This post is just further proof that Bravo needs to give me my own reality show.

Quick! What do I have in common with Demi Moore, Kimmy K., Camille Grammer and my newest favorite hot divorced mess Brandi Glanville!? Oops, I think I gave it away...divorce. And the fact that my ex does not make $700,000 an episode. But other than that, Demi and I are basically the same person.

But don't worry folks, this blog isn't going to turn into some sad and bitter diatribe about how much I hate men and marriage and everything to do with my ex. Nope, I hope to put a more positive spin on being single again.

Here are a few examples of why being single again is great:
a) I now only have to clean up messes that I have made.

b) I now cook for only for my own consumption (and Bug's, if you count mashing up a banana as cooking).

c) I now have an infinite amount of time to smother my Bug with joy, rainbows, hearts, puppies, bunny tails and fluffy cloud love.

d) I can now devote whatever time I have leftover from being a full time mom to convincing Ryan Gosling to marry me.

Look, divorcing sucks enough as it is. But blogging about how much divorce sucks...that takes suck to a whole new level.

This one goes out to Brandi, Camille, Kim and Demi.

Super special prize to be won!

I will seriously give a super special prize to the first person who gets my baby to nap during the day. This sleep miracle must be accomplished without excessive screaming (from me or him), the use of drugs (on him at least) or voodoo (though I'm not 100% on that decision). Winning sleep doctor/baby whisperer will win an amazing prize (spoiler alert: the prize is watching my baby while he sleeps so I can shave).


(Warning, this is his "I don't want to nap" face)

New moms=wine racists.

Is it just me or does every new mom drink white wine? Think about it for a moment--I bet you that you can name more than one new mom (not including yourself, you wine-o) that has uttered the phrase "oh I don't drink much, just an occasional glass of white wine." And I guarantee that these are also women who used to shoot vodka like it ain't no thang. We white wine...I mean THOSE white wine drinking new moms actually seem to justify their new-mommy drinking habits by simply saying "oh, its just white wine"--when in reality, it has the same alcohol content as a glass of red or a cosmo. But we, I mean THEY, get away with it because white wine seems just so...weak. I'm on to you new moms...and frankly at this point, I'm saying eff it...vodka is whiter than white wine! Someone buy me a bottle of Grey Goose.

Wait, “Pregnant in Heels” doesn’t count as parenting classes?

I have a couple confessions:

1) I didn’t take any birthing classes or parenting classes. I’m just not a “classes” kind of person. I’m more of a “google shit in a panic” kind of person. Like, I’m sure that mommy classes would have prepared me for when Bug went like three days without a poop, then freaked out and had a poo that spanned 3 different states and cried about it for, like, ever. But instead, I googled “what to do when your baby doesn’t poo, then poos real big” at 3 in the morning. Thanks google for telling it is normal and he isn’t dying out of his butt.
2) I learned waaaayyy too much about parenting from Rosie Pope…on Bravo. Like, I learned about how much tummy time a baby needs and that they projectile from all orifices. First episode my “mummy IQ” was less than zero. Final episode=like a million! Thanks Rosie!

And on this note, I want to talk about one of my absolute most hated things: the unsolicited advice of others. I don’t mind when you ask for advice and you get some rather long winded answers, or even when you ask for advice and don’t get the answer you want. But I ABHORE people who tell you what you need to do in order to not kill your kid, WITHOUT BEING ASKED! Ok, some things are a given, like if a stranger sees you leave the car seat on the top of the car right next to your coffee (this didn’t really happen) and mentions this probably isn’t safe. Anything else, keep it to yourself. Seriously.

Here is my 4 step plan to dealing with “The Unsolicited Advice of Others:”

1) If coming from someone who doesn’t have any children of their own—just grin and bear it and maybe thank them for not procreating.
2) Throw it back in their face…with something equally as annoying. Like, “Jeez Becky, thanks for letting me know that my baby could die if I don’t eat a strictly raw vegan diet while he is breastfeeding. But I couldn’t help but notice that little Johnny might turn into a dwarf if you don’t use 100% llama wool pajamas.”
3) Don’t actually do #2.
4) Just breathe and realize it really takes a lot of effort to seriously eff up your baby. You are a good mother and all the Beckys out there can suck it.

