Several random bits of varia, in no particular order, offering no brevity:
Of the sad but true variety
You know, sometimes I wish I could get someone to come over here for an hour so that I can just CLEAN. Now THERE’S a sentence I never thought I’d say, but Jesus, if it isn’t true. I sit here some days fantasizing about 60 minutes to myself not so that I can take a bubble bath and knock back a dirty martini or two, but so that I could really go to town on our baseboards and really hit up those toilets. The other night I cleaned our bathrooms before bed, and I couldn’t sleep, because I was TOO EXCITED about the fact that I’d just made our fixtures sparkle and smell delightfully like Mrs. Meyer’s Verbena. (The lavender is still On Notice after the car incident. Likely permanent notice, even though I have a veritable ASSLOAD of it.)
Of the True Blood variety
I’m on book eight of the Sookie Stackhouse novels and honestly, I’m kind of over it. I loved them, they were great fun and hooray! YAY, SOOKIE! But you know, at this point, I just want her and Eric to get it on again already and ride off into some telephatic vampric sunset. I think perhaps I read them in too close succession to one another with zero breaks.
Separately, I have been re-watching season one of True Blood, having now read the novels, and it is MUCH more multilayered and foreshadowed than I thought and dude, Bill’s hair (and acting) was SO MUCH BETTER in season one than season two, the Season of the SOOKEH!
Also weirdly related to True Blood: During the height of my season two obsession, I started following, for reasons unclear to me now, the fake True Blood characters on Twitter. Like, someone pretends to be Eric Northman, another Sookie and another Bill and HOO BOY, as I’m typing this, the perils of doing such a thing are APPARENT to me, but I assure you at the time, I was thinking I’d get some kind of season spoilers or something, I don’t know.
What I DO know is that I did NOT get season spoilers, but instead found myself following a bunch of people who, night after night, get WAAAAAY into their character, and at this point are, night after night, ACTING OUT BOOK THREE. And Bill and Eric are both sending creepy inappropriate Tweets (YES TWEETS) to Sookie, who, well, let’s be honest, is probably played by someone who does not resemble the fictional Sookie and/or Anna Paquin. And for chrissake, for all we know, is played by a man, and Eric a woman, and oh, it’s all get very CREEPILY META IN HERE and in a weird way, Derrida would be STOKED. (There I go again, but I’m telling you, literary theory SCARRED MY ASS FOR LIFE.)
And now, you see, it’s crossed a line from fun frivolity into creepy turtleneck mouthbreathing territory, with extra pencil erasers in the hair kind of thing. And yet, I cannot look away.
Of the “I forgot to tell you” variety
At the Quidditch match, there were also TENTS set up for the teams to hang out in. TENTS. Just like Harry Potter. I did not go into the tents to see if they were, indeed, magical and giant, but I’m thinking no.
Of the weird celebrity WTF variety
What does Kate Hudson see in Alex Rodriguez? Anyone?
Of the “OMG seriously?” variety
I bought a kids’ music album (God, shoot me) and one of the songs is called “Cock-A-Doodle Doo!” and, well, they have the track listed as “C**k-A-Doodle Doo!” Which, really? REALLY? Come on now.
Of the kind of gross variety
Adam hates changing Sam’s diapers when they have, uh, something other than pee in them. He does it, but there is much moaning and nose-holding and MANY WIPES. I don’t love it, mind you, but I explained to him the other night that it doesn’t gross me out nearly as much as I anticipated, because it’s my kid and not someone else’s kid, and it’s just not as bothersome when it’s your own kid. The same thing goes for my dog. I don’t know why this is. He did NOT agree, and insists that both are just as bad no matter whose child/dog/whatever it is.
Is it just me?
*Note: this is not true of cats. Cats’ stuff is the most vile thing on earth no matter if it’s my cat, even if, by some strange twist of biology, I GAVE BIRTH to the cat.
So! What did you do this weekend? Because I guarantee it wasn’t what I did, no matter who you are. We … well, folks, we went to a Quidditch match — the World Cup, in fact. Yes, QUIDDITCH. The mythical Harry Potter game? Yes, THAT. It seems something like five or six years ago, some college students decided to, uh, make it a real game and now there are TWENTY ONE COLLEGES with Quidditch teams. No, I don’t know why. But you guys, it’s … well, it’s serious, it what it is, with actual scores and these big HOOPS and seekers and bludgers and I don’t even know what else.
