It’s a nice day for a white wedding (shower)

This weekend we got to throw a wedding shower for my SIL and BIL-to-be, and today I get to be the first one to scoop it.


Yes, Amy Winehouse and Humpty are getting hitched!  (Tell everyone you heard it here first!)

The wedding shower was not very wedding-like or very shower-like, but it was definitely rockin’.  The party was hosted by on-again, off-again couple Cyndi Lauper and DJ Lance.



Two of my beautiful sisters helped me with party prep.



They’re the ones who helped me decorate two dozen wedding cake cookies for the Swag Bags…


…set up the tattoo parlor



…decorate the house


…entertain Baby Rocco during the party


…and act as human disco balls as needed.


I was happy because I got to make a cake.  I actually got to make five cakes.


There was a good deal of rocking out in honor of the betrothed couple, and Garfield was there to smile creepily through the whole thing.


I want to give a special shout-out to my other BIL, Slash, for taking the fabulous pictures in this post.

(That’s the actual shout-out.)

Roast beef sandwiches
Creamy pasta salad

MrsMouthy’s Status: HIGHLY IRRITABLE

I hate Facebook.  I would rather get my tongue pierced with a pair of rusty scissors than spend an hour of my life getting updated on who’s heading to the gym and who’s going out for girl’s night (WOOHOO!) and whose husband is the BEST husband EVER.

But.  Kevin got me one of those I-Phone deely-bobbers (only not a real I-Phone because he always gets me the Microsoft version of things which is kind of like the time Santa couldn’t find my sister a real Cabbage Patch doll so he got her a homemade one from a craft store and her friends never really stopped making fun of her for it and then she turned Goth).

I digress.  Kevin got me a fake I-Phone and now the minute I turn my phone on I see FB updates which I really, really, really HATE but now have to add to and comment on because if I don’t my phone starts chanting, “LO-SER!  LO-SER!  LO-SER!” and I start looking around for the nearest black trench coat.

So.  For any of you who are on FB, and especially for any of you who have the privilege of being My Friend, I want you to print up the following rules and post them by your bedside table.


1.  If you are not funny, I will block you.

2.  If you are funnier than me, I will block you.

3.  If you refer to your husband as “hubby” I will block you.

4.  If you refer to yourself and/or other mothers as “mommy” I will block you.  Unless you are under the age of 5.

5.  If you are under the age of 5 and have a FB account, I will block you.

6.  If you invite me to play Zombies, I will first attempt to chop your head off *IRL*.  Then I will block you.

7.  If you wish your husband a happy anniversary to all your friends on FB who are, in fact, not married to you and couldn’t give a rat’s a** about your anniversary, I will block you.

8.  If you do not wish me a happy birthday on my actual birthday, I will block you.

9.  If you expect me to wish you a happy birthday on your happy birthday, I will block you.

10.  If you block me, I will block you.

Furthermore, I will not join your cause, I will not become a fan or accept your gifts, and I will not change my profile pic to one of my mom, grandmother or the special lady who raised me in honor of Mother’s Day.  I will then not copy and paste to my status and to see how many of us will honor them!

Please do not make comments about the weather unless it is some kind of weather we have never seen or heard of before, like it’s raining Kool-aid or beer.

You are allowed to make fun of yourself, your kids, your husband, and your general state of being (but use caution as per rules #1 and #2).  For example, some acceptable FB updates I read yesterday were: “I feel like an asshole” and “I FOUND my nut!”

Thank you for observing these FB etiquette rules.  Click here if you “like” this or better yet, copy and paste these rules to your status to see how many of us will honor them!

Your goose

A bang-up day

Here’s an sampling from A Day in the Life of MrsMouthy.

8:00AM: Vincenzo wakes up and emerges from my room carrying my crutch that he slept with.  I tell him good morning and he shoots me with it.

9:00AM: Drop Vincenzo off at school.  Realize that it’s the well-advertised “Mud Day” and I sent him to school in white pants.

10:00AM: Spend a half hour on the floor, watching this:




11:30: Pick Vincenzo up from school then head to the liquor store with both kids where Vincenzo asks a lot of questions I don’t have answers for.

12:00: Vincenzo eats his grilled cheese sandwich into the shape of a gun.  When I ask him to clear his dishes, he shoots me with it.

1:00: Vincenzo yells from the hallway, “Look Mom!  I’m riding the baby!”


2:00: Look through family pictures with the boys.  Vincenzo finger-shoots all the pictures of Rocco that pop up.

