Posts filed under 'Boston!'
This weekend was the kind of weekend that makes you remember why you had a family in the first place. Don’t get me wrong — I’m always glad for my little family, but every weekend isn’t wine and roses, you know what I’m saying? Saturday was lazy, but Sunday we went into Boston and hit the public garden and tooled around Beacon Hill, and oh, I love my city. Have you ever been to the public garden? You should go, because it’s one of my favorite places in the whole world, and it’s shockingly pristine and stunning for a park in the middle of a city, and looks like this, even right now, smack in mid-October:
{Photo from Flickr member Wallyg under Creative Commons}
Sam was in high spirits and loved every minute of it, including lunch, which consisted of … ketchup. For Jesus’ sake, I have to hide the ketchup around this kid, because if it’s present, she wants a plate of ketchup, and she basically wants to drink from the bottle. Fool me, I gave her some to dip in (kid loves to dip!) and HA HA, oh my God, here, kid, have a lunch of ketchup while my fellow diners call the department of social services.
I forgot to bring the camera, of course. Genius!
Monday, we hit the pumpkin patch, and you know, I might not remember my camera, like, EVER, but at least I don’t scream at my children to “Line up on top of the pumpkins! JESSE! GET YOUR ASS OVER THERE ON THE PUMPKINS! LOOK LIKE YOU’RE HAVING FUN! STOP POUTING! SHUT UP! JESSE! JUST HAVE FUN! HAVE FUN!”
Speaking of not bringing my camera, I was absent from this space last week because I went to Vermont to visit my good friend Kate, and oh! OH! It was so lovely. I love Kate so, along with her entire family, really. Did you know Kate’s husband COOKS? Like, Kate stays home with their son (and works her ass off doing so, I hastily add) and her husband works outside the home, and when he comes home, he MAKES HER AN ENTIRE MEAL. FROM SCRATCH. Like, GOOD MEALS. DELICIOUS MEALS! From recipes I have already appropriated and made, less than a week later!
I don’t know why I’m so flabbergasted by this — perhaps because while Adam has many fine domestic qualities (he vacuums! he does the dishes EVERY NIGHT!), cooking is not one of his special skills. He makes a great egg sandwich and sure, he can do the requisite stir-fry (and did I ever tell you that when he cooks, he narrates the whole thing in a Julia Child voice?), but that’s pretty much where it ends.
The point is, I spent three days in Vermont with one of my best friends and her beautiful son, who played beautifully with my daughter (chase! they played CHASE! AND GIGGLED!) and here are the photos I took while I was there:
Beautiful, aren’t they? YES, GORGEOUS. GORGEOUS WHITE SPACE PHOTOS OF WHITE NOTHINGNESS BECAUSE I FORGOT TO TAKE MY CAMERA OUT OF MY SUITCASE.
It means so much to me that I get to spend time with Kate, even though I moved away. It’s the sign of a great friendship, I think, and we’ve consoled ourselves with the fact that though we are no longer minutes (as in, uh, 45 — it IS rural VT you know) away from one another, now we get to spend more concentrated, quality time in nice chunks. I feel very, very lucky and I mean that in the most earnest, uncool way possible.
Finally, I can’t thank you enough for your kind, thoughtful comments and emails on my post last week. I know it’s a touchy subject, but every single one of them was thoughtful, considerate and respectful. It was one of those weeks where I wished I could have sat down on the Internet all day, every day and talked about it at length with all of you. Thank you again.
Happy Tuesday!
*Depeche Mode
October 11th, 2010
We went to Ikea on Saturday, which seems counterintuitive to a family on a new budget, but apparently you are allowed to spend within your allotted budget line items, so there we were, driving to Stoughton for some Swedish inspiration and fabulous family-friendly parking. Did you know about this family parking at Ikea? It’s right up front! And you don’t have to be elderly, infirm or — gasp! — pregnant.
Look, I don’t mean to belittle the pregnant among us, but stork parking at Babies R Us is absolute bullshit designed to do nothing but make the pregnant ladies feel special, and I’m sorry, but I felt plenty special without toodling in and getting a front-row parking spot while some poor lady with a swollen vagina and a freaky-looking newborn tries desperately to maneuver her car seat out of its base. I can’t imagine anyone who’s ever had a child arguing that it’s more difficult to hoist a baby into a store while they are inside your body than outside in the world, where they either require 1,456,780 additional items clumsily shoved into a diaper bag, plus a car seat or baby carrier and/or are of the age where they’re resisting the stroller and threatening to launch themselves directly into traffic. I’m thinking at the very least it should be renamed “THIRD TRIMESTER PARKING ONLY,” or better yet, “ANYTIME PARKING FOR PREGNANT LADIES WITH OTHER CHILDREN.”