They run around the field on brooms. Brooms that do not fly. And they also wear capes. Yes. These kids wear CAPES and they take it SUPER-SERIOUSLY and the snitch? You know that little gold ball that Harry’s supposed to chase around and catch, and if they catch it, the game’s over? Yes, the snitch is a PERSON dressed in yellow — yellow tights, in most cases, with the little ball tucked into a sock dangling from the back of their shorts like a tail. And the snitch goes running around downtown like a CRAZY PERSON before finally showing up on the field and … wait, am I rambling? It was JUST. SO. RIDICULOUS. But also kind of awesome. No, it was definitely awesome.
Behold! Kids in capes on brooms beating each other to a pulp: Sorry, we were kind of far away, but we were still very much in the action, and oh my God, really, what the hell, can you see that they’re carrying BROOMSTICKS BETWEEN THEIR LEGS?
The frightening part is that it did not, as it would seem, appear to be made up of D&D high school rejects, but was a reasonable cross-section of overly earnest liberal arts-focused college students. Bizarre, I tell you. Oh, and if you were wondering, Middlebury won out in the finals, grabbing the snitch in the nick of time from second-place winner Emerson College’s PURPLE-CLAD CLUTCHES.
(It was very dramatic. Or rather, anti-climactic, what with the snitch-grabbing and all.)
There is one person, however, who was less than impressed: What the fuck, yo? Isn’t there some sort of EXERSAUCER PARTY I could be at instead? Jumperoo? Anything? Help?
Also, you should know that I cut and fixed my hair MAHSELF after that photo was taken, because although I love my hairdresser, there was a minor BANG SNAFU happening there, not to mention a lack of decent product or, uh, showering that day. Whatever. It’s much better now. Am haircutting genius! Just don’t ask me to cut yours.
On Quidditch Day, I also dropped my iPhone, and if you ever want to send your mother into some sort apoplectic fit wherein she thinks you’ve been abducted, please, lose your phone and have a stranger call her at home and ask about her youngest daughter. And then I returned home to six messages — SIX! — from my mother, brother, sister and father, all explaining in varying degrees of hysteria that a nice man named Joe found my phone. Which, you know, helpful and awesome and YAY JOE, seriously, but do you know that Joe only called my mother? And that my mother PANICKED and called the rest of my family, thinking that I was somewhere out in the ether and in some kind of DANGER, all because my phone fell out of the Ergo, oh my God?
I have a tendency to jump to worst-case scenario situations, no matter how statistically improbable. You see where this comes from, yes?
Anyway, Monday! Monday was SOMETHING! Monday involved a lot of this: I wasn’t laughing at her, I swear, it’s just that two seconds before she was SMILING AT HER IMAGE and then … well, then this. But it matters not, because this was indicative of the ENTIRE AFTERNOON and the reason I pulled out PhotoBooth in the FIRST place. And might I add that this was BEFORE the dog ran off with part of my breast pump?
Yes, I’m STILL ON A BOAT and have been for, oh, three days now, and if Andy Samberg could very nicely get out of my head now, please and fracking THANK YOU. I find myself disturbed, by the way, that lately I’ve been finding Andy … a little attractive, especially when he acts like Mark Wahlberg. I ALSO found him attractive in “I Love You, Man,” which I saw on Saturday night thanks to Amazon rentals. That, by the way, was the first feature-length film I’ve watched with Adam ALL AT ONCE since Sam’s been born. Yes, yes, sure, I watched Twilight and Sex and the City over and over and over again at 4 a.m. while she nursed up a freakin’ storm, but this was DELIBERATE and rented and apparently had Andy Samberg in the role of gay lothario, in a surprisingly effective casting turn.
So! Onward with random bits of nothingness, because that’s just how things are rolling around these parts:
— The dog, as I mentioned, was sick. And I … I daresay it was almost — ALMOST — as bad as dealing with a sick child. The hacking! The sleepless nights! Did I mention the HACKING? Where she even GOT this shit is beyond me, as she’s a) vaccinated against kennel cough, which is apparently less effective than the fucking FLU SHOT, and let me say how happy we are to have paid the $75 for that little number; and b) she hasn’t been boarded recently. I mean, what the christ. The good news is that she’s on a hefty dose of a freakin’ NARCOTIC every night, so now she’s not keeping us up coughing, but is, in fact, drugged to a limp-limbed stupor. I think it’s Tramadol, which can be sold on the black market, so we’ll be refilling that shit and hitting the wild streets of rural Vermont in a matter of days, offering trippy nights of oblivion to the local pigs and cows for a profit, yo.
