An open letter to my d-bag neighbor.

Dear Owner of the muffler-less, black, souped up coupe that once again, woke my baby up from a rare episode of peaceful slumber:

I'm going to murder you in your sleep.

Kidding.

Sort of.

Look dude, I get it, you live in a townhouse subdivision of the burbs, you're winding your way through community college while playing bass in a way below average Death Cab for Cutie cover band & meeting your townie friends for Presidente Margaritas at the local Chilis. Long story short, life isn't quite as kick ass as you thought it would be when you were 16. I also totally understand the transformative powers of seeing "The Fast & The Furious" about 900 times. But seriously? If you insist on gunning your shitty little engine every time you hop in the car and tearing down the street with your not-quite-street-legal absentee muffler waking the dead, you will leave me with no choice but to slather you in Carne Asada and let this little fella have his way with you:



In case you don't know, that is what I affectionately refer to as a "Shartweilerbull". Translation? That is a Shar Pei/Rottweiler/Pit Bull mix named Jakers. Up until this point I've tried to quell Jake's urge to eat human flesh but you might just make me change my mind.

So unless you are actually Paul Walker, and are using this suburban douchebag persona as a cover for your infiltration of an elaborate drug smuggling/gun running/human trafficking ring I ask you one final time to shut the f*** up. Otherwise, you have a date with destiny, and destiny's name is Jake.

OK OK, so I may not actually let Jake eat your face off, but I probably will let him pee on your car.

Oh, and by the way? That car makes me think you have a tiny penis. Just some constructive criticism.

XOXO,

The gas crisis.

I used to think that a gas crisis was when I had to pay over $2 per gallon for fuel. Now I know better. The true gas crisis?

Baby flatulence.

Baby gas is no joke. At its best, baby gas gets you a disgusting, barfed on shirt and a stinky bedroom. At its worst it gets you an all nighter of banshee style wailing. The Sadester has been suffering from really bad gas lately and it's KILLING me. I've resigned myself to the fact that we are a long way from sleeping through the night, but the gas turns a typical 2 wake night into a 6 wake night.

I feel terrible for her, b/c I know she's in pain but I just want to help the damn kid fart so I can catch some shut eye. And since I'm breastfeeding, I always wind up wracked with guilt; was it the Brie I just housed? God I hope not. The only thing worse than a gassy baby is a life without cheese.

Who knew procuring farts from my child was going to become such an important part of my life? Aaaah, parenthood. Now pull my finger, or better yet, Sadie's.

XOXO,

Luck o' the Valentines.

I consider myself pretty lucky. Like, stupidly, ridiculously, blissfully lucky. My husband is fun, hardworking and easy on the eyes. My baby is insanely adorable and my family & friends are healthy, happy and always there when you need them. I have a good job, a great marraige and a kickass metabolism (Yay carbs!).

It's easy to forget our blessings from day to day, but in the midst of a week that is being heavy handed with loss, it's important to step back, squeeze my baby tight and remind myself that if my worst problem in life is needing an extra latte to make it through the day, then I am a pretty lucky gal.

As St. Patty's day approaches, I'm thinking less about green beer, pinches and leprachauns and more about appreciating the incredible luck that has graced my 30 years so far. Hope y'all do the same.

But do drink some green beer. It is St. Patty's after all.

XOXO,