This reminds me of a comments section I read once — an adoption blog, I am assuming — wherein several commenters who were adopting announced that they, too, took advantage of the stork parking, and while I fully believe that adoptive parenting is equal to biological parenting, I cannot say that one who is not physically experiencing the anticipation of becoming a mother is quite at a level where they require up-front parking, for the love of all that is holy. It just goes to show you that stork parking is a terrible, no-good marginalizing idea that leaves plenty of people confused and strangely entitled, and of course, our Babies R Us has ELEVENTY MILLION of these godforsaken spots, and I am ALWAYS stuck parking in the back, near the carriage drops, which are always full of carriages that are (IRONY ALERT) broken and hazardous to children, but that’s a story for another day.
Anyway, back to Ikea, where we did what everyone does when they go to Ikea for the first time in a long time, which is tour the entire showroom, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over inexpensive furniture that they do not currently need and fantasizing about buying the entire room that costs only $899! For the whole room! And then, after hours of pointless shopping, finally hitting up the ONE section where they do need things, only to find they are too tired to deal and/or really only wanted the shit in the marketplace anyway. Well, that’s our Ikea story, at least, except for that time we got in a rip-roaring argument over coffee tables that lasted over an hour and kicked off a SIX-YEAR coffee table standoff, which didn’t actually end until we settled on a glass-topped children’s deathtrap at Haverty’s in 2007.
It goes without saying that we still have this coffee table.
(Btw, Holly talks about her recent experiences with Ikea here, and the best part is that all the commenters start sharing their Ikea-based spousal disagreements, and see? Ikea brings people together.)
So we toured the whole thing, ate some Swedish meatballs, walked out with an easel that didn’t come from a dumpster (which will show up today — well, Monday — on Style Lush), intended to get a table and chairs for Sam, but couldn’t find the actual items in the stupid self-service flatpack area, got frustrated, almost lost Sam in a pile of stuffed bunnies and vowed never to go to Ikea again.
The rest of the weekend was relatively uneventful, with the exception of a non-terrifying Sunny puking episode, wherein she ate a bone too fast, swallowed it, and proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach all over our area rug, couch and other surfaces. I, having just gotten over a sinus infection/cold/whatever, starting gagging and subsequently coughing, which resulted in me peeing directly through my pants in a way that I hadn’t done since I was pregnant. Like, I had to CHANGE THEM. God, why does no one TELL you these things?
I remember mentioning this to my OB at my six-week check-up, that things felt strangely … loose, down there, and she actually acted as though it was all temporary, and would return to normal, when what she should have said was, “Yes, why didn’t you know this? You will pee yourself until the end of time. Things are irrevocably broken down there. I’m sorry. Enjoy your baby!”
And finally, I realize that many people think Sam looks like me, but I’m sorry to say, she really doesn’t. Behold, a photo of my husband just past the toddler years — he’s the one in the middle — and if that isn’t my daughter, then my bladder has been restored to full, pre-pregnancy function.
(Click to embiggen.)
At least no one can say it’s the milkman’s baby.
Happy Monday to you!
*ABBA Viva la Sweden! And the Lyekeviksn collection! Or whatever.
September 26th, 2010
You know, almost five years after we first moved there — three and a half since we left — and our life in Florida seems like a dream, and a bad one at that. I cannot believe we lived there for as long as we did. I mean, to reiterate: We lived in the worst part of Florida imaginable, at least for my taste. Confederate flags! Nooses hung up on docks, and neighbors who thought that was okay! Once, we had a man and his girlfriend show up on an ATV with guns around their shoulders! And they had swastika tattoos! HA HA HA OH MY GOD.
Good thing we still own a house there. Anyone want to buy a house? The area’s wonderful! Close to the beaches! Warm! A FAMILY DREAM HOME!