— Why, please tell me WHY, is it that my daughter screams as though I am actually REMOVING HER ARMS every time I put on something with sleeves? The shrieking! The hostile protests! FOR GOD’S SAKE CHILD. YOU NEED TO WEAR SLEEVES. TO COVER YOUR ARMS.
— We’re in the process of fully transitioning from three naps to two, and while she hasn’t actually napped during that third timeslot for quite some time, the hours from 4 to 7 p.m. are so hilariously painful, it’s like someone is removing MY arms, very, very slowly. And yet, if I put her to bed any earlier than 6:45 p.m., she gets up at … 4 a.m. For the day. Can I get a HELL NO, my friends? I thought so.
— I had potentially the most awkward, yet hilarious, moment of my time in this here small town at lunch today when one of the (many) hairdressers I jilted before finally settling on Kate in the big city, walked in. The jilted hairdresser, through a series of unfortunate events, read this here blog and found the EXACT post wherein I said I was … less than thrilled with the haircuts I’d received to date and … left a kind of snarky comment. LET US TALK ABOUT HOW AWESOME THAT WAS. And how today I … tried to HIDE BEHIND THE BABY and then just bolted out of the restaurant, leaving Adam to clean up the rest of our shit while I ran to the car like a little bitch. THAT WAS AWESOME.
(And look, I’m just going to say that it’s HARD to cut a woman’s hair short. I get that. I also get that I was wearing a men’s haircut for several months, and it wasn’t flattering, and I GET that there aren’t many women here in this small town with short hair and look it’s HARD! I know it’s HARD! But I didn’t like having a men’s haircut! Men are cut in SQUARE CUTS and women are cut in ROUND CUTS and … oh whatever, KATE TOLD ME SO, OKAY?)
— I also ran into a woman who dislikes me because she has repeatedly asked me to host a jewelry party for her, and dude, none of my friends have time. For God’s sake, all of my friends are moms, and if we have a free night off, really? Really we’re going to host a jewelry party and be PITCHED jewelry, really? And this woman and I are not CLOSE, and yet I feel so GUILTY and she’s always telling me how I need to host this PARTY and you know what, today I realized that for chrissake, I’m not going to feel bad about it. SHE SHOULD FEEL BAD FOR DISLIKING ME OVER A JEWELRY PARTY OMG.
— I found pumpkin butter in the grocery store today. Huzzah.
So! My baby slept through the night the other day. Through. The. Night. The WHOLE one. From 7 p.m. to 5 a.m., and at 5, I brought her into bed to feed her and snuggle until our eyes (well, mine) could open all the way, because for some reason, no matter WHEN I go to bed, 5 a.m. is a miserable, miserable challenge. It’s all mental, I realize, but dude, it’s still DARK OUT and when it’s dark out, it is nighttime, end of story, and no one should be up and about unless they are still awake from the day prior, obviously.
Totally worth getting up at 5 a.m. for, though, right? But really, it’s all kind of moot, as she has not done it since. The return of the lone hot, bright red cheek is upon us, sans fever, and I have NO idea what this means, but it does not mean sleep, apparently. Also, I’d like to think it means teeth, but still, WE HAVE NONE.
Dude, this swine flu coverage is making me want to POKE MY EYES OUT. Thank you, nightly news, for showing us death after death in an effort to, you claim, warn us all of the threat. Tomorrow, our local news is devoting NINETY FULL MINUTES to a special about it. No, seriously. NINETY MINUTES.
Thank you! Because there is, seriously, nothing we can do about it. Are you suggesting none of us leave the house? Are you suggesting that we get vaccinated? Because if it’s the latter, THERE AREN’T ANY. JESUS CHRIST. I’m a vaccinator, as I’ve said before, and very comfortable with the H1N1 vaccine for me and the babe (no, this really isn’t up for discussion, but YOU are welcome to feel differently), but for chrissake, stop WARNING ME and telling me to TAKE PRECAUTIONS for my seven-month-old daughter. JUST STOP. Because short of making the executive decision to not get groceries, I fail to see what precautions I’m supposed to take. I WASH MY DAMN HANDS. AND MY KID’S HANDS. She’s not in daycare! Our playdates are with people we know and are VERY SMALL and would be CANCELED if the kids showed signs of any illness, much less SWINE FLU. SO WHAT THE EFF ELSE ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO, BRIAN WILLIAMS?
(Please don’t misread that as hostility, Brian. I still love you and crush on you inappropriately every night from 6:30 to 7 p.m. EST. I LOVE YOU BRIAN.)
