaurant that much harder.  We settled on Rock Bottom Brewery; ironic since a lovely pint of IPA can't be consumed. 

The enormous plate of loaded nachos hit the spot-- literally, it was a baking sheet of nachos.  Fueled by both carbs and fat, the mall seemed like the obvious next step (to burn off our lunches).  Dodging strollers and pre-teens was feat enough.  (sidenote-- it is apparently all the rage to let your 13-something-daughter wear skanky clothes)  A and I ended up at Motherhood Maternity which should be rightfully renamed Ghetto Mother HOOD Preggo Store.  Both messy and poorly staged, this unfortunate maternity wear store sucks.  The selection was horrible and not cute at all.  I have a feeling being pregnant and getting bigger by the day will be harder (wardrobe wise) than I thought.

Maybe I should look into tapping into my inner Christian Soriano and start designing a clothing line for pregnant chics.  There has got to be something more available than house mu-mus and velour outfits.

Furbies and Thers

For those of you that don't know what a ther is, I feel bad for you.  A ther is a dog and/or puppy hair.  Typically fallen from the ear area, thers are usually very fine and soft and stick to things very easily.  Below are mammal babies covered by millions of thers.  FYI-- thers come in various sizes, shapes and textures.  The finer the better.



If you're feeling woozy or light-headed from all of the baby animal porn, that's a typical reaction.  Simply sit down, take a sip of water and try a few deep breaths.

cold brewskies

I could really go for a cold one right about now.  Rachell, Chris and I ventured out of the office for our standard Friday lunch trip...... today was the Mexican buffet.  You know what goes well with chips, salsa and frijoles?  Yes sir.  Beer.  Cold ones.  Too bad I'm prego and not whitetrash, so I won't be indulging in the hops anytime soon.  Dammit.

Not only am I craving 12-16oz. of freedom, I'm also in severe Greta-withdrawal.  Carrie updates her blog everyday, usually filling it with Greta snaps.  Today's video of Fat doing her best rendition of Mariah's "Always Be My Baby" almost made me cry.  Her chubby pork fingers are intoxicating.  I want to squeeze her until the peanut butter oozes.  I hope I have a chubby baby, complete with kankles, skin mittens and porky leg nuts.  Those of the best babies to snuggle with.



Murder @ UVA

Of course I'm going to comment on the current trial involving George Huguely V.  He is currently standing court for the murder of his ex-girlfriend Yeardley Love.  When this horrific tragedy happened (last year) the writing was on the wall.  Scorned steroid head gets pissed at ex for x reason and winds up killing her (whether premeditated or not).  I know-- innocent until proven guilty however, the manner of death was both violent and terribly tragic.

As the prosecution wrapped yesterday, several key components in the case have surfaced.  Yeardley's death was confirmed suffocation and not blunt force trauma to the head.....  I don't know which is worse.  I hope that prick goes to jail for life and can learn (somehow) to both remorse and ways to channel aggression in a more positive way.

On a political note, Mitt Romney will be running an erroneous television ad in preparation for the Michigan primary.  Born in Michigan to a well-to-do family, Mitt will be attempting to illustrate his "connection" to both the people of America's High Five as well as those sitting in the blue collar demographic.  First of all, he doesn't know a cat's hair about anything blue collar.  The dude has money tied up in Switzerland for God's sake.  Additonally, he voted AGAINST the bailout of GM and Chrysler (both of which are now profitable, thank you very much).  Not a true Detroiter and certainly not a Michigander.

Kate Upton

So I guess the chic gracing the cover of this year's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue is named Kate.  I saw the picture-- aside from her "bathing suit" being nothing short of one square inch of swimming material, I must say she isn't rail thin.  Don't get me wrong, I bet in real life the chic is like 100 pounds and 6ft. tall.  I'm simply shedding light on the fact that she isn't Vogue thin or have her sternum looking like a ladder with some flesh on it.

What ever happened to the days of Kathy Ireland?  Christie Brinkley?  A little meat on the bones is what is alluring, sexy and beautiful to me.  Unless their mother had an eating disorder, no man wants a corpse snuggling beside him (male or female).  Think about it-- skinny babies aren't cute..... neither are super skinny women.



V is for Lame

What's the point of Valentine's Day anyway?  Seriously.  Let's get down to brass tax and investigate.  I'm going to throw February 14th into the same category as St. Patrick's Day.  Both "holidays" are made up essentially.  In Ireland, St. Paddy's Day is a RELIGIOUS holiday, not a "hey-everyone-lets-get-knee-walking-hammered-and-show-everyone-our-green-underpants" type day.  Valentine's Day-- well, we should just erase it from our calendarios.  An excuse to show/tell someone that you love them?  That should be EVERY DAY.