Oh ho ho HO! But you know, I wouldn’t change it, even in retrospect, even as I watch my bank account drain slowly from the weight of this large, house-shaped albatross. We changed as a family then, and I think it was that move that changed me entirely — I became a more relaxed, happier person in Florida, and I’ve been that person ever since. And hey, that revelation only cost me thousands of dollars! And I’m still paying for it! What price, happiness, really?
No, but seriously. We stepped off the hamster wheel in Florida, and we’ve stayed off, for the most part, or at least slowed considerably. I’ll always remember and be grateful for that, even if it came with a heavy dose of bizarre racism and endless days of watching old people be wheeled away on gurneys because they got in their fifth fender-bender of the season after failing to see over the steering wheel.
It’s nice to be home, and I’m not sure I would have appreciated it as much had we not taken such a long, um, journey. (CUE BACHELOR MUSIC!) I think everyone should live somewhere completely different than where they think they should live. It gives you an amazing perspective on how the other half lives. I understand the appeal of Sarah Palin, if only because I lived among many people who now count her among their personal heroes.
(Note: I’m not calling Palin’s supporters racists, although I’m sure there is some of that, just like there is everywhere. But my area of Florida was a definitively conservative county, unlike Massachusetts. And Vermont. And anywhere else I’d ever lived.)
Speaking of fender-benders, or rather, not really at all, we ended up at the pediatrician’s office today because for a few mornings, Sam was waking up with, uh, blue lips. Nice, right? Just want you want to see! Toddler of the Walking Dead! Zombie Toddler! Blue-lipped Half-dead Monster Toddler!
Okay, fine, it wasn’t that bad. It was more like a tinge of blue. A DROP of blue. A LITTLE PURPLE, if you will. But it was enough that I noticed, and once she warmed up, I noticed her lips were pinker than when she woke up and I thought, well! She’s cold! Kid refuses to sleep with a blanket because — duh — she doesn’t know how to USE ONE. Not that properly draping oneself is such a complex act of coordination, but I guess for a toddler who can’t figure out how to put a hood on without it resulting in frustrating tears, it is a bit more challenging than it seems.
I called the pediatrician to make her well-baby visit, and mentioned it in passing, thinking they’d write it off, but to my surprise, they were all, ZOMG BRING HER IN TOMORROW! And so we did, and after many oxygen saturation tests, it turns out she was … cold. Ergo, we’re in fleece feetie pajamas in September. SEPTEMBER. This means by winter she’ll be wearing fleece, burlap AND PolarTec. Look for the giant stuffed baby at your Christmas dinner! Served with yams!
All this excitement and I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of True Blood OR Mockingjay and WHOA NELLY, maybe take a drink for those two, because Alan Ball, you are on notice. You too, Alexander Skarsgard.
Happy Thursday, y’all.
*Roxette. Yes, THAT Roxette. Don’t knock it until you’ve heard it.
September 15th, 2010
I’ve taken a bit of a television hiatus, in terms of finding new shows, anyway, because it’s summer, we’ve been busy, and whatever, there’s Big Brother, mock me if you will. But every night before we went to bed, Adam would watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and shake the damn bed with laughter while I glared at him in an obnoxious highbrow manner over the top of my book.
He finally broke me down, and PEOPLE. I CANNOT STOP. It’s easily the funniest, most wildly inappropriate show I’ve seen in years. I’m howling! I’m crying! I’m feeling terribly dirty because I’m laughing uproariously at the absurd pleasure the characters are taking in finding — and trying on — a Nazi uniform, and that sounds worse than it is, kind of, but you must trust me: HILARITY ENSUED. I … oh, it’s terrible and hilarious and so offensive, while at the same time smartly acknowledging its offensiveness, and, well, I feel like everyone should go get it and watch it. Unless you’re very sensitive, in which case, I don’t know what to tell you, because it’s possible you’re reading the wrong blog, maybe? I’m not sure.
Anyway. I have failed to mention that Sunny once again continues to be the bane of our existence, while also managing to be the primary sleep-stealer, making up for all those months that a squalling baby kept her from her deep puggy slumber. While I was at BlogHer, she was overcome with such a disastrous stomach ailment that Adam was up every two hours (like a NEWBORN) to take her outside to either barf or poop, and to be honest, the majority of the baby wipes in this house were being used to WIPE THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
This is how, upon my return, I ended up waiting in a 24-hour pharmacy for a prescription to be filled for my dog. A dog whose prescription was borked (barked?) on four separate occasions because the pharmacist not only could not find my dog as an existing patient in the insurance database (BECAUSE SHE IS A DOG), but was consistently trying to fill a prescription for a human named — wait for it:
Funny Rubin.
