No, this is not my move from Miranda to Carrie, (quite honestly, I kind of love Miranda.  Cynicism is endearing in 2010.  You heard it here first).   The timing of this giveaway at the blog I share with Kristen and Summer, House of Dolls, is purely coincidental.  I mean, it’s not like we’re giving away Manolo’s.

And if we were I’d probably keep them to myself.  Shoe size would be irrelevant—if we’re advanced enough to have va-jay-jay rejuvy (sounds like a smoothie, doesn’t it?), then surely someone can figure out how to fit my size 9’s into 7’s.

But I digress.  Each of us is giving away some of our favorite beauty products—from MAC eye shadow to NARS lip pencil to mineral foundation.  I’m also contributing some sleep aids that are not of the prescription or over-the-counter persuasion.  Bath and Body Works has some awesome lavender bubble bath and pillow mist that got me through many bouts of insomnia after squeezing out the babes.  They’re almost as good as a glass of pinot grigio before lights out.

Almost.

Enter the ‘Doll Yourself Up’ giveaway—open until August 16^th!

July 29th, 2010 | Tags: giveaway, house of dolls | Category: otv main | Leave a comment

Every once in a while the husband has a good idea.

Every once in a while I actually listen to said good idea.

The other night we were talking about my blog.  It was midnight.  We were both tired but have this masochistic way of staying up regardless of the looming bout of narcolepsy and under-eye circles the next day will surely bring.  (Well, I was worried about the under-eye circles—him, not so much).

I was telling him how, after two hours of reading blogs and commenting, I felt like my own blog was missing something.  How, in real life, it’s hard for me to connect with people.  How I keep my guard up and keep people out.  How my real life was filtering into my blog life—I’m just the sarcastic girl with a snide comment in her back pocket in case of emergency. 

Husband: I can’t believe I’m about to use this analogy.

Me: What?

Husband: Well, it’s kind of like you’re Miranda.  Your blog is like Miranda from Sex and the City.  She’s funny and people laugh.  But everyone always wants to be Carrie.  They love her.  You have to figure out how to work some Carrie into your blog.

Me: Are you totally embarrassed right now?

Husband: A little bit.

Me: So, that means I have to talk about real things.  Like, not diarrhea.

Husband: Mm hmm.

Me: Or anything to do with vaginas. 

Husband: Right.

Me: And, to be like Carrie I’d have to lose about 4,000 pounds.

Husband: Sure.

Me: Although, Sex and the City is like one big vagina joke.  It just has a story behind the vagina joke.  It’s personal.  You feel like you have a relationship with the person who has the vagina.  And the jokes—about the vagina.

Husband: It’s sad that I completely understand what you’re saying.

On that note—Hello!  My name is Tiffany.  This is my blog.  I have nice eyes and think my voice sounds like a congested man’s.  When no one is home, I dance around the house in my underwear.  I miss buying MAC eye shadow and my pre-baby body.  I have three best friends who live everywhere but here and my heart misses and misses them.  I’m a Libra, but hardly balanced.  Thanks for hanging around here.  I’m a hard nut that’s totally worth cracking.

July 28th, 2010 | Tags: blogging, in the boudoir, sex and the city | Category: I have no idea what I'm talking about, Stuff about the husband, Things I should probably keep to myself, blogging | Comments (23)

Apparently, the Obama girls are going to start working hard for the money.  Babysitting. 

Who exactly they’re babysitting—I have no idea.  Probably Bristol Palin’s kid.

I never truly fulfilled this longtime teenage right of female passage into the workforce.  Yes, I made sure my brothers didn’t kill themselves drinking bleach or cracking their skulls whilst jumping on and falling off of beds while my parents were away, but that hardly counts.  I didn’t get paid for it and we have the same DNA—which I believe is directly correlated to the absence of payment.

However, babysitting the spawn of those completely unrelated to me is a different story.  Actually, I think I only babysat other people’s kids once or twice when I was 16 and I don’t remember any details except that at one point I debated pouring a laxative into the middle child’s milk before bed because he was surely off his meds and thou reapeth what thou seweth, you incorrigible prepubescent.

