Archive for August, 2009

The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite

Hey, do you want to hear the stupidest thing in the world? My kid, she is finally sleeping better on a somewhat regular basis. In her own room. Away from my body.

And I am UPSET about it. UPSET. Like she’s OFF AND LEAVING ME. God, it’s like I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. She can’t sleep away from me? Misery and the very real possibility of becoming institutionalized. She finally sleeps away from me? I’m practically in TEARS because she doesn’t seem to need me anymore. Jesus H, you guys. Parenthood is one gig that you literally cannot win, no matter what happens, and yes, I pretty much want to punch myself in the face for all of this, YES. PUNCH PUNCH.

Happy bunny.

This looks like a kid ready to head off to college FOR SURE.

Ahem. Moving on!


I know I mention it like, um, every day, but I have serious concerns as to how I’m going to go on with my life once True Blood is over. SERIOUS CONCERNS. No, really. I have spent a bit too much time pondering the season and following stupid people like BonTempsGossip on Twitter, and becoming INTENSELY IRRITATED with TWoP recapper Jacob, who has decided that instead of keeping with the light, snarky spirit of Television Without Pity, he’d rather use the time to ponder life, the universe and whether God exists in broad, sweeping, painfully esoteric terms that have nothing to do with how amusingly irritating it is when Bill screams, “SOOKEH!” for the frillionth time. I mean, there’s COMEDY GOLD in there, and all Jacob cares about is talking about his personal journey while reading Donna Tartt’s The Secret History and waxing philosophical about God in whatever form. Yes, yes, there are Dionysian links to both, but GOD SHUT UP SHUT UP.

Television Without Pity has truly sucked the big one since the Bravo acquisition, and I can’t help but once again long for the days of AB and Evany with more than a wistful sigh. They were FUNNY and IRREVERENT, where as Jacob is … reverent.

Think I’m kidding? No no. An actual paragraph from what should be a hilarious send-up of Maryann and her stupid Dionysus-loving (albeit great) ass, but was instead a … oh Christ, just read it and try not to poke your eyes out with the nearest pointy object:

… Ekstasis comes from the word for displacement, ek (out) + histanai (to stand): To rise up. To come out of stasis. From the word for stand we get “stet,” like to leave things the way they are, and “status quo,” and basically everything that defines us. To step out of that, for even one second, is also to touch all of it at once: That’s God. There is not a better definition for divinity. Every religion that ever existed is about this attempt to get out of our shitty mud and touch something eternal …

And then he … talks about Camille Paglia and how she affected him, which, if that isn’t the world’s biggest buzzkill, I don’t know what is.

Hey, Jacob? Get over yourself. This is not the Personal Journey of True Blood According to Jacob And His Feelings On God, The Universe and Everything In It, Which Weirdly Includes Camille Paglia, The Greatest Turnoff of All Turnoffs. I’ll stick with KDiddy, who has RETAINED HER SENSE OF HUMOR. Thanks.

And you know what else? Hung. It sucks. SUUUUCKS. Man, HBO, you really blew it with that one. Great concept, piss-poor execution. I mean, how is it that tired, rote ENTOURAGE is more fun than a comedic send-up of a reluctant male prostitute? How is it that I find myself caring more about Eric Murphy’s love life than whether Ray Whatsisface gets a new client? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE, HBO?


Onto random bullets!

— I stopped refrigerating my butter at my father’s behest, and let me tell you, it’s BLISS. First of all, you use less when you’re not trying to desperately mash it into a wafer-thin English muffin, tearing the bread to bits in the process. Good butter freezes HARD, yo, and I found myself slicing it with a CHEESE KNIFE to get it to go on my muffins, which meant I was eating GIANT SLABS OF BUTTER every morning. This, as you can imagine, is not very good for the old Weight Watchers. I couldn’t even figure out how to explain how much butter I was eating, and you know, butter is not meant to be eaten sliced, like cheese. It just isn’t.

Plus! It doesn’t go bad, it remains soft and the best part? All these SALTY BITS end up on the outside of it, and it’s DELICIOUS.