FUNNY RUBIN.
After waiting and calling and waiting and calling, and talking and waiting and mass confusion, the pharmacist, who to my knowledge has a DEGREE and everything, stopped and said, “Wait: are you Funny Rubin? I’ve been trying to call you!”
Aaaand, scene.
She finished her last pill today. This is her third round of this flora-encouraging antibiotic (a paradox if I ever heard one) and if I wake up in the middle of the night tonight to wipe her bum, I will seriously consider selling her to the highest bidder. Or perhaps the first person willing to buy me a jumbo pack of Starburst. Whichever.
In other housekeeping-y news, a few of us are in the process of putting together a Boston blogger (and the readers who love them) meet-up. As a result, would you kindly let me know, either in the comments, or via email (the contact form above does go to my email, swearsies), so that we can keep you in the loop, as the kids say?
Also, HA HA, embarrassing fun fact: A reader recognized me in Barnes & Noble a few weeks ago, and she was adorable and funny and a mom! A mom of two! Who lives kind of near me! And I loved her, even though I was shocked and sort of stammer-y, for it happens so rarely to begin with, but it happens even MORE rarely that someone recognizes MY DAUGHTER before they realize who I am. And yes, I had to ask her name TWICE because I was so flustered and … well, so I said we should get together sometime! And she should email me her contact information!
No email. Sad panda. Which goes to show you that apparently there are times — quite a few of them, I reckon — that I translate very poorly in person. So attend the meet-up at your own risk.
(CALL ME, JOANNA. NOT TO SOUND DESPERATE OR ANYTHING.)
(Ha ha?)
Happy Wednesday!
*Biz Markie. Who is coming with DJ Lance and the Yo Gabba Gabba clan to Boston, and I’m totally considering buying tickets and … oh dear. They are not cheap. This is not rational, right? I mean, she might freak out! She might not make it! AND YET. DJ LANCE IN THE FLIZESH. *fans self*
August 24th, 2010
Hi ho! We’re … well, something. Honestly, we’re probably doing what the rest of you are doing, which is merely surviving in this brutal heat. It’s like Florida up in here, which would be fine if I were actually IN Florida, but instead, I’m in Massachusetts, where this kind of thing happens only rarely, and when it does, everyone sort of freezes like a bunch of deer in headlights, and then we bitch about it non-stop. Of course, if the opposite happens, and it is chilly and raining, which is equally possible during the summer, we whine about it like someone ate our firstborn.
We’re miserable people, I guess.
On the Boston front, I’ve been meaning to tell you that after all of that hand-wringing and worry about how I was going to HATE it here and OH, THE STRESS, I … well, as it turns out, I’m home. This is where I think I was meant to end up. For all of its annoyances and failings and frustrations, I really, really love it here. I’d forgotten just how much. It all comes down, I think, to the type of people you can relate to, who make you feel most at home. And, having spent every minute here during the first ten or so years of my adult life, these are the people I recognize the most — the ones who seem like a reflection of myself, and my general outlook.
Oh, and Boston! If you haven’t been, you need to come visit. I am constantly surprised at how lovely it is, and I can say without further qualification that it is my favorite American city, although I may be biased. Maybe.
So there’s that loop. Closed, but in a good way, although I still miss my friends like peanut butter misses jelly. And now! Random bullets!
- What the everloving EFF is going on with True Blood? Look, I’m a fan — a big one — I mean, OBVIOUSLY. But there was all this ridiculous neck-twisting and crazy, upsetting … was that sex? and werewolves with some kind of Nazi tie to vampires and … what? Friends, if *I* am frustrated and cannot, for the everloving LIFE of me, figure out what’s going on, and why any of us are supposed to care, then I fear for the future of the show. Alan Ball, you are on notice.
Speaking of True Blood, you can catch recaps that may shed some light on the subject (or not, as they are probably as confused as we are) on Smart Pop, as done by the authors of A Taste of True Blood (I’ve got episode nine!), and as always, you can catch them on Mamapop, where Kdiddy continues to kill me, season after season. (“Debbie, bless her heart, looks like Tiffany after one too many mall tours.” HA HA HAHAHAHA)
This doesn’t really help me figure out what, exactly, is going on up in here, but at least I can be enterTAINED.
