We were standing in a gas station in Tennessee the first time I heard her say it.

She was holding a bottle of Bug Juice in her tiny hands, carefully carrying it up to the counter all by herself. Her brother had a similar bottle, but his was filled with blue juice. Emma’s was green, which she had picked out all by herself.

“Oh no. I need a new one,” Emma was staring at the bottle in her hand.

“What’s the matter baby?”

“I need a different one. This one is a boy color.”

“What? It’s green! It’s just a cool color. You’re fine,” I assured her. But she would have none of it.

“It’s a boy color. It’s for boys,” she insisted, and proceeded to swap out the green juice for a bottle of red Bug Juice. Apparently red is for girls.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. Boy color, girl color, whatever. Just swap out your juice so we can pay and get back in the car. Weirdo.

But over the last few days since she’s been home, I’ve heard it over and over again.

“No, that sticker is for boys. I want the girl sticker.”

“Diego is a boy. It’s for boys. I am not watching that!”

“I can’t watch Dora’s cowboy movie. It has cowboys. Cowboys are for boys.”

What the hell is going on? When did my daughter - who insists on sharing everything with her brother and refuses to wear ponytails or skirts - start labeling everything as belonging to one sex or the other?

While I’m sure that this tendency to lump yourself in with one group or another is a natural part of her development, it makes me cringe every time I hear “no, that’s for boys”. Her willingness to mark half of the world as Off Limits - For Boys baffles me.

Where is the fierce independence? Where is the stubborn insistence that she can have it all?

I always assumed we were born feminists and it was a patriarchal society that convinced us that his and hers and gender limitations was normal and acceptable.

But she’s three. THREE. And she’s surely not being raised in a household where anything is off limits because you’re a girl. Hell, if anything I would expect her to be running around claiming everything as “HERS” and “MINE”.

At least that I would understand.
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Speaking of things I don’t understand - tonight we’re tackling Ageism on Clearly, You’re Retarded at 9pm Est. From the show page you can listen live, chat, review and download past episodes!

But it’s all I can think about. So suck it.

I’ve officially gone 24 hours without a cigarette. In fact, I’m well on my way to 36 hours… and then 48 hours…

The magical 72 hour mark can’t come soon enough.

The first 24 hours was hard. Obviously. In fact, it was much harder than I had anticipated it would be (and I’ve quit 3 times before, so I thought I knew what I was getting into.)

Everyone kept giving me suggestions for “getting through this craving”. And I really wanted to reach through the screen and punch every single one of you. No offense.

My problem yesterday morning is that there was no *craving* to get through, per say. There was no three minute interval of hell that I could breathe through like a well timed contraction. Instead, I was battling wave after wave of hell, one right on top of the other. It was like full on fucking transitional labor for a good 12 hours or so.

I tried to drink water, chewed on plastic straws, and ate celery with cream cheese instead of taking smoke breaks. My teeth hurt from the constant gnawing.

One unexpected “side effect” was that I found myself short of breath all morning. I could not get in enough oxygen without massive unnatural gulps of air. Apparently my lungs were rebelling against the idea of having to function without the aid of hundreds of toxins. I can understand that.

By the afternoon, the constant onslaught had subsided a bit. In it’s place was a desperate need that came on every fifteen minutes or so. And then every twenty. The intensity definitely waned as the day went on.

Five o’clock hit and it was time to get in the car and face a smokeless commute. I called my husband - who was also quitting - and asked how his day went. And by asked how his day went, I mean as soon as I heard his voice I asked, “Did you smoke today?”

“Mmm… maybe.”

“I knew you would,” which - while shitty, was much, much nicer than what was going on in my head. At least I didn’t call him a spineless pussy or demand that he bring home a new butcher knife for me to stab him with. Because I really, really wanted to say that.

“I only had a few this morning. And I didn’t buy any!”

“Oh, hey, traffic’s bad, I gotta go” because if I don’t hang up on your now I am going to end up finding a way to skewer your insides from 30 miles away.

I called Karl and tried to sound nonchalant. “So, um, how is it going?”

“Fine,” I could tell he was lying.

“Yeah? So, um… er… have you smoked?”

“No. But fuck do I want to.”

