Big day, friends. Big day.

A coupla things.

First of all, I’ve decided that I really enjoy writing in my closet. It could either be because there are minimal distractions, or because there is a really comfortable pile of laundry that I lean on. It’s like a Love Sac, you guys. It just forms right to you. Reason #28 why I’m never finishing laundry. #closetwriter

Secondly (which should be the real first, as it trumps my pants and socks swaddling me right now), everyone is feeling better! Gus’s ear is all recovered and normal, as I would sure hope it would be after $200 ear drops. Even though they’re hard to keep up with, I love my boys’ little personalities and energy back full throttle!

In other news, we bought a new car today! Well, not new. Used. New to our driveway. My favorite part of our new purchase is knowing how hard Brian’s worked the past eight years. That “working independently” route is a bumpy one. My being a financial contributor in our family makes me appreciate his work so much more. It’s tricky to balance the stress of both your home and job! I’m not a car person, but I’m kind of obsessed with Brian’s new purchase now, and so proud of him. It won’t feel like this car is really, officially OURS until one of my kids throws up in it, though, so I’ll let you know when that happens.

Brian has been shopping around for a little while, but I’m always sentimental about seeing past cars go. Brian has owned the same car the entire time I’ve known him. That’s the car that picked me up in for our first date! It drove me to my college graduation ceremonies, cosmetology school, and to the hospital to have both my babies. It’s the car I squealed in right after Brian proposed, and where I sat to call my out-of-state parents and telling them all about it. I don’t know, I have an emotional attachment issue. I’ll see you on Hoarders.

This evening, I thought we might celebrate our new addition by going out to dinner, but then I realized we probably spent all our money. Plus, Brian was busy. I don’t see him often these days!

That seems like a really stupid thing to type as I’m laying here in a pile of his clothes.

Wait, is this a diary entry? Is that what this blog is? An online diary? Just wondering, now that I’ve announced it on Facebook to an awkward pool of past boy-things and people who aren’t really my friends anymore…

The seven year old me, locking my Lisa Frank diary, would be mortified.

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It’s like not wasting money when you’re kind of wasting money.

I’m a sucker for stamp cards and loyalty rewards. I don’t know if these incentives really save me that much money, but it is sure exciting. Café Rio, for instance, is like, “Thanks for dropping $150! For that, we gift you this aluminum tin filled with beans and rice.” The generosity for my loyalty may be underwhelming, but I’m so tickled by it, I’m tattooing an entire sleeve of Café Rio’s house dressing on my left arm.

I may cool things off with Café Rio now that I’ve found eBates (which reinforces that whole “don’t get tattoos of loves” thing).

My best friend Jessy recently told me about eBates, and I can’t believe she held out on me so long. It’s essentially a search engine that pays you a percentage of purchases made after starting on their page. Lululemon? Nordstrom? Nike? Amazon? Yes. All of it. We are all idiots for not using it.

You just sign up, hop on to eBates.com, and search for your favorite online stores, click on it, and it takes you to that site! That’s it! Shop like usual! Quarterly, eBates sends you a check for a certain percentage of what you’ve spent using their search engine.

But really, a check.

HELLO.

YOU NEED IT.

And I didn’t even have to wrestle anyone into a car seat to get a stamp card punched.

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Has Facebook Raised Blood Pressure, or…?

I move at a snail’s pace with this writing thing.

Or molasses.

More like that last-drop-of-honey pace, when you’re squeezing the life out of that little honey bear’s neck, trying to meet the toast demands of your three year old master.

That’s me. I’m that annoying little drop of honey that bungee jumps in and out a few times because it can’t commit to it’s toast fate.

But! I did make a couple of “swing for the fences” submissions, and I did make strides in self-promotion the other day and reactivated my Facebook.

I hadn’t been on Facebook in six or seven years, and I was unaware of the complaint forum it’s evolved into. Ricardo, were we friends? Your public complaints about the tortillas at a certain Café Rio location leave me feeling embarrassed for you. Also, I’ll eat your tortilla if you don’t want it.