My husband and I don't celebrate today.  It's another Tuesday, just like the one last week.  I'm not wearing pink or red or sparkly heart jewelry.  I can also guarantee that Chris isn't planning some elaborate romantic dinner (when I get back to Chicago tomorrow night) or went out and purchased some skanky-ass underdrillies.  *fun fact: since being pregnant I have upgraded all my underpants to full coverage because my ass is expanding in a non-hot way.*

The hopeless romantics out there need to get out of their heads that a perfect Valentine's Day doesn't exist........ only in the movies.  In fact, the most romantic thing(s) that Chris could pull off would be the following:

I arrive home to a freshly cleaned house, complete with clean sheets, no dishes in the sink, a fed and walked poochie and no therbie furs in the corners of the floor.  Perhaps a lovely bouquet of fresh flowers will be sitting atop the counter?  Dinner is in the oven.  That would be a perfectly romantic thing.

Panera

No matter what city I'm in (for work), all the Paneras are the same...... by the same I mean the clientele.  This particular morning I'm doing my live broadcast from a Chattanooga Panera, that's right folks, the home of Maci from "Teen Mom."  I haven't spotted her, her loser-baby-daddy or her smooshie son however, I'm holding out hope.  Maci is edgy yet practical, hence the shoulder to shoulder tattoo on her back and willingness to finish her college education despite many hurdles.

FYI-- some chic just walked past me with possibly 4.5 gallons of Circus perfume by Britney Spears.  I just lost my appetite for the rest of the day.  Shit.  Strike one against Chattanooga.

Actually..... let's explore this perfume thing a little deeper.  What is it with people's scents these days?  Was the handbook for olfactory etiquette thrown out the window?  A few helpful hints are below, and please read:

1.)  Gentlemen.... if your cologne smells like women's perfume, don't wear it.  It's not hot, appealing and sure as fuck won't get a girl to "come hither."

2.)  Attention hippy wannabes-- patchouli doesn't smell good.  Hang it up and leave it for all the kiddos twirling on the grassy knoll at Red Rocks for the Widespread show next July.

3.)  Travellers-- sans perfume until you exit the plane.  There could be pregnant ladies with sensitive noses sitting beside you.  Red Door from Elizabeth Arden does not smell good ever, let alone in rows 3A and 3B on United Express flight #456 to Mobile, AL.

4.)  Stick with the basics:  Chanel Chance Tendre, Ralph Lauren Romance, Fresh Sugar Lychee, D&G Light Blue, any Origins scented lotion.  No need to get crazy with the Paris Hilton shit, Britney Spears or Justin Beiber's new wave Electric Puke.  Men-- keep it clean, simple and smelling good.  You can reference my brother in law with any smell questions (he always smells good) or if you're really serious, talk to my Uncle Marty.  He smells awesome.

Headcases and headcheese

I started seeing my therapist again.  After a multi-month hiatus, Ms. Lori Andrews in back in my life..... and for a long time.  Several months leading up to our wedding, I was seeing Lori once a week for my anxiety.  Diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder, I have struggled (sometimes easy sometimes not) with the yuckies for a while.  Typically affecting my sleep, anxiety has this strange way of lurking its gross head at the darndest times.  Feeling better, I stopped going to Lori in November.  Needless to say, its February and I'm back.

For those of you that don't know me (and as a refresher for those that do), I'm a sensitive person.  I take things to heart; I love with everything I have and fail miserably at letting go of things I can't control.  I did however, have a recent "break through:"

#1  There are people out there who are narcissists.  Said people will always be the victim..... their life sucks no matter what.  Poor me.  Me, me, me.  When said people continue to take YOUR olive branch and take a dump on it, its OK to not be friends with them.  Narcissists think they are the center of the world.  Case closed. 

#2  There are people out there that are dependents.  Said people need others to validate themselves, their feelings, their identity.  I can't force dependents to grow a backbone and to stand up to narcissists.

Thankfully, I have awesome people in my life that round out my colorful world and make it like a magical rainbow. 

I Want to Dance With Somebody

In lieu of the passing of Ms Diva the 1st, Whitney Houston, I would like to let everyone know that 80s Whitney was the best Whitney.  Her extensions amazing, miniskirts extra short and flourescently magical, Whitney also can't be denied having the most beautiful teeth in the world.  I don't know how she died (Lord knows I have combed every online mag to find out) however, I feel as though we can chalk this recent death up to a mixture of drugs, exhaustion and generally failing health. 

It has surfaced in recent years (though speculated over many) that Whitney loved the drugs.  Coke, pot, pills.... you name it.  It's strange-- such an icon in American music history, freebasing narcotics and participating in other dumb antics.  Can we blame Bobby?  What an asshole he is.  The only redeeming quality he has is that he participated in New Edition.  Jesus help us.

I'm no longer shocked when famous people die.  Michael Jackson helped soften that blow--  I suppose the price of fortune and fame is an early death?  The starlets who have managed to escape the throws of papparazi (i.e. Julia Roberts, Harrison Ford, Reese Witherspoon) seem to always keep their heads above water and do so with the utmost decency.  Amazing and apparently almost impossible.

Quick fact-- Empire Records has an awesome soundtrack.