I was so relieved. Knowing someone else was in the same hell I was and not giving up made everything better in an instant. I told him about the conversation I’d just had with Jared and giggled as he yelled back that my husband was a big fucking pussy who couldn’t even go one day!

We raged about how “just a few” sounded like absolute fucking heaven right now. And how we hated everyone else in the whole world. Especially Jared. And Adam. And you.

OK, not you. We actually talked about our lowest points in the day and how helpful it had been to know we had so much support “out there”.

ANYway - fuck this is rambling. I AM BLAMING THE NICOTINE. I think I’m just going to start blaming the nicotine for everything.

I wrote this post on Friday. So maybe I got it all wrong.

Maybe today I am overwhelmed with joy at having my kids back.

But… well… I doubt it’s as simple as that.

I’m guessing I am in total hell right now.

I’m guessing that because I got home from Nashville at about later than shit last night after driving for 12 hours, I am exhausted.

I’m guessing that it was an absolute bitch to get myself and two kids up extra early this morning for the first day of school.

I’m guessing that I cussed out anyone who would listen about what a horrible idea it is to have your kids come back from a three week grandparent vacation the night before school starts.

I’m guessing that I am also very, very pissed off that I CANNOT HAVE A CIGARETTE!

So. Um. Yeah.

Everyone is probably home. We’re all back to school and back at work. I’m all “yay, you’re home! I missed you!” and secretly wanting to murder the next stupid son of a bitch that crosses my path without a cigarette and a french fry in their hands.

At least, that’s how I’m assuming today is going. What do you think?

By the time you are done with this post, you will want to shower me with gifts to show your appreciation for the awesomeness that I am about to bestow on you. Seriously. And I happily encourage you to go with your gut on this.

Most of you are reading this post in a feed reader right now. You? Just sit tight for two seconds while I bring the rest of my readers into the 21st century.

If you read more than 10 blogs, you should seriously look into a feedreader. I highly recommend Google’s feedreader. If you haven’t got a clue what a feed or a reader are - read this.

OK, now that we’re all on the same page and using a feedreader to surf through an endless number of blogs, let’s get to today’s HOLY CRAP THIS THING CHANGED MY LIFE.

The worst thing about reading blogs in a feedreader is that you’re not on the actual site. You don’t see the graphics or pictures. Sometimes you only get partial excerpts of a post (and those people should be stabbed). And commenting can be a real pain in the arse.

The worst thing about publishing your blog in a feedreader is that you have absolutely no idea if you are talking to yourself or not. (I mean, you know, in theory.) Kristen recently launched an actual movement called Blogging the Recession meant to inspire people to get out of their readers and onto the actual pages that we all bust our asses on.

But why do we all use feedreaders in the first place? Because they are awesome. That’s why. Because they save us time and keep the hundreds of people we’re trying to keep track of organized.

If only there was a way that we could use our feedreaders and still comment, see pictures, etc. without having to click out of the reader and into the timesuck pit that is multiple tabs and windows…

Ha! My friends, there IS a way to do just that!

(Did I just blow your minds? I totally did. Admit it.)

Here’s what you need:

1. You need to use Firefox. And really, if you’re not using Firefox you’re not one of the cool kids. And you should go get Firefox so you can be one of us.

2. Next you need Greasemonkey. This is a Firefox add-on that has all sorts of cool uses. We’re only going to talk about one today, but trust me. You want it and it takes about 2 seconds to add.

3. And FINALLY - you need the Google Reader Preview Extension. This is, in my opinion, the single greatest tool ever developed for bloggers. It’s that good. And all you have to do is follow the link and click “install this script” (upper right side of the page).

What this extension does is add a “Preview” button to your Google Reader. Click it.

Now, when you’re reading blogs, any time you click on the title it will replace the feed with the actual post on the site in the frame.

You can see pictures and text exactly the way the author intended you to see them. You give your friends pageviews which translate into ad dollars. And more importantly, you can comment on a post in about 2 seconds!

Every blogger loves comments. Whether they have 10 readers or 10,000 readers, they want to know that someone is listening. They want to know that they are heard.

But realistically, we all have lives. There is only so much time in the day and trying to comment on tons of blogs can eat into that time.

Hopefully, this will help a few of you. :-) I know it’s made a huge difference for me.

