tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47464644687649422402007-07-02T20:30:55.443-06:00NenoBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-33262321622270132602007-06-29T07:07:00.000-06:002007-06-29T07:21:58.198-06:00

I don't really want to write this. Here, or anywhere. While I feel like it will probably explain a lot, I also know it probably won't be much of a surprise to anyone. I recently went through the worst depression of my life. Like, "How *did* Sylvia Plath's kids turn out anyway?" kind of depression. I don't know if it was because I just started birth control pills or a hormone shift from

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-28846385941314234112007-06-28T06:13:00.000-06:002007-06-28T06:23:23.835-06:00

I've been baking lately. It seems such an unnecessary thing these days, but in reality we've just traded taste for convience. And we pay more for it. But it's brought to mind for me all the many generations of women before me who baked every day. A few years ago, my sister (you know the one) planned a special trip to go visit our grandma. To learn all of her old and wonderful recipes for breads

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-51531145299728231512007-06-27T07:26:00.000-06:002007-06-27T07:30:39.990-06:00

At midnight, when E is up for the fourth time complaining that her foot hurts (WTF, no seriously.), it's good to remember that this happened earlier in the day: E: Whose birthday is next, mama? Me: Baby Q's is. E: Oh! Are we gonna go to his house and sing him "Happy Birthday"? Me: Actually, guess what? His birthday is going to be at the new pool. E: The new one? The one with the yellow slide

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-68413387371266732882007-06-25T12:01:00.000-06:002007-06-25T12:07:49.560-06:00

I go to the library. That's what I do. I occasionally do other things, like go to the grocery store, but for some reason, the things that happen at the library are funnier. Like today, as I was perusing the "stop spending more fucking money than you have, stupid bitch" section (332.ish by the way), I heard someone reading loudly and slowly something akin to: Voice 1: "Mir-an-da le... leeee....

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-25978062777928748992007-06-25T06:28:00.000-06:002007-06-25T06:29:26.412-06:00

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-79678099993514533132007-06-22T07:42:00.000-06:002007-06-22T07:46:42.932-06:00

He went to bed and when he woke up the door was open. And he hated it when the door was open. And then he dropped Elephhhh out of his crib and couldn't reach it and it was hot in his room. D thought that, probably, this was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. His mom gave him a banana for breakfast, instead of a bottle. D bet that in Australia, babies get to have morning

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-57925128031667066592007-06-20T06:44:00.000-06:002007-06-20T06:48:14.794-06:00

During the time it took me to put away one (1) basket of clean laundry, my son: Pushed a stool over to the bathtub and fell in head first (at least it wasn't the toilet)Got himself stuck between his crib and the wall (at least he came out easily)Pushed everything off my husband's nightstand (at least there wasn't a water glass up there)Smeared an entire jar of Vaseline on his arms, tummy, and

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-31786938573005576302007-06-19T08:15:00.000-06:002007-06-19T08:18:29.678-06:00

I don't understand decorative pillows. Making a bed isn't enough of a pain in the ass already that you (and by "you," I mean, clearly, everyone but me) have to make it more work? Not getting it. Also, what's with towels that you can't use? Huh? Additionally, vanity license plates? I'm all about putting funny/snarky words on your car, but why pay the government for it? Not. Understanding.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-17811164144254947572007-06-18T06:38:00.000-06:002007-06-18T06:42:34.995-06:00

Neno: Oh my god! Listen to that! (Classic GNR plays on car stereo.) Husband: What? Neno: Someone was in my car. Did you drive my car? Husband: Yes. Neno: Did you change my CD? Because I totally had NIN playing in the CD player and now it's GNR. WT... (Other than "CD," not actually speaking in acronymns. For the record.) Husband: I didn't change your CD. I turned the stereo off, but I

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-70854257909219636072007-06-16T08:23:00.000-06:002007-06-16T08:24:09.637-06:00

E, singing, this morning: The more we get in trouble, in trouble, in trouble The more we get in trouble, the happier we'll be. They're your friends, not my friends, Not my friends they're your friends, The more we get in trouble, the happier we'll be.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-34611531883526985362007-06-14T10:26:00.000-06:002007-06-14T10:31:51.634-06:00

E-MAIL From: _______ State University Sent: Thursday, June 14, 2007 11:15 AM To: Neno Subject: _________ State University Alumni Update - Last Chance LAST CHANCE Dear Neno '01, (Your Personal ID#: ___-__-___) We need your help immediately! We are currently in the final stages of preparing ________ State University Alumni: Today, but we need your help! A brief telephone call will

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-56593727131975213262007-06-06T09:01:00.000-06:002007-06-06T09:08:03.134-06:00

Remember the night of your bachelor party when you called me from the bar at two in the morning to come get you because you and your designated driver were both drunk? And I was like SO pissed that I had to get out of bed and drive the shitty car to the bar to pick you up? And I wouldn't even look at you as you guys sat in the car and drunk-giggled about having stolen a peanut basket from the

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-60404128708191204862007-05-29T10:22:00.000-06:002007-05-29T10:24:59.260-06:00

