jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

I’m not sure when this appeared on my nightstand.

Mah Pills

That’s seven pills on my agenda. Let’s explore them.

1. The patriotic painkiller — red, white and blue Extra-strength Tylenol

These are on the menu since the day, about a week ago, when I problem-solved my inability to reach the top half of the white board in my office by standing on a tiny chair. My unorthodox dismount, what some people might call “falling ass over teakettle,” ended with me landing hard on my backside right on the wooden edge of the chair. I am still paying for it daily, in what I think is a cracked or badly bruised tailbone. Holy cow, that is no joke.

2. The gaggers — fish oil capsules

These will lessen my chance of heart disease. Or maybe Alzheimer’s. I think Dr. Oz wants me to take them. I take two every evening. Except for the night where I only take one because Alden has taken the other one by gnawing it into a pulp and then swallowing the lot. This can only be good for him, right?

3. The one I always drop on the white carpet — cetirizine, the allergy pill no doctors seem to recognize even though it’s the generic of Zyrtec.

This is the only one that I absolutely need to take every day, living here in the allergy capital of the US. I do forget sometimes, and pay an immediate price.

4. The speckled hen’s egg — either a multivitamin or a prenatal vitamin.

I mixed them together ages ago to save space and now I can’t remember which is which. I just shake the jar and take what pops to the top.

5. Beige and dusty — Brewer’s Yeast

This one keeps me from getting fleas. I bought them for my dearly departed Darby cat years ago. I have no idea if they really helped, but he loved them. I used them as treats. I found them recently in the back of the medicine cabinet and offered them to our new rotten cats. They declined. So now I take them because I don’t know what else to do with them. And I definitley don’t want fleas.

I make it a point not to add to the pile of unsolicited advice new parents get, even though I have access to a fascinating focus group of two. I stick to as many facts as I can, responding only to direct questions.

(Confidential to the woman who followed me and a newborn Alden down the street to repeatedly insist I put a hat on him: I still hate you.)

I’m thinking more about this lately since my friend S is about to have a baby. What can I tell her that is guaranteed to be useful? So far I’ve got two things I believe to be universally true.

1. When your kid is being a demon, post some photos of her — sweet or sour — to Facebook. You’ll get an instant gratification burst when people comment on the cute-itude. Sometimes you need help to see your kids in a better light.

2. Toys that make electronic noise? Good luck banishing those. Would you like to hear how that went for me? What? You can’t hear me over the singing toolbox? Some of them have volume control. Look carefully for that switch. For those that don’t, put a small piece of duct tape over the speaker. It will mute the blooping and screeching into something a little less sanity challenging.

That’s all I’ve got. Seriously. Parenting is a series of shocks and amazements for me. If anyone else has some universal truths I would love to hear them.

This is what I saw when I looked down while in the airport security line yesterday morning.

Really Jillian?

That’s how I wound up running through LAX in high heels, skinny jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt. Jessica Simpson from the waist down and soccer mom from the waist up.

If you think that I couldn’t have looked too out of place checking into a semi-schmantsy hotel in Beverly Hills, consider that the sweet front desk clerk insisted on showing me how to work the elevator.

One of my favorite things to eat. My preferred version tastes like a mouthful of lemon juice, garlic and wine — also with some clams.

This one didn’t come out too well. I was penny wise and pound foolish, but with my time. Second wise and hour foolish? I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is that I burned the garlic early on and I should have just started over. But the anchovies were already in and I didn’t have more. I pressed on. Mistake. It wasn’t terribly burned, but enough.

The only swipe I’ll take at the recipe is at the canned clams. It takes 5% more effort to steam up a basket of clams than it does to pop the can open. Canned clams aren’t gross, but they are not as good as fresh. Noticeably. This is no Pepsi Challenge.

The only reason I know to use canned clams is to save money. That’s a great reason. I’d just prefer to use them less frequently and get the better meal.

Recipe #14: Linguini with White Clam Sauce from Food Network

To the person who found this blog by searching “crush on my mailman”…

Do it! Seriously, make that mailman love you. You can do it. He wouldn’t come to your house every day if he wasn’t interested, right? I know that your long-term civic relationship makes it complicated, but surely you can face that down even if the worst happens. You cannot possibly make a bigger fool of yourself than I just did trying to sing a Julie Andrews lullabye to my baby. That was a travesty. Think on this: If you break up some day you can send yourself passionate love letters (you know he’ll be reading) and extravagant gifts. What could be more delicious that making your ex hand-deliver tokens from your new love?

Unless you are part of a monogamous relationship. To you I say…

Don’t do it. It’s not worth it. When this all inevitable devolves into recriminations and regrets you will still have to see that guy every. damn. day. Face it, you’ll have to move. You don’t need that.