— I’ve been nursing a dangerous pickled beet habit to the tune of $16 a week. A WEEK. For God’s sake, that’s what I used to spend on CIGARETTES when I smoked. You know, back before taxes hiked them up to $30K per pack. But still. $16 a week. Both days of the farmer’s market — Wednesdays and Saturdays — I’m plunking Sam in the Ergo and heading down to the Happy Valley farm booth, hands shaking, in desperate need of my fix. It’s DISGUSTING and EXPENSIVE and hey, does anyone have a pickled beet recipe I can snag?

— I saw an acquaintance who just had a baby at the pediatrician’s office the other day and … oh wow, you guys. She looked DEAD. And TIRED. And ALL BANGED UP. And while I know without a doubt that I looked PRECISELY like that for at least the first two months after Sam’s birth, I have to ask: is it the same with the second kid, or are you a *leeetle* more together because you know all the sleep dep eventually ends, and that at one time, in the not so distant future, you will sleep again, or at least learn to FUNCTION on so little sleep? Or — and I don’t know if I want to know the answer if this is the case — IS IT WORSE?

Happy Wednesday!

89 comments August 25th, 2009


There are two things that automatically calm Samantha when she’s having a crappy day — which, by the looks of her swollen red lower gums, are coming fast, furious and OFTEN these days, because clearly, kid’s teeth feel like ASS. First, her kitty rug, seen in this photo. Take her clothes off, lay her down and glee ensues without fail, complete with screechy sound effects. And the second, which is perhaps my favorite, is to hold her up in front of the mirror and ask, “Who’s the pretty baby? Who’s the pretty baby in the mirror?” Invariably, she will gaze lovingly at herself and smile the proudest smile in the world, sometimes holding her hands to her chest as if to say, “ME! I am SO PRETTY! ME!”

In that moment, I think my heart is going to explode, because — and forgive me for entering schmoopy, parent-y heart-clutching territory here — I hope she always feels that way about herself. I hope she always looks in the mirror and thinks that she is the prettiest, most awesome thing in the world (and yet, uhh, remains humble), even if her thigh rolls could hide a full picnic lunch.

I’ve entered one of those mythical stages of parenthood where every day holds at least one moment where I think that I cannot possibly love her any more; that she cannot get any more awesome, and then, I promise you, she does something so delightful that I think, well, shit. I think I love you even more now, kid. How’d you do that?

I hastily add that every day also holds at least one moment where I find myself thinking, oh my GOD, kid, just CLOSE YOUR EYES, because the world will be SO MUCH BETTER FOR ALL OF US if you could just TAKE A NAP.


Which brings me to the fact that for the last two days, my daughter hasn’t wanted to nap ANYWHERE but in the Ergo. On me. Leaving me trapped on the couch beneath a beautiful-but-heavy sleeping baby and a few times, I’d reached the End of the Internet. And AHOY! I have a point that is not baby-related.

But first! Let me back up! It is a miracle that I am happily married, because you guys, when I was single, I was the PICKIEST EVER. And about stuff that would seem stupid at first blush, but that would turn into this massive … thing that I’m sorry, I just could not get past. For example, three dates into a budding relationship with a guy who seemed decent enough, I suddenly realized that his eyes were a little wide-set for his face, and like magic, his once-handsome face morphed into that of a slug and … well, suffice it to say THAT goodnight kiss did not happen, nor did date four.

Another potential suitor met his demise when I realized with horror, somewhere around Date Five, that he had fatboy hands. He was handsome, sweet and … and then, rather suddenly, I took a good look at his hands and saw nothing but Jimmy Dean breakfast links. Oh, sure, we went out a few more times after that, but by then I’d started referring to him to my friends as Piggy Bojangles, and … well, you can never be serious about a person you call Piggy Bojangles, I don’t care how nice he is.

For the record, 11 years in to my relationship with Adam, I have yet to have anything remotely resembling a Piggy Bojangles moment. I hope nothing ever happens to him, because I have LITTLE HOPE of finding such a miracle in another human being, and am clearly destined to be alone forever.

Enter Eric the Vampire and his Piggy Bojangles moment. Remember the other day how I was all wondering what the HELL was with Eric’s disembodied head during the naked Sookie scene in this week’s True Blood? Well. WELL. I re-watched the episode in question during one of Sam’s Ergo naps, and came to a startling discovery:

Alexander Skarsgard suffers from Wee Head Syndrome. Big, ripped body and small, pea-sized head? Wrong. Pea-head dudes take note. If your head is small, keep your body in proportion, yo. And worse? Some End of Internet Googling to determine if this was actually the case led to the startling discovery that Skarsgard has allegedly had … silicone implants put into his back. To make it bigger I, uh, guess. To EMPHASIZE WEE HEAD SYNDROME. But really, I think this photo is enough.