Shash inspired me. Or tagged me. Whatever. The point is, this post counts as fulfilling an obligation. To Shash.

Today is the day I drive back up to Nashville to reclaim my children from their grandparents, in more ways than one. It has been three weeks since I have seen their little faces and felt their wiggly arms.

I cannot wait.

As a woman who had motherhood thrust upon her unexpectedly, I’ve often struggled with the notion that maybe I wasn’t made for this parenting thing. I have in the past laid awake at night and dreamed about the what ifs, walking along the roads of my imaginary life without children and obligation. I’ve envied my friends with no kids and their carefree lifestyles.

And yet, after three weeks of “living the dream”, I am counting down the miles and the hours until I can be a parent again.

Here’s what I did while my kids were away that I could not have done with them here:

• Spent a lazy day at the beach with friends and cocktails. (The kids and I go to the beach a lot, but it was a different experience to go as just an adult and not an alert mother.)
• Went to a movie after work.
• Got a pedicure after work.
• Stopped at the store with no prior planning and browsed the ULTA aisles.
• Slept in until 7am during the week.
• Slept in until after 9am on the weekend.
• Spent a weekend away with my husband.
• Ate cottage cheese and/or cheesecake for dinner.

OH MY GOODNESS LIFE WITHOUT CHILDREN IS GLAMOROUS!!

While some of that was nice and I did enjoy myself, I was surprised at the lack of free time I still seemed to have. I never felt like I had hours and hours on my hands to dive into projects I’ve been putting off.

I’ve come to the conclusion that children are not at all what is eating up my life and preventing me from living my dreams.

No, what I really need to do is quit my job. Only then will I be truly happy.

Seriously though. As nice as it was to have a little bit more freedom and a little more flexibility with my schedule, none of it came even close to filling the giant hole left by their absence. None of it. Not the movies or the shopping or the hotels or the cocktails.

None of it holds a candle to the brief moments when I would hear Devin’s voice bubble over the phone.

I never in a million years would have dreamed that I’d become one of these women. One of these women who stands up on the Internet and says “My children give my life meaning!”

But here I am. Loud and proud. And while I don’t want to take anything away from people who don’t have kids, I can say with absolutely certainty that that is not for me.

I, it would seem, am made for this parenting gig.

I mentioned on Wednesday when I discussed my weight that I was quitting smoking.

What I didn’t tell you is that this is something - a plan, if you will - that has been in place for about two months now.

I had mentioned to Karl that I wanted to quit smoking. He confessed that he had been feeling like it was time for him to quit as well, but he was nervous about whether or not he’d be able to stick with it. After much deliberation about when would be the right time and what potential obstacles were coming up for each of us, we set a date. We would quit together and help keep one another accountable on August 15th.

And then I changed my mind.

I still want to quit smoking. I still need to quit smoking. Desperately. But I’m also going to be driving 12 hours straight to Nashville tomorrow morning - and another 12 hours back on Sunday. The kids are coming home and we have to meet their grandparents in Nashville (our official half way drop zone) to pick them up.

If there is a handbook for quitting smoking I’m pretty sure Do Not Confine Yourself In A Car With Another Smoker For 24 Hours The Day After You Give Up Cigarettes is in there somewhere. I suspect it’s right under Hide The Ashtrays.

So now, thanks to Karl being very understanding of my fickle woman ways, we have set a new date.

On Monday August 18th, I will officially become a non smoker.

Jared has already signed on and will be quitting with Karl and I. Thank you, God. I know Karl encouraged a lot of other people to join us and he has a badge on his site for everyone who is joining in the “Quitterati”. Knowing that other people are making this huge commitment with you will definitely help keep me on track.

I’d like to ask the rest of you, those of you who aren’t smokers or won’t be quitting, to help me out too. And I’m even going to bribe you for your support.

Win a $25 SmartyPig gift certificate!

What is SmartyPig? It’s an online savings account that I am absolutely in love with. I started using them myself after winning a gift card from Lisa. I was so impressed, I knew I had to share the money love with you guys. (No. Really. Not being paid for this.)