With all this swine flu talk, no one warned me about kennel cough, which appears to be the real danger in our house. The night the kid slept through the night? Yeah. I did not, because the dog was up all night horking, coughing and gagging, and I had to bring her into bed with us and snuggle her because she was miserable and oh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying all of this about a dog, but you know, POOR SUNNY. SHE’S A PERSON, TOO. We were convinced it was some kind of congestive heart failure, because did you know, Dr. Google ALSO works to freak you out about your dog? Yes. It is an interspecies fearmongering tool. Thank you, Dr. Google! Are you ever fucking HELPFUL? OF COURSE NOT.
At any rate, I’ve got to go make a list of the shit I need to do this week, which is rather large, looming and upsetting. First on the list is to MAKE A DAMN LIST. But not before I leave you with the song I’ve had in my head all day. The song that lends itself to today’s title. No, I am not on a boat. OR AM I, MOTHERFUCKERS?
Sam’s sleeping better, obviously, for otherwise you’d be hearing about it non-stop, of that I am sure. It’s one of those things that you just can’t help — you KNOW no one is interested, and you’re SURE that people are so sick of your incessant whining about it, but having a kid who doesn’t sleep is such a bizarre form of domestic terrorism (what?) that sharing it is the only way to cope. Anyway, the effed up thing about parenting is that when you’re in a terrible place, you’re sure that this is how it’s going to be FOREVER, and when things are going well, you think, well! That’s solved! And you brush your hands on your apron like you’ve just completed the world’s largest puzzle, when HA HA, no, that is not how it works. The puzzle comes undone the very next day, or sometimes, it solves itself. You, my friend, have no control — accept it.
When it comes to other parenting challenges, I think I speak for both of us when I say that Adam and I are going to have a seriously difficult time controlling our potty mouths when Sam starts to understand the English language. It’s not just swearing — although to say we’re adept in that area is an understatement — but we’re fans of the lewd joke, of the inappropriate gesture, and of the off-color remark, too. I’m not sure how we’re going to keep it all in check, but I do know we’ve got to at least try, before Sam heads off to preschool and laughingly flips her friends the superfinger, or makes the jerk-off gesture when the teacher says something she doesn’t like.
Ugh, you guys, I am so INCONSISTENT with this, you know? You’ve probably seen it in my entries! One paragraph I’m all, “FUCK THIS SHIT, YO!” and in the next I decide, for reasons completely unknown to me, to say “frackin’ A!” And I don’t even know if I want the kid saying “Frackin’ A, YO!” on the playground, EITHER. Bah. And yet I would also be lying if I said that giving up that part of me — the one with an adult sense of humor and a hard-won knowledge of PRECISELY when to use the word “fuck” for maximum impact — is something I don’t necessarily want to do. Nice, right? I put my own selfish need for talking like a truck driver above my daughter’s potential expulsion from preschool before she even starts her first day.
Paradoxically, however, I’m also annoyed with people who point it out to me now. You guys, she’s SEVEN MONTHS OLD. She can barely string together consonant-vowel combinations and yet when I used the word “balls” in front of her this evening, I swear to you, someone very pointedly looked from my MOUTH to Samantha, as though she was going to pull a Baby Bob and say, “SUCK BALLS” to all of us right then and there. She isn’t. The last comprehensive sound she made was something along the lines of, “DADOOOOOGHEBTH” followed by “BAH! AGEEE!”
Right. Interestingly, at her six-month check-up, the nurse asked me if she was saying any words yet. I mean, seriously, people. I get that it’s some sort of milestone checklist thing, but I am full of the mind that even if a child is technically saying a word at that age, they aren’t really fully capable of assigning its meaning to an object (sign! signifier! Saussure! FUCKING KILL ME), and if they do, they are most definitely ahead of the curve. Like, maybe around the curve and headed to dinner at Applebee’s, where they will order the riblets, please, with extra honey mustard sauce on the side, because surely they are six YEARS old, in some sort of Benjamin Button scenario.
She ALSO asked if Sam understood the word “no,” and I’m here to tell you that the answer to THAT question is an unequivocal no. If she did, I’m fairly certain that she would at least register something other than a giant-ass grin when she clamps her gummy little … uh, gums … down on my nipple for the frillionth time that day (nope, she still doesn’t have any teeth). I’m the kind of person that cares about milestones like this approximately zero percent, but I’d be lying if sometimes it doesn’t feel like those particular questions aren’t so goddamn loaded. I’m sorry, but kids who are raised by CRACKHEADS learn to walk, speak and comprehend basic language. It is completely pointless for me to spend time worrying about whether she’s eventually going to worry about what the word “no,” means, and I’m not going to spend time thinking about it when she’s barely out of the amoeba-like stage of wee infancy. Right now, whether she understands “no” is about as bizarrely arbitrary as whether she follows the damn bell with her eyes.