3:00: I go to counseling where I spend an inordinate amount of time discussing how Petit Fours are destroying our family (yet I fail to bring up all the shooting).

5:00: Kevin comes home and Rocco claps his feet in excitement so much it sounds like applause.

5:01: Kevin gets shot by Vincenzo.

6:00: We cook dinner.  Vincenzo whines that the house stinks and tells us never to cook that again.

8:00: Bedtime.  Vincenzo prays, “Thank you God for giving me the power to change into any animal I want.  And for parks.”

8:01: Kevin and I go to bed.  He asks me how my day was.  I shoot him.


Mexican corn cakes
Spiced shredded pork
Red beans with cotija cheese
Tequila-soaked sorbet

(Because Seis de Mayo can be just as fun as Cinco de Mayo)

Giving basketball the boot

QUICKIE: Thank you, Lizgizzy, for your comment yesterday that babies’ bottoms “create a channel that sends the poop in the wrong direction. It’s like a luge.”  My eyes are burning.
So I found myself a basketball team this spring, and it’s getting clearer with every game that I’m not in high school anymore.  Let me demonstrate through a series of Then vs. Now.

Then: I worried that I’d get really sweaty and the guy I was crushing on would notice.
Now: I worry that, after three vaginal deliveries, I might actually wet the court mid-game.

Then: I used to hike up my shorts to get noticed by aforementioned guy.
Now: I go to shoot a lay-up and my shorts that I unwittingly stretched out in my last pregnancy actually fall down to my ankles.

Then: I’d intentionally claw a couple of the opposing girls when we high fived at the end of the game.
Now: I “catch up” with the opposing girls at the end of the game then go home and friend them on Facebook.

Then: I’d dream of getting picked up by a college team.
Now: I dream of being young enough to dream about get picked up by a college team.

Then: I’d sprain my foot in the first quarter, stick some athletic tape on it, and keep playing.
Now: I sprain my foot, make my husband take two days off work and make my mom come over for two more days while I lay on the couch.  I spend the week going to doctors, getting X-rays, then an MRI, and am sentenced to wear the Black Boot of Shame for a month.


Take the boot off and I start gnawing on my ankle.

Pear and blue cheese pizza (it’s that good)

UTB Poop

Can I take a minute to write about up-the-back poops?  I can?  OK great.

So you’re playing with your baby whose puffy cheeks have really outdone themselves in nominess that day when you smell something kind of like baking bread but kind of completely not, and then your baby’s diaper is suddenly and unusually warm, so you take him to the changing table.  You pull off his pants, undo his onesie, open the diaper and BOOM!  Your bouncing little baby has somehow pooped not downwards in a normal human fashion but amazingly, inexplicably, STRAIGHT UP.  His onesie is covered in this orange, wet-clayish poo from his darling baby bottom to his sweet baby neck.  And by “darling” and “sweet,” I mean “repulsive.”

As you reach for a wet wipe the baby, who does not yet have full control of his arms (or maybe he does), sticks his hand right into the poop that is now also oozing to the front of his thighs.  You wipe his hands.  You wipe his back.  This only serves to spread the mass of feces even further.  The baby looks up at you and coos happily.  Mamamamama.  Dadadadada.  Gooooooooo.

You realize your only hope is to get him out of the onesie, and the only way to do that is OVER his HEAD.  Yes, you must carefully extricate a poo-filled onesie over your baby’s head and try not to smear any in his hair or ears.  It is the cruelest version of Operation ever.  You fail.  In fact, you have never won this game.  Not once.

So now the onesie is off, there is poop in your baby’s hair, and you lay him on his tummy in the hopes that his poopy back will not contaminate completely every surface in the room.  You reach for more wet wipes.  When you turn back your baby has discovered and is playing with a poop smear on the changing table.  The changing table looks like a war zone now.  Luckily you spy a blanket on the floor and toe it open, then lay baby atop it to finish wiping any visible poo marks off his thighs.  You get him into a clean onesie.  You notice poo smears all over your hands, your arms, even your shirt from when you carried baby to the clean blanket.  You both either need a bath or a biohazard suit, but that will have to wait.

Your husband then walks in.  “Can I help with anything?” 

You are, as always, blown away by his impeccable timing.  You give him the baby and say, “Here, hold this.” 

You throw everything possible into the laundry, then return to the nursery.  There is your husband, covering your son with zerberts all over the thighs that just minutes ago were coated with poo.

You say nothing.

Then you open up your blog and begin to write…

Tomato/red pepper soup
Fried ricotta cakes