Here’s how you can win AND HELP ME QUIT SMOKING:

1. Leave a comment with your best quitting tip!

And/OR

2. Link to this post on your blog - you can even use that pretty button up there!

If you do both, you get two entries. YAY! Winner will be randomly selected, blah blah blah. Contest will be open for 1 week (until next Friday, in other words.) After all, the first week is the hardest - right?

I’m hoping that when I have those moments where I want to say “screw it, light me up!”, I will think about all the people that I have shared this with. I’m hoping that when I am tempted to let myself down, I will think about having to let you all down.

And I’m a woman. Everyone knows we care way more about disappointing other people than taking care of ourselves.

I came home yesterday to a pleasant surprise. My husband was actually home before I was.

As I’ve mentioned here before, I spend a lot of nights in the house alone (or with alone with 2 kids) and Jared’s work schedule has caused more than a little bit of *tension* between us.

I like to practice Positive Behavior Modification so I made a point to let him know how thrilled I was to see him. I wrapped my arms around him and stood up on my tip toes to kiss him.

“It is so nice to come home to you. I’ve missed you,” and I kissed him again.

He kissed me back and pulled me closer to him. “I miss you too, baby.”

I felt his hands slide down to small of my back, encouraging me to lean in to his lips. I pressed my mouth harder against his and began to get lost in the middle of my own kitchen.

He loosened his embrace, his touch traveling up the sides of my body. I felt him cup my breasts and then, with what I imagine was all the love and passion he could muster in that moment, gave them each a generous honk.

Yes, honk. Both of them. Honks.

My mind flashed to all of the times we had discussed my personal disdain for The Honk. I remembered how I had tried to explain to him that I very much enjoyed being touched, caressed even, but that groping was a horse of an entirely different and extremely annoying color.

And I realized right there in that moment, entwined with my husband in an empty house, that he was never going to understand the difference.

I pressed one hand between us, my palm flat against his stomach. I heard him moan against my touch. My lips still tight against his, I slowly and carefully worked my fingers down his thigh and back up again until they came to rest squarely between his legs.

HONNNKKKK!

Oh yes. I did. You bet your sweet ass I did.

And you know what? I guarantee the man finally gets The Difference.

I could tell by his yelp.
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Did you get a chance to listen to last night’s radio show? If not, download it here!

Are you following my exploits as a Style Editor? Come on - you know that’s got to be some funny stuff! Check out my Fashion & Style Tips On Blissfully Domestic here!

I’m just under 5′2 and I wear a size 6. And I’m going to talk about my weight.

If you don’t think you can stomach that without the need to let your eye balls roll right out of your head, I suggest you stop reading now.

Still with me? OK. But you’ve been warned.

I went to the doctor yesterday for my required “Yes the meds are working, please give me more” check-up. I had barely walked through the closely guarded secret door before they threw me on a scale.

Oh yeah, I thought. This is why I hate doctor’s offices. That’s right.

137.5 lbs.

And while the nurse assured me that they would automatically deduct 2 pounds for my clothing and shoes (because sandals are heavy, people. Very, very heavy.), the image that seared itself into my brain was the digital gray on gray screen flashing 137.5

That’s awfully damn close to 140. Too close for comfort.

Much, much too close when I thought about how far I had come.

Hey. I saw that. Your eyes are rolling, aren’t they?

Listen. I get that 140 lbs is no big deal to a lot of people. Hell, 140 lbs is below goal weight for a lot of women. And I get that, I do. I also get that it is important - no, crucial - for a woman to be able to see the beauty in herself whether she is a size 2 or a size 20. And I also get that sickly thin is not only not healthy, but not entirely attractive on a grown woman.

I get that. I hear you.

Now please, hear me.

3 years ago I was about 40 lbs overweight. I’d just had my second child and I had to face the fact that the forgiveness society was giving me for my roundness because of a recent pregnancy was misplaced. I’d been carrying around those rolls for years before Emma was conceived.

40 lbs on a 5 foot nothing frame is a lot. Getting dressed in the morning had turned into a daily nightmare with me struggling to disguise myself underneath a carefully concocted costume of layers. I no longer recognized the face that stared back at me from pictures. Dressing rooms and floor length mirrors taunted me as I tried to find a shadow of Me in my reflection.

And so I made a decision.

I was done hating my body. I was done bitching and moaning and hiding from myself. I was absolutely sick and tired of my body coming between me and the rest of my life.

