Adventures in Bachelorette-ing

You know that moment when you're out a swanky club, sipping on some classy champagne, admiring the panoramic view of city lights, and a Cutie McCuterson comes over and starts talking to you? It's flattering and wonderful and it's all fun and games...until you whip out your iPhone, start showing him pictures of your super cute baby and discussing how you are still breastfeeding. Where are you going, Mister Cutie Cute? Your mom's calling? Did I mention that I'm a mom? Okay, bye....

That's exactly what happened at my sister's bachelorette party this past weekend. I spent weeks planning a party suitable for my little sister. She has spent her whole life being amazing, so I had to plan a shindig that reflected just how fabulous she is. She and I have very different styles. She's glitz and glamor, I'm bars and banjos. She can dance all night to Britney Spears, I spent my 20s following Phish. We are as different as champagne and whiskey, but because she is my little twin star I knew just what kind of party to put together.

My sister leaves a little sparkle wherever she goes - and I mean this literally. The girl leaves a trail of glitter in her wake whenever she leaves a room. After she leaves my house, I find hot pink heart shaped rhinestones stuck in my carpet. I find cotton candy in my cupboards. She is creative and artistic and sparkly, and I don't mean that as a metaphor. So it only made sense that I had to glitter the heck out of anything and everything in sight no matter what. I started with champagne bottles.

They turned out so pretty, but let me tell you a secret - it was so easy. Just be prepared to find yourself covered in glitter for the next few days. You will find glitter in some very strange places, but it's a small price to pay for such a fun looking project. All you need is Modge Podge and glitter. Cover the bottle in the Modge Podge, and then get crazy with the sparkle. I used really chunky glitter, which I think works better than fine glitter. It covers the bottle better.

It was time to figure out what type of adventure upon which we should embark to celebrate my sister's impending nuptials. Because she loves me and knew that it would be difficult for me to leave the baby terrorist for the first overnight since the baby was born, my sister decided that San Diego was as good a place as any to party. I took it from there. I decided that a booze cruise made all the sense in the world because, well...there's booze. And water. And a boat. It's really a no brainer. I chose Sail San Diego to take on the challenge of sailing around 12 drunk girls, and Captain John did a great job! We docked at two bars and they paid for our drinks, then hopped back on the boat and boozed some more.

I bought captain hats for each of the girls and hot pink sunglasses. Because I had a thousand pounds of glitter left over from the champagne bottles, I got crazy and bedazzled my sister's sunglasses in hot pink glitter.

After we were sufficiently boozed and cruised, Captain John returned us to shore and it was off to our pretty awesome hotel room. We stayed in the Star Suite at the Andaz Hotel in downtown San Diego. It had king bunk beds, a bar, and a bull's head on the wall so obviously it was perfect.

After eating pizza that my sweet husband and baby terrorist had thoughtfully dropped off, we headed upstairs to the rooftop bar where we proceeded to party a little more. I may have mentioned several times as I swizzled champagne that I was still lactating. Turns out that I am still "super fun" to party with. One by one we made our way back down to our room. I may or may not have returned to the wrong floor and knocked on the wrong hotel room door demanding to be let in before I realized that this was not in fact my room.

I am an old lady, and bachelorette parties in your 30s tend to end a little earlier than they did in your 20s, as we were all in bed by midnight and up bright and early for a nice brunch at Cafe 21. If you haven't been there, you must try it. It's amazing. Especially if you bring your own champagne in a water bottle, which I'm not saying that we did.

Cheers to you, Dolly!

Sweeten Up Your Event With Dolly's Cotton Candy, San Diego Style!

It's no secret that I agonized over returning to work after birthing my baby terrorist. As much of an adjustment it was transitioning into motherhood, the thought of allowing someone else to spend more time with the baby than me was something that made me feel incredibly sad. Ultimately, returning to work was something that had to be done for our family, but I continue to run through a list of entrepreneurial endeavors that will make me rich and give me the freedom to tell the boss man to take this job and shove it.

Now, you may have heard of Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy, a business dreamed up and manifested by my sister. Four years ago, she announced that she was going to start a cotton candy catering company. As she grew her business, her client list grew - I still remember the day she did Kourtney Kardashian's baby shower, and I recall when I saw the episode aired on TV - there was my baby sister, making all of her sweet dreams come true. She eventually added caramel apples, popcorn, and shaved ice into her repertoire of all things delicious.

Right about the time I was wailing miserably about returning to the workforce, my sister had the idea to expand Dolly's into San Diego. She enlisted the help of yours truly to make this idea a reality. I am excited to announce that we have recently launched Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy - San Diego! If you or someone you know wants to sweeten up a birthday party, wedding, baby shower, bridal shower, bar/bat mitzvah, or corporate event in San Diego County, please contact me at dollyscottoncandysd@gmail.com. I would love the opportunity to help you fill up on memories!

You Oughta Know

They didn't tell me certain things about having a baby. Or maybe they did, but I was under a blissful cloud of delusion and was convinced that my baby would be perfect. I tend to be more of a talker than a listener, and I have a gift for tuning out the things I don't want to hear. I may have been warned, but I sure didn't hear it.

They didn't tell me just how high I would be coming out of my c-section. Normally, that would be awesome - who wouldn't want to be floating on a cloud of legal drugs - but as I was hovering in a dreamy parallel plane in which I couldn't feel my toes, a world in which I was pretty certain I had just birthed a beautiful baby girl but wasn't quite sure, a nurse emerged from the fog and demanded that I begin breastfeeding.

Wait, what?

I was high as a kite. I unfortunately informed my dad as I came out of surgery that I had been high before, but never this high. In an instant, the years of self-righteous, indignant denial of any wrong doing whatsoever washed down the drain. But no matter, I had no time to worry about medically induced confessions. I had to figure out how to tell the nurse that I was unequivocally impaired and there was no way in hell that I should be holding my baby, let alone attempting to breastfeed the poor thing. Welcome to the world, baby - Sorry mommy is on (some really good) drugs and already totally incapable of being the parent you need me to be. I always knew that I would have some mommy fails, I just didn't realize that it would happen pretty much the second she was removed from my womb.

Those lactation consultants are incredibly militant, however, and my just say no approach was ignored as the nurse thrust the baby terrorist at me and tapped her foot impatiently as I fumbled for what I hoped was my boob - I still couldn't feel my body, so it was a shot in the dark - and luckily for me, the baby terrorist was quite adept at the whole eating thing.