- I became violently, hilariously ill en route to a barbecue this weekend at, of all places, the Natick Mall — oh, excuse me, NATICK COLLECTION, because it is fancy now that it has a Thomas Pink — Adam was dropping his laptop off at the Genius Bar and I took Sam and … oh dear. OH DEAR. And then I ran! To the bathroom! In Lord and Taylor! WHICH WAS CLOSED FOR CLEANING! But I went in anyway and … well, that poor male cleaning guy. And then! There was more! So I went to Macy’s! And my kid SLEPT THROUGH THE WHOLE THING. Apparently high-speed stroller runs through public places followed by the sounds of her mother vomiting are SOOTHING.
(I’m fine now; I think it was something I ate, although I WAS mysteriously queasy on Saturday, too. But most importantly, because I know someone will ask, and then INSIST I AM WRONG: No, I am not pregnant. If I was pregnant, I would not be telling you this story, because I know you’d be onto me with this shiznit.)
(NO, SERIOUSLY.)
(Also, we obviously did not go to the barbecue, which pretty much sucked, but I saw my options as staying home and being miserable OR throwing up at my friend L’s house in front of all of her friends and family. I opted against public humiliation.)
– Sam is at this delightful stage where her version of playing independently means playing with a toy by herself while in my lap, preferably on the floor, although she likes to wrestle on the couch, too. This includes the water table, which means I spent most of this afternoon soaked to the skin, as she found it HILARIOUS to pour water onto herself, and by extension, me. Over and over again. I’d like to pretend I find this irritating, because OH I JUST WANT SOME SPACE!, but in reality, I think it might be my favorite thing ever.
I am acutely, painfully aware at how fast this is all going, despite the fact that she is not yet a year and a half old, and I’m writing this part down for my future self, more than anything: I know people say to appreciate every moment, because it goes so fast and one day, they’re telling you they hate you and asking you to buy tampons, for the love of God, and I have to tell you, I am. I really, really am. I DO appreciate the way her little body feels all snuggled up on mine, and how desperately she wants nothing more than to be with me, her mama.
I have a genuine hormonal reaction when my kid’s all snuggled up in my lap on the couch watching Yo Gabba Gabba (we TiVo it, because I think I’m kind of in love with DJ Lance Rock). I’m just so RELAXED, and it’s not a mental response, it is very, very physical and kind of crazy.
– Speaking of my friend L and the ill-fated barbecue that wasn’t, I was at her house the other day, and PEOPLE! She was waxing philosophical about her Shark steam mop and said (FOR REAL!) that she envisioned her Swiffer WetJet being cast aside, singing mournful tones about a woman from afar, THAT IS HOW MUCH SHE LOVES HER STEAM MOP.
And then Elizabeth wrote about HER Eureka steam mop on Style Lush, and every night, I fantasize about steaming my floors. I have not yet bought either one, but I AM FANTASIZING. A LOT.
I think this means my life is very sad, at least on paper. Very sad, indeed.
*Damien Rice. And did you notice that starting last season, True Blood started naming their episodes for songs? I THINK THEY GOT THAT FROM ME.
July 12th, 2010
You know, in all of my bitching about Sam’s general reticence, I really neglected to mention that she’s awesome at the gym now. So awesome that she starts screaming and squealing with excitement the second we pull up, and my God, she lets them DO STUFF to her now. Today, my girl did a flip on a high (HAHAHA “high”) bar, twice. This is a long-ass way from the first day, when the kid wouldn’t leave my side and wailed through the stupid puppet show and thought the bye-bye hands were some kind of satanic instrument designed to put the bye-bye into her SOUL.
One of the best parts about living back in Boston is that we have so many friends here already. It’s been so cool to run into people I know again, and to reconnect with everyone and their kids (their kids! they didn’t have kids before!) and … oh! I still have so many people left to meet up with again, and really, it’s just so great. Most of our friends, however, work at least half-time on a regular basis (as opposed to my wackadoo freelance schedule), so the people we see the most are Megan and Lila, as Megan has the same sort of wackadoo schedule I do with her photography business.