I started a low carb diet.

I didn’t go crazy, but I cut out bread and sugar and potatoes. I drank more water and even exercised on a regular basis.

And I lost weight. Damn near 40 lbs of weight to be exact. And suddenly getting dressed in the morning was fun. Taking my kids to the pool didn’t cause an anxiety attack because I had to get into a swimsuit.

The more weight I lost, the less it mattered what the fuck I looked like. It was freeing and liberating and empowering all at the same time.

I’ve kept most of the weight off for 3 years now. Sure, I fluctuate 5 lbs here or there from time to time. But for the most part, I’ve stayed on track.

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I ignored the fact that my pants were getting tight again, because hey! size 6! technically still fit! I tried not to think about how uncomfortable it was becoming to be in a swimsuit. Because - well - it could be worse. Right?

Right. It could be worse. It has been worse.

But quite frankly, I don’t want to live my life by the “it could be worse” standard. Especially not when I know that I’m capable of better.

Watching those numbers pop up on the scale yesterday was a kick in the gut for me. I’d worked my ass off for three damn years, and then gotten lazy and cocky over the last few months. I haven’t gained back all the weight, but a good fucking chunk of it. And at this rate? It’s only a matter of time before I’m right back to where I started.

I can’t go back there. I won’t.

So, I’ve made a decision. Again.

Enough is enough. I remember what it’s like to be able to forget about your outsides long enough to work on the inside. I know how great it feels to be in control of your body, the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes from taking care of yourself. I know the inner dialogs that answers back to the quips that “it must be nice”, the reminder to yourself that “yeah, it is nice. And I earned this all on my own through a lot of hard work and commitment, thank you very much.”

Karl and I have already committed to one another to quit smoking this month. The official date is August 15th, but I’m going to be spending 24 hours in the car this weekend, so… um… let’s be realistic.

But Monday we start fresh.

Monday, August 18th, the kids go back to school and I take my damn body back. No more cigarettes. No more french fries. No more cheesecake as big as my head. No more mindless stuffing of the pie hole when I know it’s a cheap exchange for the long term results of taking care of myself.

Enough is enough. And 140 lbs for ME? Is enough.
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OK, so raise your hand if you’re thinking I’m a vain, shallow whore right now? GREAT! Then you’ll love tonight’s radio show! Avitable and I will be hosting another battle of the barbs on “Clearly, You’re Retarded” at 9pm EST. Tonight’s topic: Cosmetic Surgery (And all the other lengths women go to for the sake of vanity) Click here to listen live, poke fun at us in the chatroom, or download past episodes.

Sunday marked one year since we left our families behind in Iowa and moved to Florida.

If I’m being completely honest, that’s part of the reason I didn’t turn on the computer this weekend. I knew that in the computer was this blog, this place where I’ve documented every moment of this transition, this place where I knew at some point I would have to acknowledge the one year anniversary.

And I wasn’t ready.

A week ago I was ready. A week ago I was already compiling the One Year post in my head and mentally marveling at how far we had come in a year - how far I had come in just 12 months.

I was thinking about how being hundreds of miles away from grandparents and a reliable support system had forced me to become a better wife and mother. Without the luxury of well lit escape routes, we have all had to learn how to stick it out and cling to one another. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been worth it.

A week ago I was reveling in how much I’ve done since moving here. My kids have learned to take for granted things like amusement parks and white sandy beaches a friends who speak more than one language, while still hanging on to an innocent fascination with Mickey Mouse. I have enjoyed being near a major international airport with flights that will take you directly to a destination people are actually interested in flying to. Like, oh, say, New York City.

But more than that, I’ve found myself here. I’ve proven to myself that the world is both great big and completely attainable, and that I can survive Out In It. I have built a life here, from scratch. From nothing. A life that is already full of work and school and kids and friends and stories. A life that is mine and ours and no one else’s.

And I was damn proud of that. A week ago.

In fact, I was seriously contemplated removing the whole Big Move section from my sidebar. Because clearly that is so 2007 and I am so, so far beyond thinking it’s a big deal anymore.

And then I went to see Momma Mia! with Shash.