In other news, I just discovered, for the BAJILLIONTH TIME, that I have sent an e-mail to my friend about dinner this week, except that I DID NOT ACTUALLY SEND IT. It’s in draft. Ergo, we have not had dinner this week. And so help me God, if the draft function in Gmail isn’t going to be the death of me, I don’t know what is. You’re welcome for that little detail, and Meg, HOO BOY, if you’re reading this, I AM EMBARRASSED. I need to just PICK UP THE PHOOOONNNNNEEEEE.
Happy Friday, y’all. Weekend, ahoy! Incidentally, we plan to use the weekend to clean our baseboards, which are VISIBLY GRAY. Like, from DOG HAIR AND DIRT.
I hope yours is more exciting.
*Paul Simon. For the, uhhh, boy in the balloon. Or rather, the boy who was never IN the goddamn balloon, are you fucking KIDDING ME? ARE YOU KIDDING ME, BALLOON KID?
(Note: early in the entry, I say effing. Here, I say fuck. Do you see my problem? DO YOU SEE?)
I really love reading Sundry‘s posts about achieving her goals and doing what scares her. I think it’s ridiculously awesome, and if that’s not creating a life with no regrets, I don’t know what is. I just think she’s spectacular for doing all of it, and the thrill of seeing her do it is … well, it’s absurdly heartwarming, is what it is, and I mean that it the most admiring, earnest way possible. How fucking COOL is that, to set out to do something and do it, changing your whole life in the process?
I wish I could say I was inspired, but to be honest, I’ve done little in the way of goal-achieving for a while now, unless those goals include “keeping child alive” and “paying bills on time.” Occasionally, I’ll think to myself that some day I’ll get there and start expanding my horizons, and I beat myself up for about a minute, thinking GOD, I hardly do ANYTHING and then …
Well, then today I took some time to really think about it, and I realized that I am absurdly, stupidly happy with the way my life is right now. If you’d asked me ten years ago if this was the life I wanted, I’m not sure I would have been able to say yes. I think back then I wanted to stay in the city, be a vice president of something corporate and important-sounding and have an impeccable wardrobe of expensive suits. I did not see living in rural Vermont with my husband and small daughter and, of all things, staying home with her. I did not, I assure you. The life I have now is the life I spent years raging against, writing entry after angst-filled entry in my journal about how I was going to BE SOMEONE and not give it all up for a family. A family would only weigh me down, yo.
And after all THAT, I realized that I’ve already DONE the thing that scares me the most, and she’s in her crib, half-asleep in frog pajamas right now (Tom Robbins? Anyone?), and the rest, to a certain degree, is just gravy. Having done that, and having it worked out, means that I’m confident enough to be able to go after everything else. I know, I know, it sounds like my child is the be-all, end-all of personal fulfillment, and behold, I am some sort of crazy-ass earth mother type who never knew life before having a child, but that’s not really what I’m saying at all. Like, at all. I swear.
I still have things I want to do — I want to get back to exercising and write more for actual money and yes, like everyone else, finally finish that book I’ve been planning on writing, and oh yes, I want to have another child, yes — and while some of those things scare me, I’m more confident than ever that I’ll do them, and I’m actually excited about doing them. And after all that, too, having the life you want — even if it’s not the life you planned — is pretty fucking awesome, and if that‘s not goal achievement, however fluid, I’m not sure what else it could be.
This brings me, weirdly, to a rant I’ve been going on about all OVER the Internet, which is, yet again, fracking women can’t disagree about anything or see something as wrong without being accused of being just jealous. It’s just … well, it’s just plain stupid, is what it is, because there are a lot of things I find distasteful, but I’m not envious of them. I don’t like George W. Bush, for example, and back in the day, I could get quite heated about him. And yet, I think it goes without saying that I didn’t want to be him, nor was I particularly envious of his life. I mean, right?
I’m not perfect. I am capable of envy. But it usually doesn’t manifest itself in petty, mean comments and it doesn’t manifest itself in calling something out as wrong — if something is wrong, it doesn’t mean I somehow covet it. Jealousy, for me, is an easy thing to admit, and it usually manifests itself in a simple statement of, “Damn, I wish I could be in the Caribbean right now, too,” or, “GodDAMN, why do I look like shit with long hair? Her hair is BEAUTIFUL.” or, “WHY AM I NOT BEYONCE?”