Considering that I find the general population as a whole totally annoying, I care even less for little people (my children excluded—sort of) constantly clawing at my ankles while their whiny voices pound against my eardrums begging for crackers or jelly and other things that crumb and smear with ease all over my $4.50 Hanes Her Way t-shirt. 

I’ve gone so far as boycotting my church because in order for me to drop my kids off at the child watch during the service, I must ‘volunteer’ in the child watch room once a month.  (The word ‘volunteer’ suffers from a grave misuse here.  Look it up, pastor who insists on saying ‘ironical’.  Look. it. up.)

I realize this is only fair, but, don’t get mad when you find your kid tied to a chair and crying with the gospel choir remix of the Wonder Pets theme song on repeat in his ear.  I told you I didn’t like children and a better trade would have been that you watch my kids and I’ll pretend your incessant badgering isn’t killing my Jesus buzz.

Then again, I might be able to get over myself for the right job.  The Palin babysitting gig must pay a fortune—if not in dollars then perhaps in a new wardrobe.  Maybe even a trip to Alaska.  Could we swing by Russia real quick when we’re done? 

I hear it’s like, right next door.*

*Sarah Palin jokes are so 2008.  Whatever.

July 26th, 2010 | Tags: babysitting | Category: Children rot your brain, Things I should probably keep to myself | Comments (22)

Toddlers and public restrooms are a combination of curiosity and ceramic tile that can only lead to illicit behaviors ending in tears (generally from the mother) and dousing bodies in antibacterial gel and wondering if maybe such gels really weren’t meant to be slathered across one’s bottom in an attempt to prevent herpes from attacking your three year olds nether regions far sooner than it should.

We spent approximately 27 hours in a car this past week.  G spent about 26 of the 27 hours watching the same episode of The Backyardigans and claiming she had to go to the bathroom while LB was whining, crying, or experiencing irritable bouts of explosive diarrhea courtesy of the eggs and bananas he’d eaten earlier.  Good times.

The husband and I looked at one another at each rest stop contemplating the lesser evil: standing in the Petri dish of a bathroom stall as urea and bleach destroyed all olfactory senses while we argued with G to please stop touching the tampon string hanging out of the ‘dispose of feminine products here’ box, or changing the egg and banana mash in LB’s diaper—an event that may or may not include accidental poop-to-skin contact followed by dry heaving and the upheaval of the contents of one’s stomach.

I ended up in the bathroom stall with G and repeating ‘do not touch anything!’ while I tried to line the toilet with nearly 5 rolls of toilet paper.  When she touched the flushing handle I was tempted to go Old Testament on her and cut the offending hand off with a nail file as no amount of soap and water could possibly save her.  Yeast infection and gonorrhea of the fingers—you win.              

So when I was forced to hold the door handle with my bare hands in order to exit a Burger King bathroom, I nearly vomited.

 For the love of God, public bathroom makers, you must ALWAYS have some sort of hand towel option even if you have that hot air blower thing.  This has little to do with drying my hands and everything to do with my making a clean break from any sort of vaginal wart/mad cow disease explosion that is obviously smeared all over fast food restaurant bathrooms as I’ve never been that good at opening doors with my elbows.

I couldn’t find my sanitizer and spent the rest of the trip with my hand in the air, not touching anything and trying not to curse.  This was somewhere around hour 25 in the car when my children were still either crying or playing the girl who cried ‘pee pee’ and I was beginning to wonder what was so bad about drinking and driving anyway.

It turns out, according to Chelsea Handler, a lot of things, to include rectal searches and peeing on the floor—two things that are pretty closely related to public restrooms if not its identical Siamese, conjoined at the head twin.

* * * * * *

I’m also here today…

July 22nd, 2010 | Tags: public bathrooms are gross | Category: Children rot your brain, food | Comments (23)

Guest post by The Flying Chalupa

A voice crackles over the plane’s ancient PA system.

It is perky.

Evil perky.

Air-America-F*ck-Yeah would like to welcome you aboard Flight 999, with non-stop service to Timbuktu.