And who are all these other people? Were these my friends? Are we sure?

Why is everyone trying to sell me stuff?

Am I still a woman if I didn’t march anywhere this week?

And THIS is who I kissed that one time? Has my contact prescription changed since then, or was I really into personalities?

I’m going to have to delete several hundred people (and photos from 2004-2008), and then I’ll be posting writing. I’m assuming it will be a better platform for me to avoid taking a million embarrassing selfies and just write.

If there is any future posting that you can relate to, feel free to Facebook re-post! I’d love you forever.

Unless you start complaining too much…then I will retract my love like that little honey bungee.

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I’d Like to Title Today “L-O-L.”

I would like to title today “L-O-L.”

Even though I was not laughing out loud, I think the universe was. At me.

Because I’ve being up multiple times a night this entire week (and because I don’t have a newborn), I hit the pillow everrrry night with the thought, “This is my night. Tonight. I. Sleep.” The moon says, “LOL! See you in thirty!”

I tried to do my slept-on-it-wet hair this morning, and my hair was like, “LOL!”

I thought Gus’s ear infection issues would be a simple fix…two weeks ago. LOL!

I thought Gus’s ear infection situation would finally be resolved at the doctor today! LOL!

If we have to go to a specialist, odds are good that we will meet our deductible in a month! LOLSIES!

We discovered the price tag on Gus’s third prescription, and my bank account said, “LOL!”

I almost took a nap today, and Roscoe said, “LOL. Mom. LOLOLOL.”

I tried to Google (misspelled) “My 3 year old won’t take medicine” for some new ways to sneak Advil to Gus without him throwing up, and I actually did LOL. By the looks of the suggested search items, looks like 3 year olds are collectively conspiring against the world. Or just real jerks.

Good one, January 19.

What a weird week.

Sidenote: I’ve noticed that when I reach a certain threshold of sleeplessness, really obscure thoughts/memories bubble up to the forefront of my mind. They’re long forgotten mementos from my life that escape confinement when my brain is so tired, it literally can’t even (like me, with my kids today, when I let them watch Mickey over and over and let Roscoe run all over and over).

I couldn’t get Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” out of my head last night, and today I suddenly remembered how eager I was to try a Giada brunch recipe I’d seen around Thanksgiving several years ago. So, there I was tonight, standing in front of a blender with a little guy hanging on my leg, making a sage hollandaise sauce.

Brian came home from work, nonchalantly set down the box of tampons he’d been requested to buy (LOL), and swept up the boys’ dinner (and breakfast) from the floor. Bless Brian. I don’t know if he competely disregarded my one-person,Thanksgiving-inspired brunch for dinner because I looked like I was going to crack, or because I looked like I was on crack, but either way, it was much appreciated “LOL” ending to an “LOL” day.

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Midnight Mixology

I once worked at a bar. Okay, not really a BAR, per se, but I worked at a Vegas pool, which is essentially the same thing, right?

I’m not a drinker and had zero experience with fancy alcoholic beverages, so I was pretty intrigued watching the bartenders. During events, the other girls would sometimes fulfill their own drink orders instead of waiting for the bartender…but obviously, I couldn’t. What was a twist? What was a margarita with a Grand Marnier floater? Sounded like French backwash.

Sorry, bartender, I’ll just wait for you for anything I need that isn’t in a Dasani bottle.

At some point, however, I did make a few mojitos. Turns out that I was a heavy pourer and the alcohol : soda ratio was astronomical.

No extra round of drinks were needed after one Mormon mojito!

That summer job has popped into mind as I’ve been up late night drink concocting the past couple weeks with sick babies. Without fail, Gus throws up any medicine the second it hits his tongue, so we mix it in his drinks as discreetly as possible.

The mixers and the hard stuff.