I did it, and then there it was. Everyone looking at me, all "What the fuck?" and my toe all bleedy and whatnot. When asked to explain what happened, I could only really say, "Um... yeah. I kicked my foot. With my other foot." That is really what happened. The heel of my right shoe kicked right into the big toenail on my left foot and split that fucker right up in half, which then beld all

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-44278662818334937982007-05-23T14:06:00.000-06:002007-05-23T14:09:32.938-06:00

Hmm... People aren't commenting here very much. They must be busy. Or they hate me. Yeah, that's it, they totally hate me! God! Why do I always have to be so fucking annoying! I ruin everything! I'm such a loser! They're probably all like, "Who does she think she is having TWO blogs? Like I have time for that shit. Hello!? That's IT! I'm never commenting on her blog again but I will

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-34001591244560147142007-05-22T09:32:00.000-06:002007-05-22T09:38:23.473-06:00

I'm a grouchy motherfucker. Don't even try with me. If a movie even smells faintly of "feel-good" I'm so fucking out. I am not even slightly interested in this story line: Bad shit happens to good people. Good people fight back/work hard/hit it big/strike it rich. Good things happen to good people. I so don't want to see this. I also know that I SO don't want to be Brad Pitt's wife in a

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-72864337929627324012007-05-21T09:15:00.000-06:002007-05-21T09:22:26.726-06:00

On Saturday I was standing in line at Wal-Mart, which, is, you know, extra fun. And suddenly, I heard a loud "pop" coming from my knee region. And then: pain. Ouchy the pain. Seriously, something like popped in my knee from the extra and very vigorous task I was performing, what with the standing and the waiting and all. I do not know what happened to my knee, but it is now bruised all

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-13276550113260725242007-05-18T09:56:00.000-06:002007-05-18T10:01:47.852-06:00

E on gardening: You go to the store and you tell them that you want seeds and you want dirts. And then you have a garden. D saying "down": downdowndowndowndowndowndown D saying "up": DOWN!!!!!!!! DOWN!!!!!!!! D reads a book about a witch: Bwoom! (Turns page, points) Bwoom! (Turns page, points) Bwoom!, etc.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-88677487873140824732007-05-11T08:15:00.000-06:002007-05-11T08:18:58.419-06:00

I don't know if you've been watching Lost, but if you have and you're reading this, there's something you need to know about me. I will totally betray your ass for a toilet. Yes, you. I will become an Other and I will make secret recordings about your uterus and whatever else they want me to do. Because Neno? Doesn't like looking at other people's poop.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-8191811202580692812007-05-10T08:11:00.000-06:002007-05-10T08:15:00.674-06:00

Me: Sweetie, you have to wipe the front first then the back. E: What does that mean? Me: You don't want to get poo poo in the front. It will make you sick. E: What's the front? Me: Right there. The front. E: What are you saying, Mama? Me: Front first. THEN back. E: What are you talkin' about? Me: Let me wipe you, okay? E: No! I can do it. Me: Okay. Let's start over. Take this.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-88640242870691053572007-05-10T06:21:00.000-06:002007-05-10T06:27:00.658-06:00

I get this question a lot. And by a lot, I mean twice. You get paid to blog by searching for, weeding out, and landing, a blogging job.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-67056272263999714042007-05-04T07:40:00.000-06:002007-05-04T08:04:38.222-06:00

Part of me didn't believe that the person I was deserved to be a mother. Someone who sometimes drank too much. And who often said the wrong thing. And who hadn't always made good choices in life. All I had to do was change everything about who I was. Transform myself into a "mother" and everything would be just fine. But after I actually became a mother, something kept poking at my

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-70321573103922868672007-05-03T14:45:00.000-06:002007-05-03T14:45:45.503-06:00

Do you ever go in the bathroom and lock the door and spend 30 seconds flipping off people that can't see you? Um... yeah. Me neither.

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-32057954424499439932007-05-01T15:15:00.000-06:002007-05-01T19:46:26.872-06:00

Right Boob: Hi. I'd like to introduce myself. My name is Right Boob and I just want to take a small moment and share with you the fact that the human to which we are attached recently received her first actual paycheck for blogging. Left Boob: WOO to the FUCKIN HOO, yo!!! I luuuuurves gin! RB: Please stop. You're embarrassing both of us. LB: What-ev. You're just jealous because I am so big

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-49066955170038607282007-05-01T11:48:00.000-06:002007-05-01T11:50:10.675-06:00

Eism: Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to the parade of the girl who loves raisins! Dism: (Screeches LOUDLY in grocery store, while pointing at a watermelon) BALL!!!!!

Nenotag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4746464468764942240.post-45007815829486174662007-05-01T06:28:00.000-06:002007-05-01T06:36:18.700-06:00

I walked in through Town's very first automatic revolving glass door. I climbed the giant and pointless set of stairs, tiled with slate, railed by a sheet of immaculate glass. I gave them my name, and pulled out my copy of Chris Bojalian's Midwives (not as good on second readthrough, post-kids, by the way). I felt like a traitor. This office is so nice, so beautiful because of all of the

Neno