And though I am generally a good person, I am also capable of being petty. I am capable of schadenfreude, and even really get off on it from time to time. I make fun of people, sometimes meanly, and I can be crueler than I’d like to admit. I can be a judgmental asshole sometimes. But all of that is rarely fueled by jealousy. I can be a douchebag in my own right, for no reason other than I’m being a douchebag. Just like, say, a man can.
A few weeks ago, I came across a perfect, giant, blushing green apple just outside our condo. I picked it up and brought it inside and honest to pete, I had plans to eat it. And then I realized that I’d picked it up in our parking lot, you know, UNDER A CAR. And that eating found fruit is generally a bad idea, and for chrissake, did I not READ Snow White as a child? WTF.
Hey, are you reading Style Lush? I have to tell you, it’s one of my favorite places on the web, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m part of it. The stuff on there is just! so! cool! I want all of it. ALLL OF ITTTTT. Except that we’re kind of watching our wallets right now, which makes me very sad. I will never get that perfect fall dress, scarf or pile of fake food I’ve always wanted. Boo.
Polite Fictions is ALSO going strong, although even I’m having trouble keeping up with the story at this point, which makes it an especially hilarious exercise when it’s my turn. I’m all, let’s write about this character! Unless he’s dead! Wait, let’s make him a ZOMBIE. I … I don’t know what’s going on with me there.
*The version I’m thinking of is the Pet Shop Boys. But I’m sure there are a legion.
Here is some news in the So Not News Category: Being sick sucks. Being sick while also being responsible for a sick child, also sucks. And the thing is, it’s only been three days, nothing appears to be … porcine about it, and we’re already of the clear-snot running variety like some sort of magic go-go healthy armed people, for it happened before our very eyes through the course of the day. And yet it was vaguely traumatizing and miserable.
All this makes me think that I am grotesquely unprepared and incapable of dealing with real illness with myself and my child, because I read reports of moms dealing with things involving … other fluids of the bodily variety and hello, I would like to die now please, and thank you.
Wait! Don’t go! We’re healthy now!
We’re off to Syracuse this weekend to hang out with my brother and sister-in-law and their kids — Adam, I believe, is headed to a football game with my BIL, whereas I will be happily left behind like all good wimmen-folk are, tending to the children and going to the mecca of all meccas, Target, if the checking account will yield. Because the kid needs freakin’ EIGHTEEN MONTH pajamas. Eighteen months. WTF, kid. Why so big? Why, at seven months, are you wearing pajamas made for a child more than twice your age? Seriously, o small one, my budget wasn’t meant for this. It wasn’t BUILT to be buying clothes for you every two weeks. It wasn’t. WHOSE IS? WHOSE CHILD GROWS THIS WAY?
Incidentally, I neglected to mention the other day that before I started using a belt to keep my pants up, I was rushing to get Sam from a nap, and the woefully unused belt loop of my pants got caught on our stupid door handles, and I hit the floor face-down, RIPPING MY PANTS OFF IN THE PROCESS. My pants, they just WHOOSH! Right down around the ankles and my face! RIGHT DOWN onto the floor. And the kid, she just SCREAMED! OMFG! AND SCREAMED! Because one second I was there to rescue her! And the next second I just VANISHED! VANISHED, like some sort of PANTSLESS APPARITION.
Jesus, and people worry about cry-it-out damaging their children. How about watching your mother come to rescue you and be just … INEXPLICABLY FELLED in the process?
Quick! Miscellaneous items!
— One of the most important things my Syracuse University education taught me was that blue cheese dressing is DELICIOUS on pizza. Yes, regular pizza. As if you needed something to make pizza more fattening, look! There it is. Blue cheese. Not unlike french fries with ranch dressing and bacon. Oh, and CHEESE SAUCE (on the fries, not the pizza). Odd, yet delicious.
— I’m sitting here praying that True Blood makes it to season four, because if it even SLIGHTLY follows the books even in VAGUE, VAGUE OUTLINE, it would appear that Eric is naked for virtually the entire volume in the series. Which would mean that there would be lots of naked Alexander Skarsgard, and really, no one can complain about that, wee head, silicon implants or no.
— I make most of Sam’s food (I know, I know, and it’s organic, too, don’t you want to punch me? I want to punch me), but I usually buy her banana-related food because I don’t really like bananas and will never use a whole one for her, and eating the remnants is distasteful, at best. (God, don’t get me started on banana-flavored things, because BLETHCIHTNG OMG NO NO NO NO NO) ANYWAY, this is the longest way ever of saying that there’s this blend of apples, bananas and pears that is so freakin’ delicious, I remain unclear why it is not packaged as a DESSERT. For ADULTS. If only it didn’t come in such wee jars for such an outrageous price, I’d be ALL OVER THAT SHIT.