I laughed and sang and danced in my chair. I was thrilled to be able to spend a few hours with Shash and some of her gal pals. And yet, even still, I spent the entire two hours in that theater thinking “Mom would love this movie. This would be the perfect movie for us to see together.” I sobbed during the nostalgic mother/daughter scene, remembering the countless times my own mother and I had curled up into each other, crying and laughing at our favorite movies.

I have found myself longing for my mother’s touch ever since. Her voice is still familiar to me thanks to near daily phone calls, but the feel of her face against mine is merely a kinetic memory that escapes me when I am fully awake.

As the weekend approached and the nights home alone piled up, one more on top of another, I was consumed with loneliness. I missed my best friend Erin and the ease that I can only find in her company. I sat in my quiet house and strained to hear her breezing in through my front door, uninvited but always welcomed. I spoke with her over the phone, but my eyes filled with tears in the absence of the sight of her.

And all of a sudden, I was no longer ready.

A year has gone by and still I find myself drenched in homesickness.

Sure, I’ve made friends. But none that could replace a woman I had loved since we were girls, a woman who never had to be invited or asked to leave. Yes, I’ve made a little progress on this house with a few painted walls and some carefully selected window treatments. But nothing that’s gone on between these walls can replace the remarkable history that I left behind in those two old houses.

I’ve been here a year, I thought, and still I find myself confused about where my home is.

And then I spent the weekend with one of the first friends I made here. She asked how I was, and before I could finish getting out the words “I’ve been missing my family and friends,” I saw the answer I didn’t know I’d been looking for in her eyes.

Deanna has lived here for almost 7 years with her husband and son. She knows all too well about holidays spent away from your traditions and inside jokes based on history that are hard to replace. Her whole family is even farther away from mine in Canada.

She nodded and as she started to speak, I realized I was finishing her sentence. “Yeah, that doesn’t go away. Not really.”

And it doesn’t. Not really.

You move out and you move on and you build a whole new life for yourself. But you never really leave it all behind. Not if you’re lucky.

If you’re lucky, you find that your past and the people who’ve shared it with you continue to matter - even in the face of a brand new future. They matter so much that sometimes, unexpectedly, it still hurts.

And now… I’m ready.

I’m ready to tell you that I’ve been here a year. And I’ve done a lot and learned a lot since packing up that U-Haul last August - most of which I’ve already told you about just as it was all happening.

But mostly, I’m ready to tell you about the thing that I had to be here a year to truly learn.

It still hurts. And that’s OK.

I came here looking for Happiness, and learned that it is OK to be sad. It’s OK to cry and to yearn and to miss. It’s OK to doubt and to worry and to wonder what if. It’s OK - and even awesome and wonderful and truly bliss - to find yourself completely lost once in awhile.

They say that you shouldn’t post unless you really have something to say.

They say that blogging should not be an obligation.

I think that They must not have mothers. Or at least, not mothers like My mother.

MY mother calls me and says “honey, I’ve noticed you haven’t responded to comments on your blog for the last two days. Are you OK?”

MY mother calls me and says “you didn’t post! You’ve stopped posting on weekends! Britt, that’s just not like you. Are you OK? What’s going on down there?”

My mother, whom I talk to on the phone at least once almost every single day, still uses the state of my blog to gauge my mental health. I’m not sure if that’s a reflection on her or me.

Regardless, I love my mom. And I don’t want her to worry. So…

Hi, Mom! I’m fine. I’m GREAT. It’s 7:00 on Sunday night and I just got home from spending the day at the beach with friends (Deanna and Lee - remember? My Canadian friends? From Thanksgiving?). I’d love to sit down and write a detailed post telling you all about the weekend and my inaugural visit to Costco, but Jared’s at the store getting food for a cook out and I only have a few minutes before we have more friends show up at the door and I still have to clean up the back patio.

But I promise - as soon as I get a chance I will sit down and tell you all about my new camera. And how Deanna almost got us kicked out of an “adult only” pool for being too provocative with some woman. And how it’s been a year since we moved here and oh boy have I learned a lot. And about how I have consumed far too much tequila this weekend.

I blame you, mom, for giving me the tequila gene.

I will tell you all about it. Really.

But for now, just know that I am fine. No, really. I’m fine.

In fact, better than fine.

What about you? How was your weekend? Please, tell me. I’m sure your mother worries too.