(Most likely killing my baby because there is a good chance chicken poop also touched this pumpkin--call the mommy police.)

Someone please explain why you can’t buy a cosmo at a Starbucks drive up window.

So I’m going to put this out there: the hardest thing I have done since giving birth is hands down traveling with a baby.

Babies don’t travel well. If you ever meet a parent who says “Oh my baby just loves to travel, he does so well,” know that this person is a dirty filthy liar!

This is the face Bug makes when he is asked to spend long hours in his car seat.

This post comes in the wake of my whirlwind tour of the LA bridal scene…which was ultimately a great trip (um, hello bridal shower cupcakes…pretty much the only reason I go to bridal showers…that and the fact that a friend of mine is GETTING MARRIED—you know who you are, and yes, you are a way hotter bride than Kim Kardashian. Plus, your future hubby isn’t a total douche like Kris Humphries), but even a simple 6 hour road trip can take on a similar feeling to being in hell. Especially when you are on I-5 and the only thing that even slightly resembles civilization are cows. Needless to say, making a breastfeeding stop in 90 degree heat at a truck stop to the odor of cows is not what I call “travelling well with a baby.”

However, there are a couple things you can do to ease your baby travel woes:

1) Poop. Honestly, you and your baby will become constipated when you travel. So do everything in your power to poo. You can deal the baby’s constipation better when you are moving freely. Do whatever you have to do. Seriously.

2) Sleep. This is a given. But I become a really awful person when I am tired. I also become a bad person when I travel. So, the only thing that can be fixed there is the sleeping thing…which will be aided by #3.

3) Drink. No, you booze hag, I don’t mean get lushy. I mean have a glass of wine or two…but that’s it. Hangovers and alcohol bloating is way bad for any form of travel, especially when you have to be the second hottest person…I mean Maid of Honor…at a bridal shower.

4) Breastfeed breastfeed beastfeed! I cannot express enough how important it is for a baby to breastfeed while traveling. Ok, so I’m not really the poster-mommy of breastfeeding…I have had my issues. But when traveling, the boob juice is essential! It keeps things moving in the little guy (see #1), helps him ward off sickness (I always come home from travel with a cold), and keeps you VERY HAPPY. Try being second hottest…I MEAN Maid of Honor …at a bridal shower when you have milk stains on your dress. No.

This blog is Buh-nanas. It’s major.

So it might be obvious already, but I have an affinity for bad television. It if wasn’t for bad television, I probably wouldn’t watch TV. I get wayyy to engrossed in good television and feel like a total failure if I don’t follow things through to the end. I would go completely out of my mind if I didn’t see every minute of every episode of every season of good TV (Like Mad Men—I’m pretty convinced that the producers are specifically out to get ME with this whole not back until 2012 bullshit). Whereas with bad television, every episode is pretty much the same and you don’t miss much if you only watch it sporadically.

Plus, I think the Hubby has the same love for bad TV as I do. In fact, I KNOW he has a huge crush on Tamra from the OC and somewhere in a deep dark XXX corner of his mind he thinks a threesome would be just grand. Which just proves my theory that every guy, no matter what type of woman he ends up with in the end, goes through a trashy blonde stage…but that's another blog.

(Trashy blonde, having a moment.)

Because todays blog is about….wait for it….MY favorite trashy blonde….RACHEL ZOE. Ok, not just about her, but what she represents. She represents SKINNY. That bitch is 8 months preggo at the beginning of this season of “The Rachel Zoe Project” and still looks like a twig.

(There is a baby in there somewhere)

And I am seriously jealous. Ok ok ok OK, I GET IT:
1)That’s probably not healthy for her.
2)Definitely not healthy for her baby.
3)Realistically, I probably wouldn’t be happy with my body if I was that skinny anyway. Grass. Greener. Other side. You know the drill.

But the point is, I’m not skinny at this moment, and she represents the epitome of skinny. I mean once, just once I would like to look hot in white jeans. I know ultimately most people don’t think someone that skinny is hot. BUT BOY DO WHITE JEANS LOOK GOOD ON HER, I assume. I don’t know if I have seen her in white jeans. Bitch.