And another crush bites the dust, ladies and gentlemen. I haven’t been this disappointed since Ryan Star awkwardly climbed the speakers during Baba O’Riley on the Rockstar: Supernova semi-finals, ending a season-long love affair from afar.

Finally! Two things:

— Dude, what did I say about Big Brother being boring? I lied. Oh Chima. Oh, Chima Chima Chima. And the Twittering! I think my favorite bit is when she announced that her detractors are all “fat and ugly.” Stay classy, Chima!

— Today, while walking a sleeping, Ergo’d Sam a grand total of TEN FEET to the restaurant across the street, a woman leaving the restaurant said, loudly enough for me to hear, and yet clearly, uhh, under her breath, “Stupid mother. That baby should have a hat.”

I … I yelled at her like a deranged lunatic. “WE ARE ONLY WALKING TEN FEET, WHICH IS WHY SHE DOESN’T HAVE ONE. BUT THANKS FOR NOTICING!” And then I waved my arms all menacing-like. Or more likely, crazy-like. And the worst part is that this is the smallest town ever, and she looked … familiar, which means I know I’ll see her again, and it will be hard not to clock her. Who says that? WHO SAYS THAT? OH MY GAAAAWWWWDDD.

Happy Thursday!

*Lisa Hannigan, who finally has her own solo album.

65 comments August 19th, 2009


Yo yo yo. So last week, after the hell that was the PREVIOUS week was Teh Awesome. I used to measure the success of a week by how much downtime/relaxation I could squeeze in, but these days, it’s all about how much we can get up! and out! of the house! because there is only so inside time much I can handle with an infant, you know? I mean, she’s only gotten better and better, but yeehaw, a little adult conversation/interaction is NECESSARY, yo, even if it’s only the clerk at the natural foods co-op, where I regale them with my adoration of cultured butter (and have now hooked Metalia on).

However, I got much MORE than that last week, as I took Samantha for her first dip in a lake AND a pool, and there were multiple afternoons with friends and oh, it was lovely. But, uhhhh, not relaxing. I have determined that relaxing is something that will happen when my kids are in college, although then I’ll be up all night panicked that they’ve thrown themselves out the dorm window in a misguided drunken lark, like their father almost did back in the day.

Anyway! I also spent a lovely, if sweaty, afternoon with the TwoBusy family and I really and truly loved them, and I’m saying that with utter sincerity, not the occasionally sycophantic bloggy kind of flattery that seems like it’s thrown out out of obligation. (Am I the only one who cringes at this, especially on Flickr? Or am I a douche?) (Am likely a douche. It’s okay.) They — all of them — were as advertised, and truly lovely people. Funny, irreverent and kind and just … lovely. Oh, and when he talks about how beautiful his wife is, believe him. I also believe I kept my awkwardness mostly in check and mercifully did not hug them all the moment I saw them, but instead was approached by THEM at the end for hugs. I do believe this is a first, people. I am usually the over-enthusiastic hugger. (BlogHer ’10 attendees have been warned. I am the hugger!) However, I was SO DETERMINED not to be the crazy hugging lady, because sometimes, she can be a little scary, and there were children present.

Onward! To … I don’t even know what.

— I’m dreading winter with a dread that I’ve never had before. You guys, I’m a WINTER PERSON, normally. I LIKE hunkering down and being warm inside while it’s all snowy and fun out there. Except … oh God. Curling up with a good book is lovely on a cold winter’s eve, but wrangling a cabin-fevery baby, not so much. Getting out of the house is absolutely key to keeping my brain from exploding, even if it’s just for a walk. What … what the HELL am I going to do this winter? HELP ME.