They didn't tell me that there would be a time a few days into this whole new life with a baby thing where I would lock myself in the car and cry like never before. My in-laws were in town visiting, meeting the baby terrorist for the first time. As her terrorist title might imply, she wasn't the easiest of babies. One particularly difficult evening, the tiny human was dissolved in a fit of animal sounding, ear piercing, insanity inducing screaming. No amount of rocking, shushing, or screaming along with her could console her. I was seriously sleep deprived, in pain, questioning all of my life choices that had led up to this very moment, and suddenly I just couldn't take one more second of it. I handed the baby off to my husband and because we had a house full of guests, I escaped to my car and cried. I contemplated putting on some good Pink Floyd, fully dissolving into my misery and driving off to some tropical paradise never to be heard from again.

That's when I heard a knock on my car window. Through tear filled eyeballs I looked up to see my husband, looking haggard, tired and concerned, and my baby terrorist, looking thoroughly satisfied that she had broken us as she sucked peacefully on a pacifier. Sighing, I abandoned all thoughts of a deserted beach and endless margaritas and rejoined my new life. They just don't prepare you for that.

They didn't warn me that going back to work would be the hardest decision I would ever make. It wasn't really much of a choice as it was either go to work or catapult our family into bankruptcy and financial ruin. Right before maternity leave ended, I was showing my husband all of the cute baby girl clothes I had bought the terrorist.

"Isn't this so cute? And look at these shoes, they are so cute. And this sweater, isn't it cute?! Cute cute cute!" I went on and on ad nauseam.

My husband leveled me with a stern gaze and said, "You know what else is cute? Having a roof over our baby's head."

Okay, okay. Point taken. I was going to have to work whether I wanted to or not. I locked myself in my office the first day back and cried, and, folks, I work from home. It wasn't like I had far to go to leave the baby but it felt like my world had ended. And again, that recurring thought of the tropical beach and bottomless margaritas returned to tempt me. It wasn't working that was difficult. It was surrendering my child to someone else for more than a couple of hours at a time that proved to be my undoing. They didn't tell me how much that would hurt.

They didn't tell me how much rage I would feel the first time someone said anything against my baby terrorist. Look beotch, I am the only one who gets to throw around phrases like "baby terrorist". The first time I heard anything other than she's the most perfect baby in the entire world, I saw nothing but red. I blacked out. I don't remember anything that I said but there is a record of it somewhere in text message format. It was that moment that I realized this mama bear I will lift a car off of my child don't mess with mom thing is no joke. Me, the girl who tries to avoid confrontation at all cost - turns out I have a little streak of fierce deep down. They didn't prepare me.

They didn't tell me how scared I would feel the first time my baby was really, really sick. My first clue was when the terrorist wanted to snuggle. Clearly, something was wrong. Usually she pulls my hair and bites me, all while talking smack in the loudest inside voice I have ever heard. This particular morning, she crawled onto my chest and let me hold her for hours. It was the sweetest and most terrifying day of my life. Her fever was high and I inundated the doctor with five thousand phone calls, each time being told that she is fine, she just has a virus, she'll get over it. This is when you realize that nobody knows your child better than you do. The five thousand and first phone call was to inform the doctor that the baby terrorist does not call a truce for a silly virus. She has an agenda. Something was wrong. The level of panic I had to suppress and the calm composure I had to maintain is something I will never forget.

I wasn't prepared for the tremendous feeling of relief and overwhelming thankfulness I felt when she began to get better. When she woke up one morning, yanked my hair and yelled at me I looked up to the sky and thanked God my terrorist was back.

They didn't tell me how full my heart could feel even at the strangest of moments. How at my most stressed out, what have I done, my life will never be the same again, I wish I could go to the movies alone, heck I wish I could pee alone, what did it feel like to sleep in past 6 a.m., will my boobs ever be mine again moments I catch myself looking at my husband and my baby and feeling like my heart is so full of love it could literally pop. How willingly I give up pieces of my life just to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to receive one of her open mouth awkward heavy breathing too much eye contact kisses.

They didn't tell me any of this. And even if they had, I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. It's much more interesting to just be surprised everyday on this crazy ride.

A Pink Lemonade Celebration

Let's have a little party, we said.

We'll keep it simple, we promised.

It's just her first birthday, we reasoned. She won't even remember it.

Five bazillion dollars and several new gray hairs later, the baby terrorist had her first rager, complete with a homemade lemonade stand.

I'm not sure what happened, but I found myself drunk with first birthday fever. It's not everyday that we get to celebrate the fact that we kept a little tiny terrorist alive for an entire year. An entire year! If that doesn't constitute spending a ridiculous amount of money on the cutest cupcake toppers you ever did see, then you obviously haven't spent many a sleepless night staring helplessly at a screaming baby, scratching your head and maybe even crying yourself because you just don't know what the heck that child needs. How about that time I endured the greatest pooptastrophe of all time? That alone validated my need to throw money at a ridiculous number of pink garland. Oh, and remember that time I sucked the very snot out of my baby's nose? Well, I don't mind if I do have six thousand Instagram photos printed of the little terrorist, paste them onto fancy construction paper and obsessively hang them around the house. I still have PTSD from the terrorist's epic meltdown at the post office, so buying enough pink and yellow candy to keep us buzzed for a year only seemed logical.

I decided to throw the baby a pink lemonade themed first birthday party. Since I have a handy husband who likes to escape to the backyard for hours at a time, I tasked him with building a lemonade stand. He exceeded all expectations with this cute little number!

I bought the ridiculously cute tutu and onesie ensemble from Gentry's Closet. As you can see, the birthday girl is pretty stoked about her awesome lemonade stand.

I went a little wild with the Instagram pictures, but they made for such easy and cute decor that I couldn't help myself. I printed them using the app Printicular. You can have them delivered to your home or printed at Walgreens. I totally got carried away and decided that I needed to buy fancy schmancy scissors, glue the pictures onto pink and yellow construction paper, and give them cute borders. I luckily had very quiet evenings after the baby went to bed because my husband was traveling for work. I spent many a night watching (and judging) the Real Housewives, drinking wine, and cutting out pictures. Really, if we're being honest, that's how I spend most of my nights anyway!