After several weeks of Chris' hard work, the two of us managed to paint and finish our TV room/den.  Chris built a gorgeous built-in, housing all of my books and chotchkees, complete with a lovely coat of shiny white paint.  Complimented by crown molding and a new coat of Bayou (soft grayish green) on the walls, the whole room looks awesome.  I'm very lucky to have such a handy and creative husband.  Slowly but surely, our house is coming together.  Next job-- nursery.  





The Emancipation of Mimi

I'm down in Bloomington visiting my other half (my twin) and her little daughter chunk, Miss Greta Stinker Smoosh.  It's been several weeks since seeing Greta-- I think Christmas was the last time I saw her actually.  What a difference a month makes; she has turned into quite the ham sandwich (I'll explain).  Below are a few items that everyone must know about Miss Greta:

1.)  She has developed quite a personality.... she responds to people talking to her, making faces, etc.  Greta's ham sandwich face is also the kermit face.... lips pursed on the verge of a smile, head tilted ever-so-slightly and hands smooshed together.  Little Miss Hambone.

2.)  Greta loves people food.  Mangoes, plum/apple/surprise, and yogurt rank in her top three of favorite snacks.  Since she is an Atkins baby and no-likey the grains, I'm thinking I should expose her to dill pickles.  I wonder what her momma would think of that?

3.)  Able to sit and play on her own, Greta LOVES her Fisher-Price Little People.  Carrie has managed to name of her little friends.  I can't remember all of them however, I'm sure they all play an important role in make Greta happy.

4.)  The older Greta gets, the more I love her.  Her skin is super soft, her hairs grow out and not down and her feet get fatter by the minute.  All things = awesome.

c'ont. Full Coverage Underpants

I forgot to elaborate on my Kohl's story from Friday night, hence the name Full Coverage Underpants.  So, since I've become best friends with Macaroni and Cheese, Spaghettio's and Meatballs and all things carbs-related, I've packed on some non-pregnancy related pounds.  These extra lbs have caused me to look into new forms of undergarments, a.k.a. undersquares and bras.  For all my readers out there, I apologize in advance for what I'm about to say for, it may be graphic and harmful to your eyes.

Already frustrated with my expanding waistline and general-ass-area, I walked into Kohls with a bad attitude.  Convinced that nothing fits properly (all things pants related), I combed through everything in the lingerie area of the store.  The thought of trying bras on at this point make me want to gag.  Then, all of the sudden, there she was.... my little Kohls angel..... Anna Marie.

Decked in orthopedic shoes, elastic/pleated khakis and some Valentines Day earrings, Miss Anna Marie greets me with a "Hello dear.  How can I help you today?"  For whatever reason, her greeting = floodgates.  Almost to tears, I quickly explained to her that I was in my first trimester of pregnancy, no longer in control of my body and generally fed up with being fat.

She immediately took control of the situation ("Being a mother of four dear, I know EXACTLY what you're going through.  I am here to help.")  Armed with several sizes, colors and fabrics, she got me in a room and stood by the door as I tried on bra after bra.  Bless her heart, she was so patient.  FINALLY, I found a size and style that worked for me: nude and BIG.

Leaving with confidence, a new set of undergarments and a pep talk from Ms. Kohls Angel, I can now wear clothes comfortably; no wedgies and sports bras for this chic.  Let this be a lesson to all you moms-to-be out-there:  say good-bye to cute undersquares and dainty whorish bras.  The shit won't fit much longer.  The additional silver lining was Chris' opinion:  "Wow.  Nice holsters and boat tarps."  There you go.

Full Coverage Underpants

I think I may have already completed a post with the above title...... oh well, two times the charm.  I'm back in Chicago, THANK GOD, after a 4-day trip to Charlotte.  I was with my boss, which is exhausting.  Compile that with being 12 weeks pregnant, I was ready for naptime every day at 3 PM.

I managed to bite off all the nails on my right hand this week.  Awesome.  I look like a trashball that is in desperate need of a mani/pedi.  I guess I'll put that on my list of things to do tomorrow.  For today however, I have tons of housework to catch up on.  With me out of town, Chris has a heyday throwing dirty work clothes all over, dirty dishes tossed in the sink and ther clumpies in every corner of the house.  I am "working from home" right now, which actually means alternating e-mails with loads of laundry and vacuuming.

Chris has been working on a built-in bookcase for the past few weeks, so the dust accumulation is ridiculous.  I've surrendered the Endust until Chris' project is done.  Honestly, it's killing me to not wipe the layer of gray off of everything.

Did I mention that Kasia pee-pee'd on our bed when I was away?  Yeah.  Freaking awesome.  Instead of cleaning the soiled sheets, Chris threw them in a pile in the corner of our bedroom.  Now, our room smells like pee.  Sweet.  I made an emergency stop at Yankee Candle for some scentervention.  Fluffy Towels for the bedroom, Meyer Lemon for the kitchen.  Disaster avoided.

I read my twin sister's blog today and it about made me cry.  Any picture she posts of Greta as a newborn is so bittersweet.  Such a tiny little stinker, Greta had the softest little baby bird hairs and the smallest little feet.  Now, she is 21 pounds of beefcake smooshie.  I wish I could give Greta shrinking serum and keep her at 8 months forever.