*The Hives. I don’t even LIKE this song, but there it is, on my playlist, haunting me.
For all my talk of how I’m still ME and all this parenting stuff is sort of falling into place, ahoy!, once in a while an event happens — not necessarily a MAJOR event, but an event nonetheless — to remind me that Jesus, folks, no. Life is not the same. At all.
A couple days ago my friend Tasha asked if I wouldn’t mind lending her my car — and my company — to go pick up a swath of rug for her son Archer’s playroom that she’d found on Craigslist. Granted, it was kind of a haul — about an hour and a half away — but hey, we could make it a road trip! FUN! And I’m all YES! Road trip! FUN! And then there’s the part where we we came to our senses and were all, WE HAVE CHILDREN. ROAD TRIPS ARE NOT FUN WITH CHILDREN.
Oh, except that never happened. We continued, undaunted, with our attitude of “Road trip! FUN!”
There was a time, I swear to God you guys, when a road trip meant Combos and illicit cigarettes and blasting Peter Gabriel or — ooh ooh, maybe some Vampire Weekend! What the COOL KIDS are listening to! — and the windows, they would be down as we tooled through the idyllic Vermont landscape pointing out beautiful clusters of leaves and marveling at how RELAXING life was and GEE, ISN’T THIS LOVELY?
Oh hey, guess what? IT IS NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL WITH CHILDREN.
Taking off, if you will, involved a ridiculous amount of preparation involving tandem car seat installation, and picking up straps in case we had to tie the rug to the roof and the packing of diaper bags to make sure we had snacks! juice! books! toys! among other methods of child and toddler entertainment, and oh my GOD, once we were on the road, it wasn’t all Peter Gabriel and “Here Comes the Flood” and heads out the window to blow out a plume of smoke, NO.
Instead, it was all, “Archer OUT! Archer WALK! Archer OUT! Archer WALK!” followed by Sam screaming, “AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” and also, “GUREGHTEGHTEGHETHELKETH” followed by, “HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARHGHT” and a nice bout of “Mommy READ? Rosh Hashanah READ? READ?” as I frantically yelled, “Sam! Mama’s here! Mama’s here! Archer LOOK! MOOOOOOOOOOOO! MOOOOOOOOOO!” and pointed maniacally at what turned out to be a collection of HORSES, not cows, leading me to be stubbornly scolded by a two-year-old that “No MOOOOO, Rosh Hashanah. NEIIIIIGGHHHHHHHH!”
*He calls me Jonna Rosh Hashanah. No one is sure why, except that it rhymes. Although usually it’s just Rosh Hashanah.
We were then treated to about a thousand renditions of the Shiny Penny song, followed by four consecutive readings of The Gruffalo (dear Jesus, thank you for THAT baby gift, TwoBusy, for it SAVED US) and oh my sweet LORD, you guys, if I hear “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round” one more time, I might shave my body with a cheese grater, but more likely I will just SING ALONG.
The whole thing took more than six hours, and we returned at — wait for it — 10:30 p.m., and we realized, hilariously, that by the time we stopped at the grocery store for dinner for the kids and a Chinese restaurant for dinner for the mamas and gas and oh my God, the SINGING, that the whole shebang cost us more to GET THERE than she spent on the rug. And what’s totally and completely messed up and hilarious is that honestly, the whole thing was FUN. Put THAT in your pipe of ridiculous things I never thought I would say and smoke it, but there you have it. IT WAS FUN.
Nothing is the same. Everything is different.
What is also different is that I picked up a pair of cords at TJ Maxx over the weekend, and they were — oh my lord — LIZ CLAIBORNE, and I came home and was ranting and raving about how I finally found a pair of pants that fit me properly, and were kind of cute and they had to be fracking LIZ CLAIBORNE, the original creator, in my mind, of the Mom Jean. I was all, “It’s for LADIES. Ladies who are usually called MISSES. OLDER LADIES. WHO ARE MOMS.” And then Adam, ever the clueless straight-talker, was all, “Yes, but I hate to break this to you: you are a mom. And kind of older and out of the Britney Spears’ low-rise pants demographic.”
And REALLY, HE’S RIGHT. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing all of my spring shopping at Chico’s and waxing poetic about this great mosaic/tapestry jacket I found, like I’m Suze Orman or something.
