The Delaney and Waylon Diaries

Sunday confessions

1. I haven't been writing here as much as I used to or as much as I want to. Partly it's because my new position at work has me putting in nearly twice the hours. The other part is just the third trimester laziness that lays me up on the couch watching bad TV when I'm not working. But, with NaBloPoMo coming up, I figure it's OK if I slack a bit now. I'm saving the big guns for November.

2. I'm eating Top Ramen and tortilla chips right now. Not exactly the healthiest choice for a pregnant lady. Top Ramen when you positively, absolutely must satisfy that MSG and salt craving with cardboard noodles and powdered flavor. Yum.

3. Lance is coming to town on Tuesday and although I don't think my schedule will allow it, I really want to see him. I have fantasies of him picking me out of the crowd and asking me to tell him my survivor story. We'd swap tales and he'd tell me I look great (for a pregnant chick). Then, after being bowled over by my fantastic interpersonal communication skills, he'll hire me on the spot to head up PR and marketing for his foundation in Austin. Sigh. Well, a girl can dream...

4. I can't wrap presents. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, my presents always end up looking like a toddler got a hold of the wrapping paper and just butchered the heck out of it. That's why in about two minutes I'm going to wake up my husband who's napping on the couch and make him wrap the gift that Delaney and I are taking to her friend's birthday party in half an hour. He can wrap gifts in 10.8 seconds and make them look beautiful. Yes, I am a lucky girl. Something I'd do good to remember when Lance is making me those amazing offers on Tuesday.

Sunday Confessions

Have you ever headed out for a sweet and romantic date with your husband only to have it turn spontaneously into a wild, rowdy, hyper-competitive, disco bowling tournament for two, complete with beer-swilling that'd make fraternity boys blush? Uh. Yeah. Me neither.

Sunday morning confessions: still debuting at night

I made Roger pay the check for brunch today with cash because the waitress kept looking at me in that I-want-to-dispose-of-you-and-assume-your-place-in-the-adorable-little-family-you've-created kind of way. You know the one. No? You mean it's just me?

Thinking about Christmas shopping sends me into a bit of a panic. I should be jolly and getting into the spirit but I find myself dwelling on what to get those "hard to shop for" people on my list. I don't think it's a good sign when one of the gifts I gave my mother last year is still sitting on her stereo, unopened.

See that? That's me. No, not in the belly shot or in the one of the cute kid or even in the sweet family photo. The naked chick. I am the "shapely," Rubenesque naked chick. I was as shocked as you probably are. Not about the photo. Of course I knew about the photo. But what I didn't know was that it was going to appear on the photographer's web site. I agreed that she could hang the photo in her studio (which is so not located in the same town in which I live, thankyouverymuch.). But back then? Three years ago? She most certainly did not have a web site nor did she ever tell me that she'd be using that image on one. I found out accidentally when I received a promotional postcard in the mail and thought, "Oh. How cool. She has a web site now. I should go check it out and...OH MY GOD." To be clear, I'm not (usually) just some pervert who likes pervy photos of her naked self. This photo was part of a shoot for a sexy (and very private) book I had created for Roger as a wedding gift (and this photo also hangs in a frame on the wall by Roger's side of the bed). So, there you have it. Me in all of my backside, nekkid glory.

What with the nudity and all, I think that's enough confessing for one day. Got anything you want to get off your chest?

Sunday morning confessions: now at night!

I use the word "dude" a lot in the conversations inside my head. I wouldn't dare speak that word aloud. I'm nearly 36 for cripesake. But apparently there's a 17-year-old boy stuck in 1988 living in my head and punctuating my sentences with it.

I can't carry a tune but that doesn't stop me from singing to Delaney at bedtime each night. For whatever reason she loves it. So yes, I take full responsibility for my daughter's future bad taste in music.

I'm getting up at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow to go to the gym. My plan is to start working 30 minutes of cardio, five times a week into my schedule by getting it done first thing in the morning. Am I confident that I'll make it 5 days in a row? Hell no. Does that mean I'm doomed to fail already? Probably.

Sunday morning confessions

Although I did bathe yesterday (yeah, me!) I stayed in my pajamas all day and worked while Roger and Delaney went to lunch and shopping. It's amazing what you can accomplish while wearing pjs in a quiet house.

We have a multitude of wonderful babysitters from which to choose and that means Roger and I go out on dates at least once, and sometimes twice, per month. None of our sitters ever let us pay them. Some of them even fight over the opportunity to babysit Delaney. We're very lucky and if this wasn't Sunday Morning Confessions I wouldn't be telling you this for fear that you'd simply hate me. But because I'm confessing, I expect you to to give me penance and then we'll move on.