So look, I’m 3 months postpartum. I’m breastfeeding (hello 500 extra calories a day). And I can’t eat cheese (Goodbye the extra 500 calories a day I would regularly consume). I'm pseudo following a diet plan, which is WAY better than simply wishing to be Rachel. And I bought a pair of white jeans at H&M for like 10 bucks. I will have my Rachel Zoe moment, I WILL!

(Just maybe not quite so skeletal).

Pray for me.

I heart stuff. (Who doesn't?)

So I’m crafting. Take that Martha Stewart. It’s a great way for me to get “me” time while I’m at home recovering from surgery and debating on whether or not to become an active member of society again.

I asked the ten year old if he would like to craft with me. He looked at me like I had just told him I accidently flushed his gold fish down the drain (I didn’t, for the record. He doesn’t actually have a gold fish).

Whatever. His loss.

BECAUSE today, we are making vases out of WINE BOTTLES! Um, greatest project ever? I think so! You get to drink a shit ton of wine all in the name of art.

But that’s not the point of this post. It’s actually to drop a nugget of step-parenting wisdom.

If you want your step-kids to like you, it’s actually far simpler then you think.

These are NOT ways to get your step-kids to like you:
1) Asking them to craft with you. Seriously. At this point, they don’t want to hang out with anyone older than about 15, much less craft with their hot mess step-mom and a baby that thinks his hand is the greatest thing ever.
2)Taking them to museums. They only go for the food court. Not because they like you and want to get educated.

No, how you get your step-kids to like you is by buying them shit. Take a moment to let that brilliance settle in. You’re welcome.

See stuff=love to pre-adults. And that’s all it is, honestly… just stuff. Don’t buy them useful things, like back to school supplies or a tooth bush. Buy them something they don’t need.

I understand that this may seem shallow, but think about it. As a step-parent, you can’t use words like “love” or “feelings.” However, doing something fun and impulsive, like buying them a useless nerf gun or those shoes that “I really don’t need but aaaalllll the other kids have” shows them that you get it. You were a kid once and are really on their side.

Plus, it’s much easier to slip that new Victoria’s Secret bra past the hubby if it catches a ride in the Toys R Us bag. Just sayin.

Hand. Om nom nom.

Staying is for dogs.

I would like to one day meet the person who came up with the phrase “stay at home mom.” Then I would like to promptly hit him (I assume it’s a him, only a him would be such a dumb dumb) upside the head with my diaper bag.

This is my question: at what point in the life of a “stay at home mom” has she simply just “stayed” anywhere?

There is no staying, there is moving. Tons of moving. No staying seated, no staying standing, no staying in front of the TV watching whatever those wonderful folks at Bravo surprise me with next. In fact, I don’t do much staying at home either. Not with doctor’s appointment, kids to pick up, grocery shopping to do…I mean, I would give up Top Chef AND Real Housewives for a whole year simply to “stay” at home for one day (lie).

"I'm sorry Becky, but its time to move on and sew."

Three things:
1) Um, current season of “Project Runway,” where have you been all my life? A) Heidi is at her HOTTEST. B) Tim is at his most fabulous. C) Gay (assuming) Asian named Olivier, nuff said. D) Nina Garcia totally brought her bitch to the party. Duh.
2) I just saw a commercial for TOP CHEF TEXAS (!!!!). Dying.
3) The Steps are finally back. They have been gone for a couple weeks. Welcome back!

Here’s the thing about the back and forth travel that children of divorce must participate in every week: It SUCKS for everyone involved. The first cut is always the deepest. And by cut, I mean day. And by deepest, I mean most difficult. When the Steps get here on Wednesday for their half of the week with us, it’s like having to get to know each other all over again. The kids have to deal with a different set of rules and a different family dynamic. And I have to deal with—well, being a step-parent.

Let me take this moment to state that these are two very good kids. They are smart, have goals and ambition, are very good and involved with their baby brother and have manners (but only outside the confines of the house).

However, let me give you a little nibble of how a typical first day goes:

IF DAD PICKS THEM UP: “Hi Dad, let me tell you about my week. Let me tell you about my day at school. I missed you dad. What are we going to do tonight?” And so on.

IF STEP-MOM PICK THEM UP: “HI” (Text text cell phone cell phone) “When’s dad getting home” (Text) “What are you cooking for dinner.” (Silence, text…oh yeah, and often a phone call to biomom—which is usually a long conversation—Like I’m INVISIBLE).