I made pink lemonade cupcakes and found these super cute cupcake toppers from Scrappin' Ashley on Etsy. I am no baker, so I agonized over these damn cupcakes! They might not have been the prettiest things ever, but the frosting was amazing.

I even made the baby terrorist a giant cupcake for her cake smash. I used the world's largest cupcake mold to make it, and it took two whole boxes of cake mix. For spending the last year engaging in terrorist tactics never seen before, she was quite the little lady when it came to that cupcake. She daintily put a finger in the frosting, and took little bird bites. She was also very thoughtful when it came to sharing her cupcake, and was more than happy to indulge her parents and her pooch.

No party is complete without a candy bar. Did you know that you can buy just pink and yellow jelly beans on Amazon? I can't even explain how excited that made me.When did I become such a nerd? I enlisted the help of my fabulous sister, owner of Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy, to sweeten up the candy bar. I can come up with cute ideas, but I am the worst when it comes to cuteness execution. That's where my sister came in. Each guest got to take home a bag of candy as a party favor. Can you tell I am new at this motherhood thing? Who in their right mind sends children home with a bag of sugar? It's no wonder  I have a baby terrorist. Instant karma.

Here are a few more fun photos from her party.

I now understand why the second birthday party is way more understated than the first. This was exhausting and expensive, but it was so worth the celebration. It's not everyday that you get to graduate from baby terrorist to toddler terrorist with so much pink and yellow.

A Year of Terror Tactics & Mommy Fails - A Survivor's Tale

Tomorrow, the baby terrorist turns one. This is a monumental milestone for the Bug and me. We have had to navigate our way across some tricky terrain, a trail laden with dangerous explosive devices, booby traps at every turn (and I'm not just talking about breastfeeding), baby terror tactics and epic mommy fails. Tomorrow, I might pat myself on the back because I hate to brag (wink) but I kept that kid alive for an entire year. She thrived in spite of me. There were tears, there were meltdowns and there were battles waged with weapons of mass destruction but we both have lived to tell the tale. But, my friends, this is just a battle won - The war wages on.

This morning, we eyed each other with a sort of mutual respect.

And then she kissed me. A good kiss, right on the old smacker, letting me know that she begrudgingly admires my tenacity. It was a sweet moment, albeit awkward - There was a lot of weird eye contact, she lingered way too long and there was a lot of slobber, but you know what? I love you too, Bug.

This time last year I was over baked by three days and so ready to pop but as usual, the baby terrorist was on her own schedule. Then, as I was on the phone to my mother dramatically complaining about how I was probably doomed to be pregnant for all eternity, my water broke.

Only, I didn't believe that my water broke.

It wasn't dramatic, and if you know me, you know that I have a flair for that kind of thing, so I just didn't believe it could actually be happening to me. You know, because I wasn't 9 months pregnant and carrying around a gigantic belly that contorted constantly thanks to the in utero terrorism of a certain baby. So, rather than believe that I could possibly be in labor, I instead decided to watch a little Real Housewives, put on some makeup, wander aimlessly around the house and wait for a sign from God. Again, because you know, he hadn't already given me a huge sign.

A couple of hours later, I started thinking that maybe I should call my husband. It went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, I think my water may have broken. But I'm totally not sure. I mean, it's probably nothing. In fact, forget I called."

Him: "Oh my God! Are you serious? Should I come home? I'm coming home."

Me: "No, don't worry about it. It's probably nothing. It's nothing. No, come to think of it, I'm sure it's nothing."

Him: "Ummm...."

Me: "Okay, bye."

About 30 minutes later, I thought, well self, it's probably nothing but maybe you should go to the hospital just in case. You know, because you don't want to be one of those women who birth a baby while thinking it's just a routine trip to the toilet. But self, you're so crazy, you know it's nothing, they are going to send you home.

So I waddled out of the house, got in the car without my hospital bag, certain I was overreacting, and drove myself to the hospital. I have never been in such a state of denial in all my life and let me tell you, it felt good! I called my husband on the way, and had a conversation that went a little something like this:

Me: "So...I am on the way to the hospital but it's nothing. It's totally nothing. Don't even worry."

Him: "OH MY GOD! Are you driving? I'm on my way."

Me: "No, no, that's the last thing I want. They are going to send me home. Don't even worry about it. And please, please don't tell anyone. I don't want everyone to be saying Oh that Brooke, such a drama queen."

Him: "Ummmm....."

Me: "Okay, bye!"

So into the hospital I strolled, with the swagger of an over due water breaking in some serious denial pregnant lady and announced to the front desk clerk with some bravado that I think my water might have broken, but it's probably nothing, I'm sure it's nothing.

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and hustled me to the third floor Triage unit, where I giggled as I told them it was nothing, nothing, totally nothing.

And with that, my whole world changed. I was informed that it was something, something, totally something. That conversation went a little something like this:

Nurse: "Your water broke. We are going to need to admit you."

Me: "Oh, okay. Well I didn't bring my hospital bag. Or my husband, come to think of it. So I'll need to go home and get both and then I'll be back."

Nurse (in a slow voice she obviously reserved for small children and crazy people) - "Honey, that's not how this works.You can't go home. We are going to move you into a room."

As she finished that sentence, I simply stared at her - and then suddenly the sweet high of denial wore off and I was spun into a frantic frenzy of emotions. And, wouldn't you know, there wasn't any cell service on the floor I was on so I couldn't call anyone. Nine months of baking hadn't prepared me for the fact that I was having a baby and now here I stood, all bravado gone, shaking with a new kind of fear I had never before felt and, as a result of my own doing, I was alone.

But that husband of mine, the guy I sometimes want to punch in the face, the man I fell in love with even after he stole a steamroller, the boy who hoards rocks and hides them in the strangest of places...He deserves more credit than I give him. He knows me. He knows just how this twisted mind of mine thinks, and he was one step ahead of me with a hospital bag and fist pump. We were having a baby.

But not so fast...The baby terrorist wasn't going to arrive in this world without first trying to kill me. After almost a day of labor, 2 hours of pushing and finally a C-Section, at 10:17 a.m. on August 29 we first laid eyes on our baby girl.

And just like that, everything changed.

Happy Birthday, Bugsy May. You might be a baby terrorist, but I wouldn't expect anything less from a child of mine. And I couldn't possibly love anything more.