And dude. DUDE. I never thought seeing my kid have a friend would be so adorable. She recognizes the other kids, sure, but not like she recognizes Lila. Her WHOLE BODY starts wiggling if she sees her, and sometimes, there is yelling. They go toddling over to each other, start touching one another’s faces in weird places (“BE GENTLE!” is a common refrain on my end) and oh, the smiling! The smiling and the squealing and … oh man. MAN. Lila usually says something totally incoherent to Sam, who pretends to understand and occasionally nods and gestures in response and ACK, the little drunk people, they’ve totally run away with my heart.
(Also, since I know many of you “know” Megan, let me also say that she is fantastic, hanging out with her is refreshing and great, and I’d make her hang out with me even if our kids didn’t like each other, and thank God she’s here.)
To totally switch gears, I’ve been trying to give up soda, because I am COMPLETELY out of control when it comes to it, and literally cannot stop myself from downing it in large quantity if it is anywhere nearby. Though I try to keep my food douchery in check, I can’t deny that no matter which way I cut it, soda is awful for me. If you drink regular, you’re basically setting up an IV of HFCS. Drink diet? ACK THE CHEMICALS. Fine! This is fine. I can totally give it up, as I drink a lot of coffee (FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS), and seltzer is quite delicious and conveniently packaged and fine! Yes, fine.
However, my God, what the EFF is it with seltzer that it EXPLODES everywhere like it’s been Mento’d in one of those godawful YouTube bits? If I had a DOLLAR for every time I wore lime Polar seltzer, my GEEZUZ PLEASE, I would have at least a hundred dollars and WHAT? WHAT AM I DOING WRONG? WHAT? No matter what I do, I end up WEARING SELTZER. This is not okay, and totally not conducive to my new, chemical-free habits. It’s as though the people at Polar don’t WANT the extra business! Or — OR! — they want PROOF that seltzer is good for removing stains, to the point that they are just going to spontaneously shoot it all over you and OH LOOK! That olive oil stain you didn’t even know was there is now GONE! WE ARE MAGICAL.
Bee Tee Dub, swim lessons are Friday and today I bought a swimsuit with horizontal stripes and ACK ACK ACK! What’s worse? IT WAS THE BEST I COULD DO. I almost bought a Miracle Suit, but firstly, $150, no thank you. Second? Look, Miracle Suit people, I may be a little on the less-than-superskinny (or ANY TYPE OF SKINNY) side and yes, I may desire a swimsuit that nips and tucks my butt, boobs and belly into nice, friendly little shapes, but I am OVERWEIGHT. I am not EIGHTY. Why? Why must these suits be in petite little polka dots with ruffles — or worse! — crazy animal prints! No, no, I’m sorry, I’m not going to attend my kid’s swim lessons in a leopard-print suit with a plunging neckline, no matter how great it sucks in my ass or lifts my boobs.
This is how I ended up with crazy horizontal stripes that, oddly, are somewhat slimming, likely because you’re staring at the bizarro stripes wondering why in the Sam Hill I would choose such a suit, rather than gazing at my midsection.
Hey, happy Wednesday!
*Jesca Hoop
June 29th, 2010
Let’s see, let’s see … let’s do quick takes, shall we? Because it’s all just bouncing around my head up in here, and there are so! many! things! I want to talk about, none of which are particularly interesting or post-worthy. How’s that for a fun set up?
1) I can’t believe I’m the mom who takes her 15-month-old to, um, gym class, but there you go. The truth is, I do kind of hate myself when I’m sitting in a circle singing some inane song about CIRCLE TIME! WITH FRIENDS! but dude, it’s with Megan & Lila (love!), it’s out of the house at the PERFECT time of the morning, and it’s cheaper than spending my life savings on cheap jewelry I’ll never wear at Target. And she’s faceplant-caliber exhausted after class (HA HA CLASS, like they learn anything), which is worth every penny right there, although honest to God, I feel SO RIDICULOUS when I’m cheering as my wee child is careening down a makeshift zipline in a plastic swing. Yes, that’s right, a zipline. I don’t know, either.
(A ZIPLINE)
(It was kind of awesome.)
2) At said gym, the one thing that makes me NUTSO is that they never refer to the moms by their names, nor do they even ASK WHAT OUR NAMES ARE. There’s this singsongy introduction, and we all share our kids’ names, but since the age group only goes to 22 months, aren’t … well, aren’t the moms more important? For God’s sake, this is really about US, let’s be honest. It’s OUR sanity on the line here, not the babies’.
