Don’t you hate it when you are thinking good things about someone and then they do something to piss you off and you’re left feeling really freaking dumb for thinking such nice thoughts? Not that those thoughts aren’t still valid, but in the moment you don’t dare remind yourself of that fact! Because, well DUH! You’re totally pissed!

Here are the top ten reasons why I thought my husband was the sweetest ever (until, that is, he pissed me off):

1. He always remembers to buy me my favorite things (cottage cheese and Crystal Geyser) at the store, even when I don’t remind him.

2. He saves the coupons out of the Sunday paper for me.

3. He is always there for me when I’m sad, even when it’s for a stupid reason (Nick Lachey speaking out on MTV).

4. He fills up my gas tank even when he’s mad at me.

5. When he calls the home phone, he talks for a long time on the answering machine, hoping I’ll eventually pick up.

6. He gets upset when he makes a mistake while painting my toenails.

7. He takes me to garage sales.

8. When I get a bill in the mail, he automatically opens it and puts it with his.

9. He makes me mix CDs.

10. When I miss a really obvious question playing Trivial Pursuit, he says, “You knew that one. Go ahead and roll again.”

And now…the Bad List:

1. He forgets things I told him two days ago.

2. He always has to be right.

3. He goes to sleep without saying goodnight to me.

4. He heats up spaghetti sauce in the microwave without covering it first.

5. He makes so much fucking noise when the baby is sleeping.

6. He turns all the lights in the house on, jacks up the heat, and then leaves.

7. He is always late.

8. He is never on time. (Same thing as number 7, but it is just that annoying, it deserves two slots.)

9. He is super cynical.

10. He spills crumbs in my car and doesn’t clean them up!

11. (Yeah, that’s right, I’m going past 10 on this one!) He opens two liters and leaves them sitting on the counter capless, so the next time you go to have a glass of soda, it is flat!

12. He doesn’t fucking LISTEN (and we’ve made a complete circle back to number 1).

Remember my rant on Babies ‘R’ Us? Yeah, well, I forgive them for being asshole idiots. And this is why:

Yes, it is probably the most ridiculous thing in the world - a cake made of diapers??? - but it is mine! And since I’ve never won a contest before (before this, that is), this enormously absurd, rolled diaper confection serves as my first ever PRIZE!

So, here’s what happened. While I was experiencing an extremely irritating shopping trip last Saturday, I strolled by a table displaying this very “cake,” and a lady behind it asking for all passers-by to enter the contest by guessing the amount of diapers it took to make the monstrosity. A random number came to mind and viola…WINNER!

I got the call this morning, drove over to pick up my prize and now have absolutely nothing to do with it since all the diapers are for newborns and I don’t know anyone expecting…

I guess I’ll just have to have another baby. (Cough!)

“I’ll get you into a minivan one day,” my husband said shortly after we began dating.

“The hell you will,” I responded. After all, I had not nearly finished shaking my ass in clubs, drinking myself into shameless stupors and falling down stairs. In short, I was far from housewife material and the thought of ever becoming a soccer mom made me shudder in my stilettos (yeah, back then I actually used to dress up! Imagine that!).

So, when we attended last year’s auto show (I was 4 months pregnant), I did my best to avert my eyes from the lengthy rows of rather comfortable looking minivans! No, this isn’t happening! I am not actually considering one of those monstrous things!

Suddenly we strolled upon what appeared to be some sort of van, but being much smaller than all the others, couldn’t have been. Could it? It was then that we were introduced to the Mazda 5 - a sleek yet practical microvan! Fuck yeah! You hear that, Jason, micro! Micro, micro, micro! So, no, you do not win!

I fell in love with this car almost immediately. I knew having a baby, we’d need a second vehicle and this seemed like the perfect compromise: 6 seats, double sliding doors, lots of cargo room, curtain air bags, still small enough to look cool and I could get it in a stick! Awesome.

It’s weird, actually, because it seems so spacious inside, yet looks so small outside. Here it is in front of my husband’s Scion:

For all of you who know how tiny Scions are, the Mazda 5 may look too small here. But then, look at this:

So, which is it, big or small? It’s both, and that’s why it rules. AND, I can still avoid being a total soccer mom…at least for a few more years, anyway.

Dealing with stupid people while shopping is annoying. Dealing with stupid people while shopping with a baby is unbearable. Dealing with stupid people while shopping with a baby who is hungry/tired/gassy/antsy/or for whatever reason screaming his head off is why I now have 8 gray hairs peeking out of my skull. Twenty-seven and graying! What the eff?! I guess this means I’ll have to dye my hair again soon. Oh, darn.