My name is Cindi and I will be your flight attendant today, but you will know me as Bitch With A Badge.

Our flight is completely full, with at least 20 children under three, so please make sure to purchase our overpriced headphones to drown out the cacophony of the demon spawn surrounding you.

In the event that a baby begins screaming and your toddler thinks, “Wow, what a fun noise to imitate!”  I will magically appear by your side, with enough stale pretzels to stuff down your child’s mouth so it can’t make another sound.

If per chance there is a family sitting in a bulk head seat, I would like to inform you that you’re screwed.  The DVD player, the toys, the books, the stickers, the coloring book, the snacks – everything you need to survive for the next five hours?  Overhead bins.

Right now.  Chop chop.

Suckers.

During take-off, I must also remind you that no portable electronics are allowed.  And once again, that means your precious DVD player.

Not only does “Bob the Builder” somehow interfere with the wheels-up process, but we at Air-America-F*ck-Yeah believe that it is important to draw our young passenger’s attention to their popping ears.

It’s a special ten minutes in which you can bond with your child as you feel the power of the rising plane.

If, per chance, vomit also arrises, we’ve provided an extremely small bag in the seat pocket in front of you.

Best of luck with that.

In the event of turbulence, please maneuver your child into that damn C.A.R.E.S. harness to make you feel like you spent that $70 wisely and which you will promptly forget upon getting off the plane.

Once we reach our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet – also known as the 8th level of hell – feel free to walk your fidgety brat up and down the aisles.

Except, of course, during the food and beverage service.

With which I will take as long as humanly possible, offering you drinks that you have no time for and will most likely get spilled all over you.  

 Now that we have taxied to the runway, I have just been informed that despite the blue skies, there is “weather” in the area and we will be delayed indefinitely.

I would like to remind you that we are a moving vehicle, which means that lap children need to remain IN their parents’ lap, kicking the seat in front of them for as long and as hard as possible, and baggage needs to remain stowed until our indefinite take-off – the baggage with every sanity-saving measure of toddler distraction.

If you violate these cruel and unusual FAA rules, I will abuse this PA system until you hear my voice in your dreams.

Once in the air, our flight time will be an eternity and we are scheduled for arrival at Not-F*cking-Soon-Enough p.m.

The cabin doors have been sealed.

No one can save you now.

MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

July 20th, 2010 | Tags: guest post | Category: guest post | Comments (12)

Guest post by Leslie at Give Me Paws

 What’s the greatest invention of all time?  Wireless communication?  The computer?  Polyurethane?  Ask my mom this question and she will say, unequivocally, the DISHWASHER.  She has been adamant about this since we were about 10 years old.  (Hey, did you ever notice that if you spell adamant, it’s the same as Adam Ant?  Is that where he got his name?) I think when I was about 13, I tried to convince her that running water, or the toilet may have topped the dishwasher for the greatest invention of all time, and she convinced me, with her grown-up logic, that I was wrong.  It was definitely the dishwasher.

So, knowing this is what I have been expected to believe, that the dishwasher is the best invention ever made, I am surprised at myself and my actions lately.  My dishwasher broke over a year ago.  It’s not a regular dishwasher.  It’s only 18 inches (remember, my urban condo is only 400-square feet).  This means that a new one will cost approximately twice as much as a regular-sized one.  I have been planning to replace it soon.  Turns out, that plan isn’t so much a plan as a vague idea that will never happen until I remodel this place (hopefully next summer?  Who’s with me?  Wells Fargo?  Citibank?).