Although we're lucky enough to go on dates pretty often and you'd think that we'd have a cool dating routine down pat, we rarely decide where we're going or what we're doing until after we've pulled away from the house. Sometimes this is fun. Sometimes this is spontaneous. And sometimes this means that a haughty 15-year-old hostess delights in icily delivering the news that the wait at her popular establishment is 90 minutes.

I wanted to slap the smugness off her face. But instead, I held my cool and we went to another restaurant where the martini I received in less than five minutes melted away all ill-will I harbored for the crabby little twit.

I've recently discovered that I have a two martini limit. It wasn't always a pleasant experience coming to that conclusion.

All hot old people dates end with a trip to the grocery store.

Sunday morning confessions

I'm astonished. The stuff I started using less than two months ago actually works. I never expected it to. There's still some left in the tiny jar. I've become a master of making it last.

I went shopping yesterday with the intent to un-khaki and un-black my wardrobe. Everything I tried on was khaki and black. I didn't buy any of it.

I did buy shoes for Delaney. But they didn't have the ones I really wanted in her size.

My girlfriend and I went to lunch, got pedicures and shopped all while Roger rode his Harley and Delaney stayed home with a babysitter. I don't get out like that often enough.

I'm loving this show, this cream, this chocolate and this album.

I cannot wait to see this. Please don't flog me.

Sunday morning confessions

Some days I feel like Supergirl. Some days I don't.

Sunday morning confessions

I've never used eye cream before last night. They were talking on The View the other day(I know, I know, I'm embarrassed to tell you I was watching that...a separate confession all it's own) about how in your 30s you must be using it, dahling (ooops...I'm five years behind) so I bought this because I'm a highly suggestible slave to PR. It looks big in the picture, doesn't it? Ahhhh, nope. It's the size of a carmex tub (if even that) and it cost $20. To top it off, there weren't even directions with it. Just a bullsh*t description of some "miracle" tree that gives the cream its super-special, eye-saving, death-defying, world-hunger-relieving properties which explains why this tiny dollop of cream costs so damn much and aren't you lucky you purchased it at such a great price? So, I patted it on and hoped I did it right. Yeah, I needed directions for eye cream. Einstein, I'm not.

I don't know how to apply eye shadow. I rarely use it and when I do, I look like a racoon on crank.

I don't iron. Ever. Even though we do own one. I can't tell you where it is.

I'm not fashion-savvy. I've heard of Prada, Givenchy and Jimmy Choo, but I don't give a rat's ass about them. I love living in a town where fashion is hardly ever on anyone's radar. Makes life simpler and cheaper if we all agree to go around in $11 Old Navy yoga pants and Cover Girl makeup.

With that being said, my new guilty pleasure is Project Runway. I am nothing if not "a riddle wrapped in mystery inside an enigma."

Sunday morning, rain is falling

Rain. What a wonderful thing to wake up to at 7:00 a.m., in addition to my lovely daughter's chatter of course. We haven't seen rain 'round these parts for a loooong time. The few short showers we've had this summer don't count. We needed a good old-fashioned, yard-drenching, thunder-booming storm and we finally got that today.

Delaney doesn't really acknowledge thunder yet, but Mathilde (our inside dog) sure does (as does Guinness, our outside dog, but hers is a story for another time). Mathilde senses the approach of a storm way before I can ever hear it or see it. Her beacon of distress begins when she tries to climb into bed with me and R. As much as we love her, we don't love all 75 pounds of her shedding huskiness in our queen-sized bed.

Try as I might, I can't seem explain to Mathilde that she doesn't have to be afraid. Dogs just aren't swayed by simple reasoning. I keep telling her to take the Flight Attendant Test. Whenever I'm on a plane, a place that scares me far beyond all reason, I continually take it: I watch the flight attendant. If she or he isn't rattled by turbulence or weird noises, then neither am I (Well, OK. A little honesty here. I try
to remain unrattled. It's not easy when you're a freak like me, but I get an A for effort.). If Mathilde would just look to us as her flight attendants, she'd note that we're calm, so she can be too. But, then again, I've failed the Flight Attendant Test more than once, and had to turn to remedial vodka in tiny bottles to get me through some flights. At least I had a backup. What was poor Mathilde to do?

I tried to think like a dog. If it wasn't vodka that would help her overcome her fear, what would? A-ha! New York Strip. Luckily, we just happened to have some leftover from our dining-in date on Friday. I gave her a few bites. It worked. She was chillin' in no time.

Turns out, you can't reason with dogs, but a little steak goes a long way.




Note her shedding huskiness on the floor around her.