P.S., Did I TELL you guys about Style Lush, Jennie‘s brain child, where I’ll mostly be writing about … MOM AND KID PRODUCTS? I’m super-excited — seriously, the shit I don’t buy but drool over is eclipsed only by the shit I drool over and DO buy — and Jennie and the other writers are Teh Awesome. Stop by or follow us on Twittah.
*Vampire Weekend. I DO love them, but I don’t think this makes me hip, cool or at all cutting-edge, considering I was LAAATE to the party and also, can sing the Shiny Penny song by heart.
In further evidence that I am, in fact, a genius, I have discovered a way to keep my pants from sliding down and exposing my bum: wear a belt. Wear a belt! A BELT. Why yes, I AM available for rocket science and brain surgery consults, thank you for asking. Also, I am embarrassed to admit that I have taken to wearing those preppy ribbon belts with things like fine gauge cardigans and cute flats and it’s all because I got my hair done and it looks adorable, if I do say so myself, and I am not responsible for my brief foray into Melissa C. Morris territory, folks.
(Disclaimer: I love Melissa C. Morris. LOVE. But the preppy look is not one I’ve ever pulled off all that well. But hey, maybe a new dawn is upon us! This summer: Lilly Pulitzer!) (OMG I KID ABOUT THE LILLY BIT)
At the risk of sounding like a completely ignorant slut, occasionally I … grow tired … of all the raging battles against feminism, motherhood and life on Twitter and the blogosphere. I am TIRED of hearing about Nestle, as much as I think the issues are valid. I am TIRED of being mad at Whoopi Goldberg and Hollywood and Roman Polanski, and I just want to sit back and have a nice glass of (non-Nesquik) chocolate milk and talk about something FRIVOLOUS. Or at least not listen to everyone wax feminista about all of it, because apparently, I am finished with my deep thinking for the week. Am I alone here? I think I only have so much rage about each particular issue, and when that’s exhausted by reading about OTHER people’s rage, I feel particularly exhausted. I’m sure this means something deep and thoughtful — or rather, it means I am bending over and letting the patriarchy ram me in the ass — but I’m not sure I actually care to … care at the moment. More likely, however, it means that I am a shallow, thoughtless person who would be better off watching “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?”
And with that, I will contradict myself MIGHTILY and mention the swine flu vaccine issue, which Sundry hosted a really awesome discussion about earlier this week. Truly, I was riveted by all of the comments, and in full disclosure, I should tell you that I am, in almost every circumstance, pro-vaccine, including the swine flu vax. I’m comfortable in my decision, and have done a boatload of research to get there, although I recognize and respect that many others have come to a completely different decision with a completely different body of research. And I totally get that, and, given where I live, am friends with MANY non-vaccinators.
But what I CANNOT GET are the people who think that there is some sort of VAST GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACY to give everyone the swine flu so that … I don’t know, there could be a vaccine made and make someone lots of money and … well, I can’t even explain it properly, because I’m just LOST, yo. For God’s sake, our government can’t even get a coherent health care bill together, do you HONESTLY think they’re in there indoctrinating the CDC staffers to do something on such a grand scale? It all just makes me wonder if people realize that this is, indeed, real life, and not a movie.
So! The Sookie Stackhouse books. LOVE THEM. They’re ridiculous and not that well written, but they’re as addictive as those giant jelly Nerds with the candy coating and twice as delicious. Except DUDE, the fashion. Y’all warned me, but I WAS NOT PREPARED. You guys, in book three, she wears a strapless dress with … long sleeves that she puts on separately that may or may not attach at the middle finger like something Ann Wilson would have worn in Heart’s heyday, and I had to check the publishing date on the novels to make sure they weren’t done in the ’80s, because, seriously, Charlaine? I know this takes place in rural Louisiana, but … separate sleeves? And banana clips? And the Hairagami? And this woman is supposedly some kind of IRRISISTABLE SEX SYMBOL. GAWD.
And finally, I learned YET AGAIN that I am brutally addicted to caffeine when, on Sunday, I woke up to realize we only had decaf in the house. And despite having drunk ELEVEN CUPS, thinking that the caffeine content SURELY was high enough to be absorbed at that point, because don’t they say that decaf is never REALLY decaffeinated?, I ended up with the world’s largest headache. It was a headache that could not be contained by Advil or Excedrin or Tylenol. It was the Mother of All Headaches, and I just kept thinking that if any other substance caused such extreme withdrawal symptoms, I would bust my ass to wean myself from it. But because it was coffee and therefore, AIR, what I did was run out and buy more, then come home and brew myself the biggest pot under the sun. And then I drank it all like the twitchy little addict I am.
**Death Cab for Cutie. Decent band, terrible name.