Now back to the stupid people. It’s not that I don’t understand why there are stupid people in the world, it’s that I don’t understand why there are so many. Like, in Babies ‘R’ Us, for example. There must be one stupid person per square foot of that place. They’re everywhere!

I was lured to this self-proclaimed “superstore” yesterday by loads of purple balloons, squeaky clean shopping carts and an oversized sign exclaiming, GRAND OPENING! Grand, my ass.

“Your sign outside says something about a Safety Expo today. When is that?” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that this was an appropriate question - completely relevant, no big words, pretty straightforward…am I right? Three salespeople later I’m still waiting for an answer. Ok, forget it. Down the aisles I go. But, shit, I need help again.

“Do you guys sell bibs that don’t have a bunch of appliqued crap on the front?”

“Oh, like plain bibs?”

“Yeah, just plain. The ones with all the stuff don’t absorb well.”

“Yes, we have those. Follow me.” Ok! Now we’re getting somewhere…

A strange, winding trip down an extremely narrow maze of aisles later, no bibs. Well, not no bibs. Lots of bibs, all the wrong kinds. “Yeah, we actually don’t have those.” Oooookkkaaaayyy… Two strikes never scared me away from spending money, though, so I keep on moving. I’m browsing through the selection of bottles when I just happen to overhear this:

Salesperson #1: “Sleep sack?”

Crazed Mother: “Sleep sack. You know, it’s a safety thing. So your baby doesn’t suffocate…”

Salesperson #1: “Sleep sack…hmmm…sleep sack.”

Crazed Mother: “Sleep sack! It’s like a blanket that zips up…”

Salesperson #1: “Hey, (name of another equally clueless salesperson), do you know if we have sleep sacks?”

Salesperson #2: “Sleep sacks?”

Crazed Mother: “Sleep sacks!”

Ok, I have to stop here, though I’m pretty sure the three of them went a couple more rounds. This is Babies ‘R’ Us, right? I didn’t accidentally step into Home Depot by mistake, did I? I mean, does anyone working here even know what a baby is? Can someone please tell me why the hell these morons, who clearly know nothing about the shit they’re selling got hired to work at a store dedicated to the exact thing they know nothing about?!?!?!

“Um, sleep sacks are at the end of the clothing section, right before bedding.” I had to, I just had to! I couldn’t stand it any longer. Besides, CM was very grateful I stuck my nose in her business.

A hundred dollars later, I decide I’d better make my way to the cash registers. I hand my only coupon (yes, I’m a geek) to the cashier and hold my breath.

Cashier #1: “This coupon isn’t valid.”

Me: “Hmm…” It’s not fair to jump down her throat just yet. She is, after all, stupid.

Cashier #1: “Hey, (name of another equally clueless cashier), can you help me with this coupon?

Cashier #2: “What’s the probl…oh, yes, this coupon is for Gerber Graduates. You’ve got Stage 1 baby food.”

Me: “Read the coupon! Don’t read part of it. Read the whole thing!”

Cashier #2: “No, it says here, oh wait, yes. Good for $1 off any Gerber baby food, including Gerber Graduates.” We have a winner!

The door! It’s actually real because I can see it now, and outside there is light and air that I can breathe! Almost there, just a little bit further now! EXIT.

My advice: unless you have had a really good night’s sleep and have more than a little time on your hands, don’t attempt a shopping spree with your baby. Internet shopping is practical and actually really fun. You can comparison shop in minutes, there is no time constraint and you can do it on your own terms. And, best of all, no stupid people.

A year ago I would have never thought that this would have made me feel like the greatest success in the world:

The fact that I can properly put together a high chair, place my kid inside, and send him into a fit of laughter:

is right up there with…hmm…ok, wait, I know there is something else I’ve done that is really cool. Something that I’ve accomplished worth writing about…

I’ll get back to you on that. Or not.

So, my baby is now eating rice cereal, which happens to be the most exciting thing ever:

If we can make him this happy just by sticking a spoon in his mouth, the possibilities seem endless. And suddenly my hopes for him, not just as my child, but as a human being, are met with more confidence and assurance than I’ve ever felt toward or about anything and anyone.

I think my heart might actually explode the day he begins to walk! Oh, god, how am I ever going to make it to Kindergarten?

