Denmark. Day One.

If I had to stay at home with a small child all day, I would be.... drunk. Like, all the time.

We arrived yesterday. We're jet lagged, and I'm having technical difficulties with my laptop, so there's really nothing for me to do during the day but parent. I've cleaned everything around me in an effort to avoid intensive Mommy & Me time, and my boyfriend will be home in a half an hour to admire his gleaming home and folded laundry. So I've unnecessarily and prematurely raised the housework bar for myself here, and am basically fucked for eternity. Good one.

Three year olds. They are their own species. I don't know which one, but I know it isn't Mine. The Kid has recently taken to "Look What I Can Do!" tricks, which basically consist of her screaming "MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!" until she has my attention, and then I have to watch her do something not repeatable or remotely worth looking up for, like shrieking and flailing her elbow in the air simultaneously. And she does this about 300 times a day. Holy fuck. She also makes up her own songs, but doesn't get any further than the first line, which she then loudly repeats over and over and over. The last one was "EVERYBODY CLAP YOUR HANDS" sung monotonously in various keys at the top of her lungs.

It's so funny to be with her in a country where children are so doted on - she tripped on the street earlier, and five people stopped and turned around to give her a big "AWWW" in sympathy. Meanwhile, I'm still dragging her down the street by her arm, figuring she'll right herself eventually. Come on, it's cold. You're three already, pull yourself together.

I'm going to go press my face against the glass pane in the front door and wait for Alan to get home.

The Piss in Yer Pants Gang knows my secret.

It's Friday night, and I'm flipping through channels. I've been stuck on psychic/medium/I see dead people tv shows lately, and I'm jonesing for a fix. I have no idea what happened to Lisa Williams, but John Edward should be on soon, thank goodness.

I somehow ended up watching Most Haunted. It's not because the show is good. The premise of the show is as follows: "Host Yvette Fielding is joined by a ghost-hunting team to investigate Europe’s spookiest sites. As experts from the paranormal field, the team attempts different methods and experiments to try and communicate with the dead."

Except every time there's a fucking noise in the building they're "investigating", every cast member jumps and shrieks like a 6-year old girl at a slumber party.

It's not like they wandered into an abandoned mental hospital because their car broke down and cell phones haven't been invented yet, THEY'RE LOOKING FOR GHOSTS.

Take right now, for example. They're in an old prison. It's night time. They're all British, and they have a film crew.

"So roight now, Oi yam walking down this corridor, and DIDJA HEAR THAT?!" Cast members cling to each other as the camera pans the room.

"Spirit, if yer there, bang on tha' window". (A muffled thump is heard as a sound man halfheartedly kicks a wall with the tip of his work boot.) "OH, FOOK! WHAT THE BLIMEY HELL WAS THAT? OH, JAYSUS CHRIST!" (OK, I may be muddling my accents, here.)

Thankfully, the crew has night vision cameras to catch the terrified, hyperventilating expressions of the cast members, I mean, experts.

"ONCE FER YES, TWO FER NO - DO YOU MEAN OOS ANY HARM?" (Thump.)

"Holy God, DIDJA HEAR THAT?!" (whispering loudly) "It means us harm!"

Eek.

By the way, I just gave birth

I forgot to mention that last week, I had another baby. The Kid has a brother!

They finally got together for a weekend in Orlando. He's 15, and about a foot taller than I am, and I love him. He's the Kid's half-brother, and his mom and I have been trying to get them together for a while, and we finally had an opportunity.

We spent two days at Universal Studios. He carried the Kid around, and held her hand, and showed her the baby dinosaurs being born.

He and I spent an evening at the resort's fitness center together, and I made the mistake of going on the machines after him. I lay down on the leg press, still on his settings, and......JUSTYN! THIS MACHINE IS BROKEN! Oh, no, wait. It's just set to three times my body weight. Let me just slide this down a little to..... 10lbs. There we go! JUSTYN! WHAT DOES THIS MACHINE DO?? Your shoulders. JUSTYN, I HAVE NO SHOULDER MUSCLES!!

He had a wonderful time.

He also enjoyed sitting next to me on all the scary rides. He promptly went home and blabbed to his mother, "Mom, Mary screamed like a total girl".

Helloooooooo...........

I lost 3 pounds!

Guess where?

This past Wednesday, I went in for breast reduction surgery.

It was a tough decision (made especially difficult by the recent death of Kanye West's mother). I'm not a big fan of general anesthesia.

Plus, I heard they put a catheter in your hoo-hoo during surgery. Also my least favorite thing.

But since my pregnancy three years ago, my boobs just haven't been the same. Not that they haven't been spectacular - they were often featured in an well-respected international magazine.

However, "tribal" just isn't my look.

So Wednesday morning at 5:30am, I drove myself over to the hospital, lay there in a hospital gown, and tried not to freak out. I was so nervous, I had gotten about 45 minutes of sleep. My parents took my daughter the night before, because her school first opens at 7:30. Thankfully, my girlfriend Maria showed up at 6:30am to sit with me and hold my hand until they wheeled me in. She had the surgery 6 months ago, and was a giant help. She even took me shopping last week for all the front-clipping sports bras I'd be wearing for the next month. It was really good to have her there. She always makes me laugh, and will never tell anyone what my ass looks like when my hospital gown flies open.

Around 1pm, I woke up in recovery, only mildly aware of pain in my chest area. I groggily asked the nurse for more pain medication, and got some morphine. OOOH, MY FAVORITE! I was checked out around 3pm, and my little parents carefully helped me shuffle out to the car, with my mother eyeing my boobies the entire time.

"Holy cow, you're so flat! Did he leave you anything??"

Me: "Shut up, Ma". Except I was on so many drugs it sounded more like "SSSALLGHMMFF."

For the next three days, I stayed at my parents', while they helped me fluff my pillows, reach my ginger ale, and pull my pants on and off to pee. My mom also emptied my surgical drains, which was pretty gross. I think my dad fed me a yogurt at one point. It was nice.

I came home today, and I have nothing to do but watch Intervention and eat fruit and lay around. My boobs are back where they used to be, and after a month, I won't even have to wear a bra.

The pain isn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it would be, but I still have a whole bottle of Vicodin left!

New boobs, drugs, and lots of TV. This has been the best week EVER.

Eva Longoria it isn't.

I dragged myself to the salon the other day. When the fantastic, talented stylist, Lisa, asked what I wanted, what I had been thinking of, what hair direction I wanted to go in, I thought for a minute and quietly said, "Please fix it". I have no hair direction. And I haven't had coffee in weeks.

She flipped and brushed and smushed and pulled and tweaked for about twenty minutes, and said," I think I'm just going to rock some layers and give you something really sexy". And then clipped a twelve inch strand of hair off the back of my head to "put some volume on the top". Whatever. I wish I had a job where I could say things like "I'm gonna rock some layers".

It looked really quite fluffy and pretty when she was done, but frightened by all the layering, I immediately contacted several people to ask if I resembled an aging rock star. "It looks nice" was the general answer. And then I went to spinning class, and the sexy rockin' layers were destroyed by my gallons of sweat.

The next morning, I woke up early, knowing that this hair would require more attention than the hat I was usually willing to invest in my morning public appearances, and wielding a blow dryer and a round brush, I went to work.

And I wound up looking like Keith Urban's long-lost separated twin. On a bad day. The only "fluffing" I know how about is related to porn film production, and won't produce waves in my flattened, 80's Jon Bon Jovi hair.

I can feather, though. Is that making a comeback?

(Sigh.)