A few nights ago, I spent the hours of 3:30AM-5AM digging out Koolaid and perfecting drink mixtures. Grape Motrin pairs well with apple juice or blue Hawaiian Punch. Chocolate milk seems to be working well to mask amoxicillin. Cherry Tylenol was okay with lemonade, but the bubble gum Advil? Ugh. Can’t hide bubble gum in anything.

I was confident in my drink combinations, but I presented them with Goldfish chasers, just in case.

(Just for the record, I’m an exact 5 ml/1 tsp pourer these days.)

I know I haven’t slept in days when I think this is all hilarious…

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I Either Smell like Aunt Linda or a Stripper

Ever since my family’s Park City girl’s trip a few months ago, I’ve been really into perfumes. That’s because my Aunt Linda, who is beautiful and always smells the way the glitter emoji looks, shared her latest dreamy scent with me. Here she is.

Now, I, too, smell like sparkles, even when trying to get everyone EQUAL cups and EQUAL drinks at lunch.

Have you read fragrance vocabulary? Whoa. Poetic people must always smell like my Aunt Linda.

“Its warm incense undertone lends it a dusky, somber quality, while the top notes reminiscent of freshly cut wood offer an interesting bright counterpoint. Although a beautiful and complex material, it is heavy and opaque, with a tendency to easily overwhelm other facets of the fragrance.”

That’s cool. My house has overwhelming top notes resembling a Costco box of diapers, with subtle notes of soiled ones, magnified by accords of bloated Honey Nut Cheerios that evaded the garbage disposal. The sweetness may give a robust floral fragrance.

I should bottle that up and call it, “Wednesday Mornings.”

In addition to Aunt Linda’s amazing perfume, I’ve been eyeing Prada Candy for a while. I’ve been second guessing it ever since I’ve had more than one stripper client rave about it, which seemed appropriate after reading it’s advertised description:

Prada CANDY is instantly seductive—pure pleasure wrapped in impulsive charm.

Definitely getting a different vibe than my “Wednesday Morning.”

Prada Candy, you’re a welcome addition to my mom-perfume curation.

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2017 Goals: No Goals

Taking my lights down before January 10th is maybe what I’ll aim for in 2018.

I didn’t make any New Years resolutions, because I tend to make unrealistically lofty goals that are completely unattainable. Make my bed EVERY day? Keep my car completely free of crumbs? Become super holy? Incorporate kale into an artistically plated lunch for my children?

The pressure is stifling.

My 2017 Goals that lasted until January 8th:

1. YOLO (you only live once) more often

2. Get our self-employed financial future in focus.

Two weeks into January, I’ve realized these two 2017 goals are contradictory (like I can even have a YOLO mentality if I’m selling a kidney right after I hire my body out for surrogacy) and that resolutions are a terrible idea. I find myself thinking things like this at night:

You only live once, but from the retirement brochures I’ve recently pored over, Americans these days are really outliving their savings, making me question the financial soundness of YOLO-ing. You might only live once, but it could be an unexpectedly long time, so calm down everyone at the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale.

If the YOLO situation is a potentially physically destructive feat, I’ll need to reevaluate. It’s ok, I guess, if my life insurance beneficiary is satisfied with my coverage amount.

The thought of the impending doom that is my real life financial responsibilities CRAMPING MY STYLE makes me want to just lay on the floor of my car and let the Goldfish crumbs engulf me. Let my burdens float away in a cloud of processed cheese.

So, actually, erase my name from the 2017 New Year’s Resolution lists, and don’t ever let “clean car” be a goal.

…or anything “healthy eating” related. I cherish all the donut photos on my phone.

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Regarding My Last Post…

Ok, hold on.

Thanks to all those long wearing lip colors (Lipsense, Kylie, and otherwise), I’m not looking perfect for 10 hours straight like everyone else seems to be. I’m sitting here looking like the Joker after scrubbing my face with only 90% removal success. I get it…you use makeup remover. What about that faint pink tint that’s still stained all over my mouth, like I’ve been lapping strawberry Kool Aid out of a dog bowl? What ABOUT that?