Better Than a Punch in the Face

Look. I love my husband. From the minute I saw his sparkling green eyes, I knew we would eventually end up together. He's helpful. He's chivalrous. I mean, to the point where it almost makes you puke. He's the kind of guy who helps little old ladies across the street. The type of dashing dude who rushes to hold the door open at the grocery store for the pregnant lady struggling to corral three unruly children while balancing an armful of groceries. The handsome husband your friends adore because he keeps a low profile on girls nights, appearing just long enough to make sure that their wine glasses are never empty and the snacks never run out. He's handy. There isn't anything he can't fix, nothing he can't build, although a lot of the time it is stuck together with spit and duct tape. He's funny. Half the time he doesn't even mean to be, which is even funnier.

But sometimes I want to punch him in his helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny face. Don't flash those dimples at me, buddy. This Greene is seeing nothing but red.

The delicate eco system that is a marriage can be easily disrupted by the strangest and most mundane of things - random rock collecting, plant hoarding, the blatant disrespect for throw pillows - seriously, those aren't meant to be used as real pillows! - but you throw a baby terrorist into the mix and not only do I feel like a punch to the face is warranted, it should be expected.

Now, I've never considered myself to be what one might call a reasonable person. I am highly emotional, quick to react, slightly neurotic. I'm a Virgo, so that just goes without saying. However, I find my blood boiling over things that were never in my vocabulary prior to birthing a baby terrorist. The Diaper Genie is overflowing again? Revenge is a dish best served cold with a side of old poopy diapers. I'm up in the middle of the night for the zillionth time in a row because I have super sonic powers that allow only me to hear the baby cry? I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to kick you on my way out of bed to comfort our child.

The poor husband works an insane schedule to bring home the bacon. I've never been all that good at math, but my non robotic brain does not quite compute how one person can work 90 hours in one week. Add a work schedule that includes travel and it's a recipe for resentment. I too am gainfully employed and the work day doesn't end when I clock out. That sweet little baby terrorist is awfully demanding and pretty stingy with the paychecks - she owes me 10 months of back pay. I've tried a mob style shakedown of her piggy bank, but no dice. So, if you add the 40 and carry the 1, subtract the free time and divide it by 2, this leaves about exactly zero hours for the husband and I to be husband and wife. We become all about business, all did the baby poop today and did you pay the mortgage and baby did you throw away my growing hoard of carefully stolen rocks?! You know, the stuff normal couples fight about.

So when the opportunity for a date night shows it's fickle face, you obviously have to put your right hook back in your pocket, comb your hair for the first time in a few weeks, brush the cobwebs off your makeup bag, put on your best pureed fruit free outfit, drink a few thousand cups of coffee because good god, 7:00 is awfully late to begin your night, and head out on the town with your helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny partner. And after a few glasses of wine, you remember that you kind of like old what's his face! (Though if we're being honest, after a few glasses of wine I pretty much kind of like everybody.)

We spent our night acting like younger, more carefree versions of ourselves punctuated by the sudden need to compulsively spy on our mini terrorist on the baby monitor. Staring at her sleep through the monitor app on my phone made us the weirdest couple at the bar, but I'll tell you this much - it sure does beat a punch in the face.

Little Miss Holy Terror

A while back, we had our little baby terrorist baptized. We figured it couldn't hurt. She got to wear a pretty white dress, we got to hang out with our closest family and friends, and if God smiled down on us and helped the little terror sleep through the night and wreak a tad less havoc, then it was all worth it.


I spent a good portion of my youth quietly suffering through Mass, bored but well behaved because of the divine promise not of heaven but rather donuts afterward. Throughout my teen years, I rebelled and insisted on making my mother rue the day she decided to enroll me in Catholic school. Though fun, I was eventually plagued by the Catholic guilt that inevitably follows no matter how enjoyable giving the middle fingered salute to the religion (and the Catholic school uniform) that I love to hate and, as I got older, begrudgingly hated to love.


And so, for the cosmic and profound reasons stated above, I began the process of attempting to have little Miss Holy Terror baptized.


Those Catholics don't make it easy. First of all, my husband and I weren't married in the Catholic Church. I really wanted to get married by the ocean and I wanted the ceremony to be really short because let's face it, as seriously as one should take marriage, I wanted to zoom through the vows and get straight to the booze. I do, I do, smooch smooch, lawfully wed, let's drink to that. Unfortunately, in my haste to toast to marital bliss, I inadvertently made it difficult to baptize the baby that was but a twinkle in our buzzed eyes.


The Church wanted us to get remarried by the priest. Not only that, they made us attend Mass three times and then attend a class before they would even agree to take our monetary donation that would ensure our daughter's salvation. We went to the mandated Mass, took notes because I was worried that there might be a pop quiz, and eventually were cleared to baptize the mini.


The day of the baptism was beautiful but intimidating because I was convinced that the priest was trying to trick me. First off, he indicated that the parents should sit in the front row. Completely forgetting that I am indeed a parent, I ushered my mom and dad into the front row. The priest raised an eyebrow at me as he questioned whether or not I was the mother of the baby. Oh right. Sometimes I forget that I was not just a gestational carrier, that I am not just keeping the baby terrorist alive until her real mother returns. Sheepishly, I traded places with my mom and took my rightful spot next to my husband as the actual parental units.


He then proceeded to ask what we were asking of the church today. I knew there was going to be a pop quiz! I was not prepared. I started to sweat profusely. My heart raced. I am such a fraud, I am hardly Catholic, I didn't know there was going to be a test, I didn't study...I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, at a loss for words (which is a rare occurrence for this babbling Brooke) and gave an alarmed look at my husband. He looked at me, worried that perhaps I was having a stroke, and answered the priest.


"We are here to baptize our daughter," he said calmly.


Oh, right. That's what we're here for. Well that was a trick question! Anyone could have been fooled by that. I gathered my composure, sat up straight, and assumed what I thought was the air of a no nonsense mother there to guarantee her child a coveted spot in heaven.


"And what name have you chosen for your child?" the priest asked.


SHIT! I didn't know I was supposed to pick out a NAME! I racked my brain quickly for a nice sounding Catholic name. I should have paid closer attention in my high school religion classes. All that Vacation Bible School wasted. Ruth? Esther? Esther! That's a good one! I opened my mouth to shout my well thought out choice when I heard my sister say slowly -


"Reeeeeaaaaagannn..." with a sidelong glance in my direction.