I have this new game I play with myself called, “Would I Rather have THAT, or a New Dishwasher?”  So often, the answer is, “THAT.”  From this game, I have generated a list. It’s a list of things (based on results, as Dr. Phil says) that I’d rather have than a dishwasher.  Here goes…


1. A New (to me) Car (with brand new leather) – Can a dishwasher give you the smell of new leather every time you get in the car to go do c25k training?  I think we all know the answer to that.  Unless there’s a new kind of soap out there called ‘Dawn Leather’ that cannot be purchased in stores, only on tv, or as a free gift with a sham-wow purchase.
2. A Motorola Droid Phone (You know my kids don’t even know the word TELEphone ever existed?) – What?  It has a fancy gps system that I can use while on vacation to walk to the nearest nail salon (.9 miles) while I’m waiting for my bashed-in window to be replaced on the cursed car that I would soon replace with a new car with new leather (see #1).
3. Yoga Classes – Ok. I know that hand washing dishes every day is ‘very relaxing and peaceful’ according to some people.  However, I’m pretty sure if my goal is relaxing, I should probably combine it with a good workout.  I don’t think I can lose 20 pounds or relax on days off from running by washing dishes at the sink.
4.  Less Credit Card Debt – Don’t even make me re-hash the chair incident.  And by incident, I mean months-long trauma from my own very bad choices.
5.  A Super-Mega-Awesome-Ultra-Grand Road Trip (I’ve been watching too much Toddlers and Tiaras…ultimate grand supreme? really?) – No, I don’t always pee on the side of the highway.  Only sometimes.
6.  A Membership to eHarmony – We’ll see how this one goes.  So far, I’m thinking it might have been better to put that money toward the dishwasher.
7.  A Working Bathroom Faucet – This one is not surprising, and only made the list so I would have an even ten things on it.
8.  Tivo – Ok.  This maybe shouldn’t quite be on the list, since it would take about 3-4 years of this membership to make a dishwasher purchase, but still.  If I cut out enough $14/month purchases, I might be able to make some headway to the dishwasher.  But really?  Who could be bothered to watch TV at the times the shows are actually on??  And, the COMMERCIALS, good LORD, don’t get me started!  Without my dear friend Tivo –who I hope to marry one day if this eHarmony thing doesn’t work out– I would become like my grandfather who used to get up out of his chair (before there were remotes… ask your parents) and turn down the commercials, then get up again when Tom Snyder (that man has the most expressive eyebrows I have ever seen!) came back on, to turn the volume back up again.
9.  Mexican Martinis – I don’t know if they have these in other parts of the country, but here in Austin, these are my happy hour drink of choice.  Mmmm.  They’re like margaritas on steroids.  And they are not cheap.  Still, I’d hand-wash my dishes for years if it means I can have one (or two… there’s a limit of 2 per person) of these every couple of weeks!
10.  Pizza Delivery – My local pizza place, Milto’s, is heavenly.  With the whole wheat crust, and the gyros and the greek salad?  I love it when someone brings food to my door.  And, I can eat it off paper plates so I don’t have to wash any dishes when I’m done.

July 19th, 2010 | Tags: guest post | Category: guest post | Comments (4)

Guest post by Miranda at Not Super, Just Mom

So, hi.

I’m all nervous and such.  Like when you had a crush on a boy and you were all “OMG HE IS LOOKING THIS WAY OMG HE IS WALKING OVER HERE DON’T LOOK DON’T LOOK” to your best friend in the cafeteria. 

When Tiffany sent an email asking for guest bloggers and I GOT ONE, I kind of peed myself a little.  (Come to think of it, that could be because the kegels I did while pregnant didn’t do ANYTHING to help me not sniss myself when I sneeze despite the fact that I had a c-section.)

Wait…what was I saying?  Oh yeah.

You see, Tiffany?  Well, she’s hilarious.  So I feel like I have some big shoes to fill to keep y’all sufficiently entertained. 

Oh, what’s that I said?  “Y’all?”  I’m a good Southern Belle. (Who would much rather live in a big city. Near a mall.  And a Target.  And 47 Starbucks locations in a three block radius.)

Since this is rapidly approaching Word Vomit territory, let’s get to the topic at hand, shall we?

How I am (not even remotely a little bit) the same as Heidi Klum.

No, no. I’m joking. That’d just be depressing (although her secret to keeping your marriage smokin’ hot, according to last month’s issue of Redbook, is to throw out your sweat pants…and if I did that, it’d TOTALLY make my marriage smokin’ hot because my sweat pants are the only pants that fit. So I’d be naked…)

Let’s talk about what to do when your toddler is possessed.

