And he likes trucks, so we had a truck party. He stayed up all the way through his naptime and didn’t shove a single child to the ground as punishment for playing with his toys. Victory!
As you can tell, we’re big into parties. I’m providing details here, because I suspect I’ll answer lots of questions in comments if I don’t. If you’re also the type who shivers at the smell of hot glue, here you go:
Cone and Truck Garlands They’re made of felt affixed to ribbon with hot glue, and I cut all the little pieces out myself. You can cut four or five at a time.
Labels The cake flags, food labels, and the sticker on the favor sign were all gifts from Jordan who does Stuck Labels, which I mentioned yesterday. So. Cute. I’m suddenly labeling everything I own.
Favor tags They’re just metal-rimmed garage sale tags that I got at the hardware store. I drew on them, and replaced the string with ribbon.
Truck Cake Bryan made that with two pound cakes from the freezer section. He cut one in half and stacked it for the cab, then carved a bed out of other. The dirt is crumbled Oreos and frosting.*
Hooray for two! Hank, you’re my little buddy.
Thursday’s Fun Thing
Alli, my college roomie and partner in crime, went into labor. Alli and I met in seventh grade, where both of us spent lots of time in the library pondering our Welcome to the Dollhouse lives. Things have since improved.
Friday’s Fun Thing
Lisa Stone convinced me that it was bad juju to ignore hot tub access at the Four Seasons. Lisa, if you haven’t met her, is like Den Mom for your life. We had a glass of wine and thirty minutes to decompress before we hit the Mom 2.0 party, where I eventually forced her to put her purse down while we danced.
Saturday’s Fun Thing
I moderated a stunningly informative panel at Mom 2.0. Turns out I’m surrounded by geniuses — specifically Isabel Kallman of AlphaMom, Gabby Blair of Kirtsy and DesignMom, and Barbara Jones of the W.O.M. Mom. All that intellect, and pretty easy on the eyes, if you know what I’m sayin’. We teamed up to fix everything wrong with the Internet. (Watch your back, Scoble.)
Sunday’s Fun Thing
Hank’s truck-themed birthday brunch, which we cunningly scheduled right in the middle of his nap time.
Monday’s Fun Thing
Cooking freezables for the new parents. (How cute are those Stuck Labels? Having a stockpile around is making my life prettier.)
Tuesday’s Fun Thing
Meeting Eli. Hello there, little boy.
The Mom 2.0 Summit was a very good time.
At the conference party I ran into a group of startlingly fashionable guys:
-Are you from Argentina?
-Wait. Does Houston have a gay scene?
Ahhhh. Texas shorts my gaydar.
I set my coat on a bench, and the bench eventually became a “stage,” which is how a dancing transvestite accidentally crushed my phone. I’m pretty sure there’s a fetish site for this somewhere, so I expect my stats to reflect that shortly.
The phone still works, so props to Apple, because those were some seriously menacing platforms. Still, I prefer it when my iPhone isn’t shedding glass shards into my ear. Le sigh.
In other news, Gwen was wearing Wonder Woman panties, and so it turns out that like her very much.
(Photo from Gillat)
Filling out the paperwork for my oral surgery, I noticed I was signing a consent form for bone grafting. I had some questions for the person at the desk.
-Uh. Are you taking some of my jaw and putting it somewhere else in my jaw?
-Where do you get the bone for the bone grafting?
-Oh, it’s a pre-treated crushed bone. Sort of like sand we use to fill the space.
-Is it human bone?
-No, it’s cadaver. It’s animal bone.
-… Doesn’t cadaver mean “dead human body?”
-No, I’m pretty sure cadaver is a kind of animal.
In the end, she asked the doctor, who confirmed that it was dead-person sand they were packing in my jaw. This made me feel uncomfortable, and then deeply grateful. Signing that donor card is such an act of grace. I never anticipated needing anything quite so personal from a stranger, but here I am. Since the surgery, I’m carrying something sacred around with me — a little thimbleful of someone else.
Also, my jaw is now certifiably haunted. So if I say something insulting the next time I see you, you can’t necessarily prove it was me. Stupid.
I have problematic teeth. When I go to the dentist, which I do every few minutes, they look at me like I’ve been sleeping with hard candy in my mouth, and waking to a hearty breakfast of dried apricots dipped in marshmallow fluff.
So many hygienists have given me flossing demonstrations that I’ve begun to carry a photo of our medicine cabinet in my wallet:
That’s eleven containers of floss, y’all, not counting the two in my nightstand drawer and the one I keep in my dopp kit. So you see, I’ve become “vigilant” about this issue. I’m the fucking Rainman of flossing.
Anyway, this round of oral surgery was to place two implants, one to replace a baby tooth that I never lost, and one to replace a botched root canal done by a dentist I no longer visit — except in particularly graphic nightmares.
After the surgeon made four unsuccessful attempts at placing an IV to knock me out, we decided it might be preferable to go with the laughing gas. Because I was in fetal position crying at the time, this sounded good to me.
They applied the Vader mask, and I immediately recalled how much I dislike laughing gas. I lost the bit of composure I’d managed to summon, and tears began to pool in my ears. When the Novocain took effect, I freaked, albeit in a very subdued, distant manner. A peek into my gas-addled mind:
It is clear I have no teeth. I am an ancient person whose toothless face is weathered with knowledge.
No. Wait. I am a baby with a round, toothless face, seeing every detail for the first time.
No! Wait! I am uncomfortably high.
To test the latter theory, I tried to lift my arm. Fail. Accordingly, I began to panic.
I am too high to lift my arm. I am entirely too high!! How can I possibly be of use? How can I help the periodontist complete this task? I am useless like this! USELESS!
Then I began to laugh uncontrollably, and my arm floated into view. I tapped the mask and said, “I. Hate. This. Shit.”
And that’s how I ended up having the surgery with a pint of Novocain and very little dignity. I can recall all the details of why my mouth feels like this, which is why I hope to drink heavily this weekend.
Tomorrow, do you want to talk about bone grafting? No? Aw. Let’s do it anyway.
Best screencap on record. In retrospect, I should have just worn the pasties and wig as we filmed this one. Next time.