Wow. The answer was that easy, huh. I just had to tell the priest her real name. Again, what a trick question! That priest was shifty, I am telling you. I quickly regrouped, hoping that God was too busy to read my thoughts, and left the question answering to my husband and sister for the remainder of the ceremony.


So though it wasn't without a hitch, the baby terrorist was upgraded to a Holy Terror and this mama was reminded that I am in serious need of some salvation.

The Poop, Scoot & Boogie

I thought I had reached a point in motherhood where nothing poop related could gross me out. I was pretty sure I had seen in it all. In fact, I was pretty cocky in the poop department. I pretty much fancied myself a veteran of domestic poop wars.

You know what they say, pride goeth before the great poop fall.

My husband had been out of town for two weeks on a work trip. He finally returned home, and I was more than excited to have an extra pair of hands helping me wrangle my tiny terrorist. He came home sick, however, and being a man and therefore an even bigger baby than, say, my actual baby, he went straight to the doctor. So there I was, rocking the mommy thing alone again - or so I thought.


I ran the bath like I do every night, completely unaware of the impending crisis that was about to go down. Just as her baby toes hit the bath water, a pooptastrophe of pretty epic proportions struck. Because this has, believe it or not, happened to me before, I was grossed out but still relatively unphased. I thought I was an old pro at handling this type of situation. Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen next.

Just as I was about to whisk her out of the tub, she grabbed a handful of poop and with a devilish gleam in her eye she crammed it into her mouth! Not being as cool a cucumber as I thought I was, I started to scream. At the sound of my wail, her eyes widened in fear and she began to match my screams.

And there we stood, both of us screaming, when it occurred to me - I literally don't know shit.

The Snot Sucker

The Snot Sucker. The first time I heard of this simple little device, I wrinkled my nose in disgust and filed it away in my brain files under "Never Gonna Use It. Ever. In a Hundred Million Bazillion Years. You Will Have To Kill Me First." And yet, here I am writing a rave blog post about the grossest and most effective little thing in the whole wide world.

We've made it 7 months, 1 week and 2 days without the little baby terrorist getting sick. Now that she is on the move, I am constantly trying to save her from self destruction, but I have managed to keep her from catching any germs that might have the wild idea of manifesting into a cold. It's not that I have been proactive in germ prevention department. I've just been lucky. Sadly, my luck ran out and the baby terrorist began sniffling a few nights ago. By yesterday, she was a full fledged snot machine, blowing nose mucus bubbles I couldn't help but admire.

I quickly emailed the doctor and was told to avoid cold medicine but to use either an aspirator or a NoseFrida - aka the Snot Sucker. Well, naturally, I was all oh hell no, not gonna use that snot sucker! That puppy is gross and I am never going to be the mother that sucks snot out of my baby's nose.

Fast forward 3 hours, and I am totally that mother who sucks snot out of my baby's nose. I would do anything to make that poor little terrorist feel better.

It wasn't such an easy sell on the husband. I was going to sneak out to Target, tricking him into thinking he was going to get to do some yard work. Trust me, the man loves doing yard work. Backyard time is his version of my watching Real Housewives while binge eating chocolate. Yet on this day, he was all about accompanying me as I ran errands. Shit. I was going to have to think fast.

I began with talking about buying a humidifier. I then eased into talking about this really awesome thing called a NoseFrida! It's so cool! And fun! And the baby is going to love it! The husband was on board until I quickly sandwiched the phrase "andyousuckthesnotoutwithyourmouth" super fast between It's so cool! and Fun! He went silent for a moment, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and finally asked me if I was serious.

I laid on a healthy dose of guilt even though I, too, was mortified at the prospect but, because we love that little congested baby terrorist, he finally consented.

As we unstrapped the baby from the car seat, a peculiar smell met our nostrils. I started to laugh hysterically as I often do in very uncomfortable situations as we realized that there was a poop-tastrophe of epic proportions splattered all over the baby and the car seat and now, my poor husband. Because I am nothing short of a hot mess, I had neglected to grab the diaper bag which was conveniently stocked with diapers and an extra outfit. So, in we marched to Target, heads held low in shame, two of the three of us covered in poop, and proceeded to make our necessary purchases (the humidifier and the Nose Frida) and a couple of unplanned purchases (diapers, wipes and a new outfit for the baby). One of these days I will get it together. That, however, was not the day.

The baby terrorist of course screamed bloody murder when we began the snot sucking process. She probably thought we were trying to suck out her brain and at one point I began to think it might be a possibility, because this contraption really is that amazing. And now I am not sure which is more alarming, the fact that I am now an unapologetic snot sucker or the fact that I am willing to share it with the world. File that in your brain file under "No Shame - This Shit Works."

When You Don't Know What You're Doing, It's Best To Do It Quickly

Worry could have been my middle name. I worry about anything and everything. I stay up at night worrying about worrying, and then when there is nothing to worry about, I worry about that. I am a human version of Chicken Little, with whom I have always felt a bit of a connection. He had a legitimate concern. Although the sky may not have literally been falling, in his world it was crashing down and that is definitely something to worry about.

If I thought I worried before, nothing compares to the worries I have now that I have my very own little baby to raise. She keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. 

I don't just worry about tomorrow. I am constantly fretting over what will happen in two weeks, five months, ten years. I enjoy bringing up my concerns with my husband right as we are going to bed, which he does not enjoy and usually dozes off as I am mid worry rant. So, naturally, I worry that we don't talk enough about the things that worry me most.

This is a laundry list of the things I am most worried about at the moment. I am leaving off quite a few items so as not to overwhelm you.

I worry the baby is not gaining enough weight, and then I worry I feed her too much.

I worry that she doesn't like bananas. For crying out loud baby, bananas are delicious!

I worry when she doesn't fight me when I put her to bed at night. 

I worry when she fights me when I put her to bed at night.

I worry when she sleeps through the night, and when she doesn't I worry that she never will.

I worry that I am not absorbing every moment I have with her because I am too tired, too distracted, too busy worrying about what is going to happen next.

I worry that she thinks the only clothes I own are yoga pants.

I worry that I don't worry enough.

I worry about that my husband and I are way too into talking about the baby's poop. We talk about poop with genuine interest over dinner. It's disgusting and fascinating.

