So, my ass has officially gotten out of control. I totally blame these children… especially the two most recently born. You have to admit, though, that keeping a cute ass while eating such culinary delicacies like mac 'n cheese and pizza rolls is an accomplishment rarely achieved.

Nevertheless, I shall endeavor.

To lose sufficient enough weight to be fairly attractive again come my next birthday, I will need to limit myself to 1200 calories per day.

1200 calories a day? Hell… I'm a southern girl. I take in more calories than that just by breathing. Wish me luck!

I drove into my hometown sometime around 7:30 pm last Wednesday night. I went straight to Jessica's house (oh… when I say straight, I actually mean that I drove in circles and got lost twice on the very streets that I traveled on every day of my life until I was 25 years old because I'm seriously dysfunctional like that); she was scheduled to be induced early Friday morning, and we had plans for awesome pedicures and last minute baby shopping for Thursday.

Pedicures and shopping went well.

I picked a post-VAMP-era red and she went with some sort of orangey shade. We laughed at how different we are. But, I must admit, the orange did look good on her feet even though it reminded me of those atrocious candy peanut things that foam in your mouth if you mix 'em with diet coke.

We went back to her house for her afternoon nap, and I headed off to see how many people I could visit in one afternoon. Hah. I got in three. Only five hundred more to go.

Went out and had a few (a lot) of drinks with an old friend. Actually visited the casino first (they encourage sin in Louisiana), but decided that the free Heineken wasn't worth the money that that little machine kept stealing out of my purse. Ended up at a favorite pub and had a relatively great time. Yay.

Off to the hospital on Friday morning. Jess and her husband left the house around six, but me and ms. hangover snuggled in their king-size bed for a few more hours (babies take FOREVER). Took a bubble bath AND a shower, because you can do that sort of thing with NO children. Walked around the nursery for a little bit and sighed greatly over that "new baby" smell.

The LDR room was huge and the hospital built specifically for labor & delivery, so everything was comfortable and "homey". Her family was there and I caught up on all of the latest hometown gossip just as the nurse announced that she was ready to push. Yipee!! I was so excited! I'd never actually seen a delivery from this angle before and couldn't  wait to watch the little head "pop in and out" like my husband had described…

Wait…

What was that?

Two effing pushes??? What do you mean two effing pushes and we're done?!?@!?

Yes, ladies, she pushed twice and out popped this beautiful little girl. No grunting. No cursing. Not even a single murmur of discomfort.

Oh, yeah, and not even a single solitary stitch.

It ain't right, I tell 'ya.

Afterwards, I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted to give her a congratulatory kiss on the cheek for a job well done…

Or a hard pinch to even things up a bit.

My mother liked to set the tree on fire.

Every year around December 27th, my mother would carefully box up all of the ornaments, put away the trimmings, wrap the angel in tissue, and then drag our beloved Christmas tree out back to the burn pile. And every year, my sisters and I would tearfully beg for her to leave it up just one more day… She'd simply wipe our cheeks dry and continue on with her chosen mission as if her life depended upon it. All I could do was ask, "Why?"…

I didn't understand it. In my child eyes, that tree was the ultimate symbol of Christmas. A symbol of good food and elaborate parties. A symbol of prettily wrapped presents and new bicycles. A symbol of late-night Santa visits and early morning gift hunts. It WAS Christmas. So, why, I wondered as I sat in that window, would my mother be smiling as she threw in one more match for good measure?

That question has haunted me for years.

But no more.

Now, I'm the one slaving in front of that hot stove cooking that good food, and the one planning and organizing that grand party. I'm the one spending countless hours sitting on the floor at midnight bent over a roll of gift wrap wrapping over-priced but NECESSARY presents (and then re-wrapping them once the toddler discovers that there are TOYS under all that paper). I'm the one trying to decipher the instructions to that new bicycle and not finding that one VERY important screw. I'm the late-night Santa AND the one who only gets approximately 40 minutes of sleep before being awakened with the shouts of Mommy, come see!!!

And, even though I'm sure to encounter a tear-stained cheek or two begging for just one more day, I have no doubt whatsoever at all that I'll be dragging that tree out to that famous burn pile as if my life depended upon it… just as my mother had all those years ago.

Hell, I'm smiling just thinking about it.

 

Okay, so thinking of that title made me realize that perhaps I should have married someone with a different name. Try as I might, I just can't get something as cute, annoying, or nauseously popular as "TomKat" out of Peter and Courtney. Although, I must point out that Peter is (second only to Snatch) great fun on that slogan generator thing (see here). So, maybe the fault lies within Courtney… Hell, it wouldn't be the first time, now would it?

 

Oh, yes, back to Brangelina. Why the Jolie-Pitts, you ask? I don't know… I think it has something to do with ego. If you can't sleep with yourself , the next best thing is to sleep with someone who is just as hot as you are, n'est ce pas? What I really wanted to say is:

 

We adopted.

 

Yep. Decided we wanted another, took a little trip down to the facility, picked out the prettiest one that we saw, paid for it, brought it home and put it to work. Now, before you get all judgmental on me, I really did look at all of them. In fact, there were a couple of really ugly ones that had great personalities. Alas, in the end, I dove directly into the shallow world that is society and went for beauty over buttface. What is it mama always told me? Oh, yeah… God don't like ugly. Okay, not my mama but somebody's, and that still counts. My mama doesn't even believe in God.

 

There you go being all judgmental again.

 

You should take into consideration that I adopted domestically.  Followed Rosie O'Donnell's great example and bought American (unlike you know who).  Of course, I couldn't afford such well-bred newborn Americans as she could… but, oh well, I'll let mine sleep at the foot of my bed.

 

Introducing the newest member of the clan: Mrs. Darcy (also known as kitty-kitty, Darcy, ooh ooh, and "will you catch that damn mouse already, you lazy-ass beast").

 

 

So… I've been in kind of a funk lately.  Had lots of "moment"-altering decisions to make. Some were good; some were bad. And some… well, some I just put off for another moment altogether. Procrastination is, by far, one of my most favorite qualities. It is, truly, an art to be proud of — if one is capable of pulling it off nicely. And I sure do aim to pull off everything that I do as nicely as possible…

So… I went shopping. I know, I know. Typical, you say. Perhaps, I should clarify… I went out and bought a divine (yes, DIVINE) new eau de parfum and then took a little self-healing trip to the tattoo parlor.

Yes, tattoo parlor.

I love tattoos. I love getting them. I love seeing them. I love feeling them (for those of who actually have tattoos, you understand what I mean). And my super glow-in-the-dark skin is a perfect canvas for all of that fabulous colorful ink. Which means that I like big pieces. Really big pieces. In fact, all of my girlfriends are fond of saying, "I'm off to get a me tattoo.. not a Courtney tattoo, mind you, but a nice little [insert random girlie thing here]".

Today, however, I actually got something fairly small ( about the length of my thumb)and simple on the inside of my right wrist. No color… just a clean, thin outline. It is the first piece that cannot be hidden by my everyday clothing, and the first piece that is sincerely and uniquely "me".

I love it.

And I am officially out of the "funk".

But, I must say, that I am really happy that I waited until now to get something on my arm. It was so painless and fun that, had I gotten something like this done when I was a teenager, I would have most definitely had both full sleeves done by the time I turned 21.  Think of all of the Thanksgiving dinners I would have been banned from…