As I sit here typing this morning (barely…it is 11:24), I am still in my pajamas. Not just any pajamas, mind you. A pinstriped men’s collared shirt, green lounge pants adorned with flowers, and a pair of white athletic socks. My hair, recently washed but not blow-dried, is being held up by some sort of 1989-esque banana clip in a particularly embarrassing shade of unicorn purple. I am on my 4th or 5th cup of coffee (and I still want more), my lips are chapped, and I might be coming down with a scratchy throat-type flu.

So, screw you, Gwen Stefani. Screw you for having the perfect updo in the perfect color with no roots whatsoever, impeccable lipstick application, flawless skin, carrying your Gucci Bjorn with your baby that never cries and has all the cool clothes, none of which are topped with spit-up or snot schmear, and your flowing gowns and inhuman high-heels, and your designer diaper bags with diamond encrusted binkies and gold-plated booties, and your glaringly white teeth and your trendy espresso coffee cup and your sunny smile and your stupid, incredibly catchy songs that I have on a greatest hits album in my car!

The day I found out I was pregnant was unbelievable. Three open packages of varying brands of home tests scattered on the bathroom floor later and tada! I became a believer. It was like finding success in the ultimate of science experiments. I’d hooked up the right wires, attached them in correct sequence…you get the idea. It worked, it actually worked! Holy shit, it fucking worked! And now there was this thing, this thing growing in me. As I stood there, staring at the stick in my hand, then back at the directions on the box in my other; then again at the stick; then again at the box, I did everything to keep myself from hitting the floor.

The next 8 months passed slowly. Every day seemed like a new opportunity to make myself better. I felt as though I were being re-released into the world, reborn and recreated. This was my chance to start from scratch, to make the perfect human being in my likeness! I’d screwed up thousands of diets, dyed my hair the wrong color millions of times, improperly cared for tons of scratches that spitefully turned into scars, began moisturizing too late in life, drank too much coffee, did too many drugs, forgot to wear sunscreen and tossed my retainer only to find that my bite re(in)corrected itself. But this! This was an opportunity to reverse all the wrongs I’d committed unto myself, the ultimate in clean slates. This was a control freak’s (er, perfectionist’s) wet dream!

Not the thoughts a budding mom should be entertaining? Whatever. The truth is, no one can tell you how you should or should not be feeling while pregnant. If one dares, be glad your hormones have made your fingernails double in length - you’ll need ‘em to rip the offender to shreds! Think of your babe as a glorified Chia Pet? Ok, then. Enjoy the fantasy because when the bubble (and your belly) bursts, you’ll forget what it was like to imagine baby-making was all about cute outfits and posh strollers.

People always say there is nothing you can do to prepare for the realities of caring for a newborn. Wrong. You could gradually cut an hour out of your nightly sleep until eventually you don’t sleep at all. You could practice letting the laundry basket get so full it spills out onto the floor and begins to form a conga line down your hallway. You could skip showering for days in a row, then when you do, set an alarm for 3 1/2 minutes and be dried and dressed by the time it sounds. You could attach clothespins to your tits. You could refrain from watching television, reading the newspaper, talking to your friends on the phone and going outside until you feel completely out of touch with the world around you, at which point you fall on the carpet sobbing (don’t worry about smeared mascara because as with all your makeup, it’s in a pile making friends with the dust bunnies).

So, yes. You actually can prepare yourself for motherhood. But why would you want to?

Enjoy being clueless. Enjoy thinking you’ll have time to exercise, cook, clean, shop, socialize and take care of your newborn 24-7. And for those of you returning to work, well, all I have to say to you is…

…ughh…

…hmm…

…alrighty!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Enjoy believing you’ll still have a life. That’s what pregnancy is all about – the fantasy, the excitement, the sleep! Enjoy using the “I’m too tired” excuse, the “I’m eating for two” excuse, the “It’s my hormones talking!” excuse. Take advantage of these precious months of everything being all about you, because it’s the last time it ever will be. And that’s not a bad thing.

After giving birth to my son (nicknamed, and from here on out called, “Squido”) in April, I got this crazy idea that women might be interested in what I had to say about motherhood, pregnancy, the whole deal. I figured if I could ramble on for hours about Jessica Simpson’s ensemble at the VMAs, I could definitely say something worthwhile about my experience as a new mom.
I pretty much expected to receive all the insider tips on how to pull off having a baby while I was carrying the little guy. And yet, surprisingly, I still somehow ended up not knowing a damn thing.

Good thing I’m a fast learner.

So, here it is, my personal contribution to all the mommies out there who love to talk about their kids but love talking about Jessica Simpson even more (ok, maybe as much).