Now that the baby is mobile, I worry just about every second that she is going to get injured on my watch. I envision the courtroom proceedings as the mean old prosecutor tells the jury, "She put the baby to bed and then made herself a vodka tonic as if nothing was wrong." I'll be splattered all over 20/20, Dateline and 60 Minutes and yes, as you can see, I worry about that.

I worry when I enjoy being at work.

I worry that this nanny thing is working out. 

I worry that if I get a babysitter on the weekend I am a horrible mother because she was with the nanny all week. No date night for mommy and daddy, unless you count a rushed dinner and binge watching Homeland as romantic.

I worry that her first word will be "nanny."

Scratch that. I actually worry that her first word might be of the four letter kind, as I have been horrible about watching my language around her sweet baby ears.

I worry that I cram a 40 hour work week into 22 hours so that I can spend more time with her, and then I worry that because I am rushing through work I am failing professionally.

I worry that when I have to put in longer hours at work, I am failing as a mother.

I worry that because I stretch myself so thin, I am bound to drop the ball at any moment. That once I screw up, a domino effect will ensue and my carefully stacked house of cards will come crashing down.

I worry about the way having a baby has changed the dynamic of most of my relationships.

I worry that all of this worrying is causing premature gray hairs and wrinkles. Oh wait, that's actually not just a worry. That's a reality for this girl.

I worry that I forget everything. I trail off mid sentence. This mommy brain thing has me worried that I am suffering from an early onset of Alzheimers.

I worry about school districts and what her musical taste will be when she is a teen. God help me if we don't share a similar love for the banjo.

Then there is my husband. That sweet man with a head full of zzz's, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Who doesn't even worry about what is happening in the next hour, let alone tomorrow or the next ten years. I worry about his life of bliss. Who does that?! 

Whenever I answer something with "No worries," the irony is not lost on me. No worries exists in the land of every little thing is gonna be alright. And yet, despite my atrocious number of neurotic worries, it seems that for now, maybe although every little thing isn't perfect, it really might be alright.

The Family That Baseballs Together, Stays Together

It's no big secret that I am a true blue Dodgers fan. Year after year, I am a glutton for punishment as those boys in blue toy with my emotions. Each season, I think this is it! This is our year. I stick it out to the bitter end, and believe me, the end typically is bitter. Disheartened but not deterred, I look ahead with hope to spring, when my faith is renewed with the smell of pine tar, beer and hot dogs.

I tell you this because this year, I decided that I haven't suffered at the hands of the Dodgers or the baby terrorist quite enough. Nope! I had the brilliant idea that a road trip to spring training from San Diego to Arizona with an infant would be the best thing ever. I usually think of myself as an intelligent girl, but decisions such as these tend to make me and those around me question my sanity. Much like the Dodger baseball season, our road trip was filled with peaks and valleys, hope and desperation, the freedom of the open road and the solitary confinement of the car. 

Rather than regale you with a long tale of our misadventure, I will instead give you a visual montage of what a Greene family road trip looks like.

We started out stoked, excited for the adventure ahead. The baby terrorist instantly fell asleep, a sign of good things to come. Around El Centro, we were just starting to feel bored when we realized that we were getting a free air show! The Blue Angels were practicing, so we thought we should stop and have a look.

Feeling spunky, we got the baby terrorist out of the car and took a family photo. 

As you can see, we are all having a great time, baby terrorist included. However, good times were not to last long. A few miles down the road, the baby decided she was just about done with the car seat and she was going to tell us all about it.

Our love of the open road quickly turned into a hatred of all things desert related. Will this road never end? Why haven't we seen a road runner? Why are there so many cactuses? (A fight then ensued about whether or not it is cactuses or cacti. We really know how to party.) For the love of God, will that baby EVER stop CRYING?! Tensions ran high as we crossed the border into Arizona. I looked longingly out the window at a sign pointing toward Mexico, entertaining the idea of opening up my passenger door and doing a fancy tuck roll out of the car, not stopping until I found myself face to face with a tequila shot, a pristine beach, a pitcher of margaritas and a mariachi band singing songs of freedom as they welcomed me, baby and husband free, to a lifetime of leisure. 

And then, just like that, the baby terrorist had cried herself out and fell into a glorious slumber. Renewed, we cranked up the radio and sang along to a little ditty about Jack and Diane. Spring training, here we come! 

We finally made it to Phoenix and to her credit, the baby terrorist handled the game like a champ. It was hot and crowded but she is most definitely our daughter because she rocked her Dodger gear and cheered along with us as LA beat the Padres 5-0.

Because we are crazy and cheap, we thought we'd save ourselves some money and head back to San Diego right after the game. Like all seemingly good ideas, it started out great. Our little road dog was down for the ride.

Alas, the good times did not last long. The baby terrorist employed new tactics to try and convince us to set her free from the car seat. Instead of a high pitched screaming wail, she instead puckered up her perfect pout and looked as sad and forlorn as can be.

It tugged my heart strings and I spent the next 100 miles or so torturing my husband with my fears that I was a terrible mother, sentencing my poor daughter to years of couch time in a therapist's office. I could tell that he was really stoked to have that conversation.

And just as all seemed lost, we finally pulled into our driveway and told ourselves that we had fun fun FUN and we can't wait to do it again NEXT YEAR!! YEAAAH! And you know what? We probably will because it is misadventures like this that make us a family and let's face it, the family that baseballs together, stays together.

20 Types of Boys That I Can't Have Dating My Daughter

I am the mother of an extremely adorable baby terrorist. The other day I got to thinking far into the future, which I am notorious for doing, and thinking about the types of boys I would be mortified if she brought home. Of course, she won't be dating until she is 100 and if it were up to her father, she will be enrolled in "nun school." He thinks that is an actual thing and I don't have the heart to correct him. 

Now, I know that this is silly and unrealistic. At some point, the baby terrorist is going to grow into a teenage terrorist, then a college terrorist and I am certain she will inevitably bring home a boy that her dad and I will want to punch in the face. We'll clutch our hearts and clench our teeth and chug cocktails until she comes to her senses and decides that her mom and dad should arrange her marriage with a nice, respectable boy that we have hand picked. 

I have compiled a list of boys that should she bring one home, I might just keel over and die on the spot. I consulted my husband and without even showing him my list, his number one was the same as mine. Apparently we really hate skinny jeans. Should the baby terrorist bring home any of the types of boys listed below, I am going to have to enlist some really embarrassing mom tactics to sabotage the relationship and if that fails, the neighborhood liquor store will see a serious boost in sales because mama is going to need a drink.