But look, I’m not complaining (ok, maybe a little). I understand how difficult it is to be in the step-shoes. I was a product of divorce and was usually a total diva drama child when I went back and forth from house to house. And honestly, I have very little advice for those in similar situations—other than BE CONSISTANT! The best thing to do is keep things at your house the same—so that even when the transitions are tough, at least they know what is expected of them under your hot tranny mess of a roof.

Oh and if you are not breastfeeding a small human, Xanax. For you, not the Steps—unless….

M

The Gallbladder: The Gift that Keeps on Giving

I am starting to suspect that the universe is really conspiring against me. Here’s why:

• I now have one teeny tiny deflated balloon boob and one super ginormous watermelon boob.
• This is the last season of “Desperate Housewives.” FML

But back to the boobs. So during all my gallbladder fun, I was often unable to breast feed because I was either

A) Drugged up out of by gourd on painkillers.
B) Having surgery.
C) Immersed in a Kardashian marathon on E! (But mostly A and B)

This is now wreaking some havoc on my tatas—and I P&D’d the shit out of the ladies. My right boob is trying very hard to produce enough for my BOTTOMLESS PIT, while my left boob is whining about having to get out of bed in the morning, stupid bitch. Righty is getting overworked.

I now nurse Bug as much as possible, but this is what happens:

1) He freaks out like crazy bat shit, like that chick from “Pretty Wild” on the Vogue journalist, when he can’t get any milk out of the left boob.
2) Then chokes and yaks all over because he’s getting too much from the right.
3) I pump and then bottle feed because I’m over it.
4) I try nursing again, and then I HAVE NOTHING IN EITHER BOOB because Righty said eff it, I’m making a vodka tonic and going to bed.
5) I made up a bottle and watch “Most Eligible Dallas.”

Ok before I get YELLED AT, I get it. Breast is best. And I am giving Bug as much boob as humanly possible. But at this friggin point, with super boob and deflated bitch boob, I need a friggin break.

The gall of some people, specfically me.

So I had my gallbladder removed. NBD. ~APPARENTLY~ gallstones are yet another thing that can occur when you come in contact with a penis.Let’s recap…

THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENDED SINCE I HAD UNPROTECTED SEX WITH MY HUSBAND: Pregnancy, morning sickness, no cosmos caffeine or sushi, labor, still no cosmos or caffeine, AS WELL AS no dairy (cheese=life), gallbladder removal surgery, followed by a LOW FAT DIET—die. Well, and this

which pretty much makes up for all of it.

I think this is god telling me to eat carbs. Like a ton of carbs…enough to make Dr. Atkins roll over in his bacon lined grave.

Life now =



But for reals—this is really my perfect no dairy, low fat and actually still mildly tasty meal.

Falafal and Tabouleh with Pita

Step 1) Falafal—honestly, buy a box and follow the instructions. BUT, if that’s just too simple, this is a great recipe. http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/vegan-friendly-falafel/detail.aspx

Step 2) http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1643,152167-248192,00.html

Step 3) Pita. Ok really, just buy some. Whole wheat…make sure there is no whey. Warm. Fill.

DELISH and it has fiber, protein, fresh produce and carbs (!!). Nuff said.

M

The healing power of baby poop

Hold on, because I’m getting ready to drop some knowledge on you.

IF YOU ARE A STEP-PARENT, AND SERIOUSLY ARE GOING BAT SHIT CRAZY WITH YOUR STEP-KIDS, HAVE A BABY!

I’m not effing kidding. I have two bundles of step-joy and for the four years or so that I have been step-trying-to-not-eff-them-up, I was a serious hot tranny mess.

Here’s the thing:

• As a step parent, it’s all guts, no glory. Think about it—when biokids scream “I hate you daddy!! GET out of my life or I’ll cut you!” ultimately, like two hours later they love you again and want you to tuck them in and shit. As a step-parent, they always want to cut you.





• Step-kids get the maternal juices flowing, but seriously just try and hug a step kid. They look at you like you are honestly going to eat them. I call it “mothering blue balls.” It’s like you get all excited about nurturing and shit, but can’t actually do it.





• Your own baby will fix this.