No wonder my kids aren’t scared of anything. Imagine the terrifying mother they see every morning after a red lipstick night out, smiling at them while she pours their Corn Pops…

I once had a rash like this when I was pregnant. Perioral dermatitis. Google it when you’re feeling bad about yourself.

Anyway, that’s a visual of me right now as I read and feel embarrassed by the many responses to my last post. My experience is so minuscule compared to others’ stories, and I’m just short of cringing for posting all my thoughts. It’s like I just pressed “submit” to posting a diary entry online, but I guess that’s kind of my M.O. on Fluent in Blonde.

…which is cool, until hundreds of people see your naked soul and how weird you really are. The dolphin girl on The Bachelor premiere understands exactly what I mean.

This is a round about way of saying thank you for deeply heartfelt thoughts and words. As unmerited as they are, I cannot believe how fortunate I am to have such a supportive, caring, inspirational network of friends and family. Thank you. Really.

(And if you REALLY love me, will you text me a good makeup remover? Because if not, you know the lipstick below isn’t coming off until Saturday.)

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My Notes on Miscarriage

With pregnancy comes the first lesson of motherhood: you’re not in charge anymore. This bullet point was highlighted a couple weeks ago as I miscarried.

I blame my out of whack hormones, but I surprised myself with my emotions, and realized that I honestly have never heard miscarriages discussed (until I talked to my friends Melissa and Jessy) to calibrate my own situation. I know miscarriages are common, and have had several friends miscarry early in pregnancy…so how is it that I didn’t know what to expect?

Is it because I’m THE awkward friend that reroutes all uncomfortable conversation because I don’t know how to best respond?

Or, is it because I’m still that middle school girl that didn’t know my own female anatomy well enough to figure out tampon placement without reading (with panicked uncertainty) Tampax’s included instructions? (THREE exits down there?!)

I’m a girl! Help a sister out and talk about these things!

So, here is my girl talk contribution.

After navigating through past pregnancies with no major issues, this miscarriage was a mid-Christmas bombshell. Drastic hormonal changes paired with the emotions led to some inevitable tears, but since I was just shy of eight weeks, I felt silly for crying. It seems irrational to cry about something you never really had.

But, I did. I cried.

Because I somehow let the most fragile flutters of a new heartbeat inside of me slip away.
Because it was more painful than I had expected.
Because I’d become so attached to the idea of a new baby in the summer.
Because even several hours in, I frantically held on to the dimming hope that I wasn’t miscarrying.
Because the pregnancy had been planned and talked about for months.
Because I felt guilty that my initial excitement of a positive pregnancy test was tinged with the fear of a midsummer due date in Las Vegas heat.
Because I was due on a best friend’s birthday.

And then I cried because I felt dumb for being sad. I’ve already been blessed with two beautiful, healthy children, both of whom were being forced to leave me alone so I could cry about all these weird things that don’t make sense.

But, real life continued.

As I was curled up on my bed during a particularly painful hour, and still feeling first trimester nausea, my boys decided they were bored with their fourth show. They jumped and danced around (and on) me to some weird Tiesto electronic dance mix on Spotify.

There was also a unicorn mask involved.

I couldn’t keep from smiling. In that moment, I was so thankful to be the lucky mama that got the super active, super physical, chipped-tooth wild ones. Ain’t no time for crying with the active kids if you care about your drywall, you know what I’m saying?

We left the house, got hot chocolate, and walked around a Christmas tree lot on the side of the freeway. Nothing invigorates the soul like inhaling fresh pine and the occasional semi truck exhaust.

And then, we were all happy again. (In hindsight, it could have been the fumes.) I am beyond blessed to have these two little buddies. I can never fully express my gratitude for my kids. Just for those few hours, they knew the caretaker roles had reversed, and sticky little fingers would always find my hand to hold.

After about a week, I was totally fine. I was still disappointed, and still looked a little bloated, but I had leveled out emotionally.

I am learning to not hate the moments that sting my heart a little. Those cloudy moments make everything else look a little brighter.

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