1. A boy who wear skinny jeans. Your ass is not that fine, we don't want to see it, get off our front porch. You are not dating our daughter.

2. A San Francsico Giants fan. Since the baby terrorist is a Dodgers fan, this is a star-crossed lover relationship doomed to end in tragedy.

3. A boy who bumps gangster rap. I may be an old lady, but I don't want anyone rolling up to my crib with the bass bumping, vibrating my humble abode as he advertises that girls are bitches and hoes. Sorry, honey, cancel your plans. You're staying in tonight, eating popcorn with your mother and watching wholesome Disney movies.

4. A boy who wears glasses even though he doesn't need them. What is with this trend? Your non-prescription glasses don't make you look smart, it makes me annoyed. And I don't want you dating my daughter.

5. A boy who honks his horn instead of ringing the doorbell. You can honk all you want buddy, but you aren't going out with my daughter. 

6. A boy who sags his pants. I hope he trips walking up the driveway. Then we can all have a good laugh and the baby terrorist will understand our stance on low hanging jeans. And if he is sagging his skinny jeans, we can cross #1 and #6 off our list at once!

7. A boy who doesn't make eye contact. I don't trust you, Shifty.

8. A boy who calls my husband "bro." No, bro. It's time to go.

9. A boy who has naked girl mud flaps. You sir, are a douche.

10. A boy who picks up our daughter late because he lost track of time playing video games. You are adult enough to date, so you should be adult enough to put down the video game.

11. He doesn't believe in having a job while in high school. If your parents gave you money for this date, I probably won't like you.

12. A boy with a Justin Beiber haircut. I realize that by the time the baby terrorist is old enough to date the Beibs will probably be obsolete, but I find that haircut so annoying. I can't be bothered with my own bangs, let alone the bowl and bang hair style of my daughter's boyfriend.

13. A boy who wears any type of Affliction clothing.

14. A boy wearing more hair product than either myself or my daughter.

15. A boy with a flat billed hat. It makes me want to snap that baseball hat off your head and smack you in the face with your own bill just to add insult to injury.

16. A boy who says "you know what I'm saying?" No. I don't know what you are saying. And if you saying what I think you are saying, then I don't like you and you can kindly leave.

17. A boy who is really into his car, but hasn't put a dime of his own money into it.

18. A boy who takes too many selfies! The definition of "too many" is up to my discretion but if I have seen more pictures of your face making stupid expressions with lame captions then perhaps you should just date yourselfie. See what I did there? 

19. A boy who comments on what or how much she eats. 

20. A boy who doesn't hold open the door for her. Get some manners, bro, you know what I'm saying?

If you are the mother of a girl or a boy, what would you add to this list? 

A Twist in Terror Tactics - a Valentine's Day Attack

As you may have read, venturing out with the baby terrorist can be a traumatic experience. I race through the grocery store aisles, frantically grabbing goods off the shelves and throwing anything and everything into my cart in fear that at any moment, there may be a meltdown of nuclear proportions. Once that cute little terrorist of mine starts the scream wind up, I am out of that store in thirty seconds flat. If we ever have to escape our house in the case of an emergency, I've got it covered. I have no problem leaving a cart full of groceries in the middle of the store, leaving a house full of belongings, a dressing room full of clothing as I sprint outside, the baby strapped to me like a live grenade.

But this Valentine's Day, everything changed.

Maybe it was the feeling of love all around, or the smell of chocolate permeating the air, but this time our trip to the grocery store was completely different. The sweet baby terrorist is now able to sit upright in the shopping cart. She had on a very cute, pink dress and a ridiculously adorable bow in her hair. As I pushed the cart through the store, I began to marvel at the fact that I was leisurely lingering in the aisles, consciously putting food into the cart without interruption or fear. Everything was going smoothly, so of course, I panicked. What was going on? Was this the calm before the storm?

And then I saw it. People were literally stopping and staring at the baby terrorist with hearts dancing in their eyes. All I could hear around me were ooh's and ahh's and oh look at the baby, look at the baby! Baffled, I looked around, certain there was an angelic baby somewhere in the vicinity and that mom was definitely getting the stink eye from me and my baby terrorist. Slowly, incredulously, I began to realize that these people were talking about my baby! I slowly turned to look at Bug and sure enough, there she was, smiling from ear to ear, showing off her two bottom teeth, eyes twinkling, looking like the cutest, most well behaved child in the world. She was smiling at each person who stopped to look at her, all "Hi! How ya doin'! Can you believe my mom calls me a baby terrorist? Got any chocolate?"

I'm not kidding. Men and women alike were stopping to talk to my baby, to let me know just how lucky I was to have such an adorable daughter.

No one noticed that I had actually found a spare second to put on some makeup and do my hair. I had on my Valentine's Day outfit, too, but next to the baby terrorist I was just the woman pushing the  throne to the pretty little princess who was busy perfecting her precocious grin for all to admire. There was not a person in that grocery store who thought that perhaps this little charmer had gotten half of her good looks from me, and clearly she has her daddy's ability to flash a grin and all is forgiven.

And then it hit me. I am no match for this baby terrorist. She is employing tactics that I can't even begin to combat. But I do know that for the patrons of this particular grocery store, she may just have been the catalyst for the creation of Valentine's Day baby terrorists, made with love and delusions of baby bliss.

Booze & Bad Decisions - A True Greene Love Story

Since Valentine's Day is upon us, I think it might be time to share the tale of how I met the man to whom I am now married, with whom I am in debt for the next 30 fixed years and with whom I am currently in the trenches taking grenades from the baby terrorist. It's a lovely story, really. If you like scheming, strategizing and steamrollers then boy, is this a love story tailor made just for you.

Let's rewind back to the carefree days of yore, when I was a mere 21 year old college student at UC Santa Cruz, full of dreams, ideologies, booze and bad decisions.

Always liking to keep a little green in my pocket, I was working at the front desk of a hotel near the Boardwalk. After living in Santa Cruz for a few years, I had come to love the winter months because it meant fewer tourists, which translated into me getting paid to do my homework while manning the front desk. The hotel, however, had a different agenda comprised of the money making mentality and, in an effort to fill their rooms they decided to rent out the top floor to college students. Little did I know that this one decision (and several questionable choices on my part) would alter the course of my life forever.