Here’s my advice:

1. Get an old priest and a young priest.  A cross.  And some holy water.

2. Call the grandparents and say you’re coming for a visit and then keep the meter running on the cab like those people do in the Airtran commercials where the 80 year old grandpa is going “Don’t leave us with the babies!”  Then head to Mexico.  Or Bora Bora. Or somewhere far, far away.

3. Sit in a corner rocking back and forth and waiting until the storm known as Tiny Terrorist passes and hope that your entire house doesn’t come crashing down around you in the process.

But really, what do you do when your sweet baby boy decides to shriek out at random, flail around on the ground when you put him down because your arm is about to fall off, or decides to run around in a semi-manic state throwing blocks at the dog?

My son went to sleep on Thursday night and woke up on Friday morning with two eye teeth and an attitude.

This has been going on for three days straight and I’m about to go insane.  My eyes are about to become permanently fixed in the wide-open position.  And I’m on the fast track to signing up for the Frequent Buyer club at my local package store. (How am I not already signed up is the better point there, I suppose…)

He’s only 16 months old, y’all.  And I’m ready to ship him off to military school. 

(Sort of.  Okay maybe. Not really.) 

Tell me it gets better before he becomes a teenager.

July 15th, 2010 | Tags: guest post | Category: guest post | Comments (17)

We are currently on the road, headed south to that state in which humidity does evil things to my hair and I get caught in the rain without an umbrella at least once.  Because what’s Florida without a random torrential downpour? 

We are in the car—all of us, me, the husband, kids, and the Ikea portable potty that, hopefully, only G will have to use.  I would drink heavily beforehand but, we all know I can’t hold my alcohol and pee a lot.  We have an empty container of baby wipes just in case.

However, we had no luck with the minivan and got a ‘full-size’ vehicle instead.  I don’t know what that means, but I’m pretty sure that’s a direct insult to me.  Not that I made the reservation but Enterprise probably interpreted the husband’s ‘Yes, I need a minivan for the week of July 11^th’ for ‘I need to indirectly encourage my wife to stop eating chocolate covered pretzels.  Could you please give me a vehicle that only really thin people can climb into the back seat to pee into empty baby wipes containers…’

Something like that.

So anyway, there’ll be a couple of guest posts within the next week so my blog’s not all dust and cobwebs when I get back.  They’re from some ladies I consider awesome sauce.  The kind you’d dip your 8-piece chicken nugget combo into, complete with fries, and a diet Coke for good measure.

Man, I’m hungry.

July 14th, 2010 | Tags: pee | Category: otv main, weight loss | Comments (6)

about 1 hour old

Friday was LB’s first birthday. 

He’s a pretty cute kid.  Unfortunately, I can take no credit for said cuteness because he looks nothing like me.  Everyone that comes out of my uterus looks like the husband.  We’ve been through this already but, to quote some 90’s rap song that probably had a video with half naked girls having money thrown at them and filmed in slow motion, ‘if you don’t know; now you know.’

Somehow I bet that line didn’t have a semicolon in the lyrics but, we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.  But, I digress.

There was hope for LB—hope that he might even partially resemble someone on my side of the family or even, gasp!, me.  Hope that one day my family and the husband’s family could gather together and say something more than ‘at least he has your feet!’

When G was born she looked as though the husband gave birth to her himself.  Seriously, I only knew I was her mother because it was me on the gurney with over 40 extra pounds and 3^rd degree tears.  She looked exactly like him. 

Within two months, everyone kept saying how much LB looked like G—which is just a roundabout way of saying he looks like the husband—which is just a roundabout way of reminding me that I should go for a third child just to get one on my team.

nutella buttercream frosting = awesomeness

Until then, I have this face.  It looks exactly like the husband’s when he was a baby.  Ah well, at least LB took under 3 hours, induction to delivery, and no more than 5 or 6 pushes to join us.  Sweet baby, for that, I thank you and my lady parts thank you.

Well, probably not my lady parts.  I’m pretty sure they’re still pissed about the whole birth thing altogether.

July 12th, 2010 | Tags: first birthday | Category: Stuff about the husband, otv main | Comments (17)