— Eric was … naked in this week’s True Blood and I can’t say I was disappointed, except for the disembodied head bit (What WAS that? Why was he in that awkward position? Was it an ass stand-in? Was that SOMEONE ELSE’S ASS? I must know!). But still. Niiiice. However, I am all set with Anna Paquin’s boobs, thanks. I’ve SEEN THEM. Yes, yes, FINE, she has a nice body, FINE. But did we HAVE to have her boobs in bed with Eric? DID WE? I AM ALL SET WITH SOOKIE’S BOOBS.


— My closest friend here is very likely moving to … Alaska, come October. Yeaaaah. That’s about as far as you can get. Bummer.

— Hey, so I know I mentioned this on Twitter, but if you are in or around the NYC area and plan to see a Broadway play, please do me a favor and see Wicked. My closest friend from FOREVER AGO is — oh my God — THE LEAD! The lead! THE LEAD IN AN ACTUAL, REAL-LIVE BROADWAY MUSICAL. (Side note: now you know where I went to high school. Thrilling details, these!)

In other words, she made it. She made it! Dude, that never happens to the nice people, it seems, and you guys, she is the NICEST. I love her so. And you know, I am so proud of her, and when stuff like this happens, I have a little bit of faith that good things happen to good people who deserve them. Because getting there was HARD, yo. HARD. I mean, she was the lead in a CARE BEAR MUSICAL at one point! Followed by a traveling tour of POKEMON: THE MUSICAL. Yes, POKEMON. She only came to my wedding because there was a break in the national tour of Cats. AFTER POKEMON. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, POKEMON.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go (this fall, I hope), so I’m urging everyone I can to go so that I can hear all about it. Hurry!

— Sunny’s been out of sorts for a while, so I have been instructed to take her temperature somewhat regularly to see if she’s hot (she has been). This means that there are TWO asses I have to stick a thermometer in on a regular basis (I’m sick, and am worried Sam is getting sick, so …). TWO. Come ON. But then I think things couldn’t be that bad, considering we found out that her bum needed to be emptied (the ANAL GLANDS, AHOY) because she was asleep with her backside near my husband’s head and … well. HIS HAIR DID NOT SMELL SO FRESH AFTER THAT.

You’re welcome.

Happy Tuesday!

*A Fine Frenzy. This was on my birthing playlist, though I have no memory of it being played.

35 comments August 17th, 2009

La La

So! Last week … last week sucked in every way imaginable. Sam didn’t sleep, there was serious family dramzzz and … well! You get it! Week’s over and let us all thank everyone we can possibly thank, because to say it was bad is a glaring neon UNDERSTATEMENT. BAD. BAD. BAD.

And look! A fresh week is upon us, wide open with possibility. Hooray! If plans are any indication, this week is shaping up to be very lovely. Tomorrow I’m spending the afternoon at a friend’s house with her two kids — a friend, PS, I have never mentioned that I met because of this here blog. She was not a reader, but a friend of hers from college WAS (holla, Amy!) and, well, she set us up. Like a blind FRIEND date, and lo, she was totally right that we dig each other (at least I like HER very much … I can’t speak for her, obvs) and yes, it is awesome. Tuesday! Tuesday brings an afternoon visit to my neighbor’s house on the lake! And Wednesday … well, Wednesday I’m having lunch with the entire TwoBusy clan. The whole family! ALL OF THEM. I know!

IT IS A PLATE FULL OF PROMISED AWESOMENESS. Awesomeness that, you must trust me on this, I really deserve after last week, and for me to behave as though I am deserving — nay, OWED — ANYTHING means that truly, last week was UNPLEASANT.

Onward! To other pleasant things!

— I’ve lost seven pounds on Weight Watchers so far. Seven! A not-insignificant number! And you know what’s frightening? YOU CANNOT TELL. AT ALL. That’s how dire the situation is. Heavens to betsy.

— Big Brother this season is … awful. I don’t like any of them. Not ONE. I DO NOT CARE. I don’t even like to HATE any of them. Saddest. Season. Evar.

— Since last week’s sucktacularness isn’t anything I can discuss, I am sort of at a LOSS here as to how to update you on ANYTHING. So here! A video of my baby making THAT NOISE. THE PTERODACTYL NOISE. AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Sam’s newest… noise from Jonna & Adam on Vimeo.

Happy Monday!

*Ashlee Simpson. One of my never-mentioned supersecret guilty pleasures. FOR REAL. I KNOW.

40 comments August 9th, 2009


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