• I tried a puppy first. Cute as he is, it didn’t work.





• Seriously, have a baby.
  

OK, for reals. If you and your hubby have discussed having your own baby to add to your dys-not-so-fun-ctional family unit, do it.

A) It will bring your unit together and make you feel more like a team and less like the bad news bears.
B) You will now have a release for your maternal boner.
C) The funny thing was, my first real hug from one of the Steps came moments after the birth of Bug.
D) And if push comes to shove, you can ignore the shit out of everyone else and focus solely on your flesh and blood…but honestly, you won’t have you. You will actually matter in the eyes of your step-kids for at least a whole week.
E) I even got a shout out on FB from the 13yo. Holla!

The Puppy: Not a baby.

M

I NEED

Seriously, I'm not exactly sure what it does, or why I need it, but it looks like those wicked egg chairs from Men In Black, and pretty much I think the Bug would think he hit the jackpot of bouncy chair thingies.

He'd be like, check me out bitches to all the other kids on the block. Duh.

M

FMD (F my diet)

So it turns out my Bug is sensitive to dairy. Two things:

1. How, after only one episode of moderate inconsolable crying, can my pediatrician determine my Bugaboo can’t stomach the stuff? I’m assuming she’s not telepathic after all.



2. It has come to my attention that pretty much all babies have sensitivities to dairy—which is either
   a. A complete crock of shit like ADHD or Scientology.
   b. Totally the way babies are just simply suppose to be and should really be discussed pre-pregnancy.

In fact, I’m thinking that the male penis should come with a warning label which would read:

WARNING:
Use of this device may result in pregnancy. This could then result in the inability to consume alcohol, caffeine or sushi. Followed by the inability to consume alcohol, caffeine, cheese, yogurt, Cherry Garcia, or pretty much anything else because dairy and whey are in fricken everything!

I’m aware that women would cease to procreate. But we have the right to be informed for eff sake. But anyway, looks like I’m now almost a vegan—which sucks because vegans annoy the shit out of me, like fundamentalists and sales people who work on commission. Foods I will be consuming from here on out:
• Coconut creamer—yay, tropical…like a pina colada.
• Lentils
• Like, every fruit under the sun.
• Oatmeal
• Any vegetable that does not require the accompaniment of cheese…which doesn’t leave me with much, honestly.
• Every last possible carbohydrate I can get my hands on---pasta, sourdough, the crust off of the kid’s pizza, croutons, etc.
• Fruit popsicles, which in my mind are fruit, just like an apple.
• Grains that I can’t pronounce, like quinoa and amaranth.
• Black tea and coffee—If I can’t have my dairy, I’m taking back my caffeine!
• Chinese food. Not a lot of dairy in spring rolls and chow mein. Thank god.

M

Me

Things you should know about me:

• My husband and I have been together for 4 years, married for 1.
• I am a lot younger than my husband…like biologically incapable of being the mother of his first child…but not in a creepy way. More cool if anything…especially for the hubby.
• My step-children are 13 and 10.
• The 13 year-old is pretty much a super model and I hate her for that.
• The 10 year old, I kid you not, will be the next Justin Timberlake. Someone once said the next Justin Bieber, who is horrifically annoying, so let’s stick with Timberlake (who is a total dreamboat).
• I used to be skinny.
• I once believed that cosmos and otter-pops were the best diet ever (ok, I still believe that, but it doesn’t really bode well for breastfeeding).
• Thanks to the love of my life, my 2.5 month baby boy (who is a WAY bigger dreamboat than even JT), I have like a million pounds to lose in order to look anywhere near what I did when I was 21 and believed dancing and singing to Mariah Carey in my kitchen with my roomie was cardio.
• I love to cook and aspire to be the “Female Bobby Flay.”
• It would be AMAZING to one day have some goofy cooking show on my terrace where I grill random shit, drink margaritas and make a disgusting amount of money from making dumb wise cracks about tastes and smells and other cooking related stuff.
• I believe that I have a wonderful taste in music and would be proud to show anyone my winning iTunes collection.
• I believe Mariah Carey is musical genius.
• But then again, I also believe the Foo Fighters are GODS.
• Having my baby fall asleep on my chest is the best feeling I have ever felt. I will probably even let him do it when he is a teenager.

FIN