One fateful afternoon as the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, I was sitting at the front desk alternating between mindlessly staring at my Sociology book and wishfully glaring at the second hand on the clock as it slowly ticked away the final hours of my seemingly endless shift. Just as I decided time couldn't possibly move any more monotonously, in walked the future husband and just like that, time stood still.

I like to remember this moment because, as unrealistic and sappy as it sounds, it was one of those split seconds where life changes completely. I try to go back to this moment when we are yelling at one another, arguing about how it isn't rocket science to put dirty clothes in the hamper rather than on the floor of the bathroom, how if he comes home to one more of my online shopping packages on the doorstep we are going to go bankrupt, and oh my god HOW do you NOT hear the baby SCREAMING?! I fall back into this memory because we have been together for 10 years and we have met more than our share of challenges, but from the instant I looked up from that front desk a decade ago, I knew that no matter where life took me from that point forward, he would be along for the ride.

He walked into the office and stood in front of the front desk. The way the afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the blinds highlighted his green eyes, making them sparkle. He smiled and I never heard him say hello because oh sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. And I kid you not, though it might make you puke, I thought to myself "that is the man I am going to marry and he doesn't even know it."

He, however, only remembers that my face turned beet red and he thought to himself (probably in a voice similar to that of a caveman), "Huh. Her face is really red." Typical.

The reason he was standing in front of me, eyes all twinkling, dimples all dimpling, was because he had lost his room key. I made him a key and off he went, leaving me sputtering and blushing and being completely uncool.

From that point forward, he would come in almost every shift I worked with the excuse that he had lost his key. I would make him a new one and watch him ride his bike to baseball practice, smugly thinking that he definitely was totally into me because seriously, no one loses their key every. single. day.

What a fool I was! Here we are, married with a baby, and he literally loses his key every. single. day. It was no excuse to talk to me, he was not playing flirty games, he was not determined to date me. He just couldn't find his key and at the end of the day, the man needed to get into his room.

He and the other students living on the top floor used to play a little beer pong in the hallway. They would store their beers in the ice machine and the guests on the lower floors would call me and complain about the noise. I would run up to the top floor and not wanting him to think I was a square, I would slam a beer, blush wildly, ask them nicely to keep it down and then run away. 

One night, we ran into each other at the Seabright Brewery. I was dressed up and absolutely tipsy enough to be incredibly witty and full of hilarious stories that made me adorable. I was just enough fun that his friends invited me to a party afterward, but I sadly declined because he didn't invite me himself. He and his baseball buddies left the bar with a dimpled goodbye and a noncommittal maybe I'll see you later, and that was that.

I didn't hear from him for three days. I furiously wrote him off, telling myself that he could take his sparkly green eyes and shove it up his sparkly Greene ass for all I cared. I had better things to do, like hitting up happy hour and, and, .... and then the phone rang. It was one of his friends asking if I had heard from him.

"NO!" I yelled. "And if you see him, tell him - "

Before I could finish my sentence, his friend told me to take a deep breath and prepare myself because he wasn't ignoring me. He had gotten himself into a bit of a sticky situation and was having trouble charming his way out of it.

Apparently, my dimpled green eyed dream boy had channeled his country boy roots and hot wired a steamroller. This may be common practice in his little home town of Arbuckle, but driving it down 7th Avenue in Santa Cruz in the middle of the night is, folks, a felony. Being the daughter of a very strict dad who happened to be in law enforcement, I sadly thought that this might be the end of our love story.

Remember when I said I was young and full of bad decisions?

I had every intention to go to the gym. Every intention. But the gym was right by the courthouse, and would it really hurt if I just popped in to see if his arraignment was around that time? And there he was, in all his orange glory, being laughed at by the judge as he ruled that this boy was no felon, he was just stooopid.

And so a love story was born amidst the rubble of a narrowly avoided misadventure. 10 years have come and gone and we look back, shake our heads, laugh a little and turn the page, knowing that we can't rewrite the chapters that have brought us to this point. And even if we could, would we? We have the blank pages of tomorrow's chapters waiting for the next ridiculous story to be written. He will probably leave his dirty clothes on the floor and I will definitely continue to shop online and oh my god seriously, you HAVE to hear the baby SCREAMING!

But his green eyes still sparkle when the sun hits them just right and when our baby smiles, I can see his dimples on her sweet face. And that's enough for me.

We're so little! Circa 2004

All is Quiet on the Western Front

All is quiet on the Western front and this has me quite nervous. The baby terrorist has been laying low, smiling a lot, taking forty minute naps in her crib and almost sleeping through the night. She happily eats her sweet potatoes, laughs at some of my jokes and rewards my good behavior with a burst of babbling.

I am terrified.

Just last week, I was fighting with her about anything and everything. She was the root cause of arguments with my own parents. I was fairly certain that I might leave my husband in the dead of night in our home that has begun to resemble a homier version of Guantanamo Bay so that he would finally be forced into waking up and negotiating sleep with the adorable yet diabolical baby terrorist.

Seriously, the worst thing that has happened in the last three days is when she spit out a mouthful of butternut squash straight into my face. In her defense, I should have seen it coming. I don't even like butternut squash. I buy it in a halfhearted attempt to show that I eat my veggies. It is just bad parenting to pawn it off onto the baby. Do as I say, not as I do apparently is my mantra.

Impending doom must be directly around the corner, right?

I recently read an article written by a non parent who fancies herself a prospective parent but is scarred by all of these scary mom blogs. She has a point. I have had readers inform me that my blog is terrifying. I admit that scaring people straight has become somewhat of a hobby of mine. Perhaps I take keeping it real just a little too far. But I need you to know, to fully understand, what I am dealing with here. I used to be full of satire and cocktails, and now I am holed up in a sleeper cell of baby terrorism which is just a silly thing to say since there is not a whole lot of sleeping going on here. 

But now I am cautiously typing as I find myself in the midst of a cease fire. No treaty has been signed, but the baby and I are acting like a couple of frenemies who are definitely on again this week. Next week she might stab me in the back and I will probably talk smack about her on my blog, but right now, right this second, we're cool.

What is a wannabe mommy blogger who has built a story line around her very own baby terrorist to do? Once again, she has won because now I am practically begging her to give me a little material. 

I'm holding my breath - stay tuned.