We had some shifting of our gym days, and when they called to confirm, they were sure to point out to me that “Lila’s mom” agreed to the other day as well. And though obviously I know Lila’s mom, I was like, WHO? WHO IS THAT? And when they told Lila’s mom that they were switching, they said they were going to talk to “Samantha’s mom,” too, and I’m like, GYM LADIES. MEGAN AND I HAVE NAMES. OR SHOULD I JUST CALL YOU GYM LADY?
3) I do believe that I have finally, and for real this time, given up on Grey’s Anatomy. I didn’t see the season finale, nor did I TiVo it, and after hearing of the horror of horrors and what a totally stressful scene it was, I’m just like, really? Really, Shonda? I’m done. I don’t care about Mer, Der, Christina, Owen, Teddy or whoever the eff the next stupidly-named doctor who joins the scene is. I don’t care. I’m finished with you! FINISHED! FINISHED.
4) I am also all set with bathing my child. ALL SET, PLEASE. AND THANK YOU. We’re going through what is very clearly A Phase, but it is an UNPLEASANT phase, one that involves a refusal to have any water on top of her head, which means I can just barely wash it, but conditioning and combing it out? OH PLEASE. At this point, the back of her hair very clearly resembles a NEST of some sort, and isn’t that something we say to be funny? My hair looks like a rat’s nest? HA HA. Hers actually does. The back of it is all tangled and screwy and like, STUFF GETS STUCK IN IT back there. I pull lint out of it on an hourly basis, and I am not kidding, this morning I had a very frustrating moment removing the Velcro arm of a very tiny monkey. There are MONKEYS in my kid’s hair, for crying out loud. MONKEYS.
5) GUESS WHAT STARTS ON SUNDAY? Oh that’s right. TRUE BLOOD. Guess what comes out shortly? MY TRUE BLOOD BOOK. I’m giving away copies this week, so stay tuned! WHOO. Also, I’ll be writing updates throughout the season on Smart Pop’s site, so keep your eyes peeled this season. For my part, I hear that Eric has a new love interest, and while the prospect of more Naked Eric is very appealing, I am strangely possessive over Naked Eric (what?) and am really only interested in Naked Eric with Naked Sookie, even though I don’t even LIKE Sookie that much. How do you even explain this? You don’t.
I also hope Bill is eaten by wolves. Which, given the trajectory of the novels, is not entirely outside of the realm of possibility. (Oh stop, that’s not a spoiler. I only WISH he was EATEN by them.)
6) OH YOU GUYS, WITH THE DINNER SUGGESTIONS. I want to hug and kiss and love on each and every one of you. I have taken them all to deep, deep culinary heart, and have implemented a few of your ideas already. And, in fact, this week is Ground Zero for testing, and I’ll update you as we go. I should also add that explaining the many nuances of Adam’s culinary tolerances is sort of impossible, but that “saucy” does not apply to things that are supposed to have sauce, like pasta.
Ergo, tonight’s meal was pasta with sausage, peppers and onions and it was DELICIOUS, if I do say so. I picked up two links of hot Italian chicken sausage at Whole Foods, chopped it up and sauteed it with some onions and red/yellow peppers, topped off with Trader Joe’s puttanesca sauce in a jar, served over whole wheat rotini. SO GOOD. I sauteed the sausage/veggies during naptime, threw the sauce over it, and just left it on low until dinner, when I boiled the pasta and baked a take n’ bake loaf from TJ’s as accompaniment.
Not that you need any tips from me, much less the Food Douche kind, as YOU are the culinary geniuses, but I almost never make my own tomato sauce anymore, since every blasted can of tomatoes has BPA in it, and I’m also kind of freakish about which jarred sauces I’ll use, because an alarming number of sauces have HFCS in them, which, I’m sorry, what? Tomato sauce and corn syrup, what? GROSS. And also, WHY? Plus Trader Joe’s sauces are almost always delicious and superinexpensive and … oh yum. It was great, and we all ate together at 5:30. Only downside: It was a bit too spicy for Sam, as a lot of our meals are, so she had rotini with butter and cheese, plus fruit.
And yet: highly recommend. Also? Leftovers out the ying yang. WIN.
Happy Monday, y’all!
*MGMT
June 6th, 2010
We’ve all got a low-grade sicky-snotty thing and this is probably a terrible thing to say, but I am generally pretty laid back about snotty noses and colds in Sam. Hell, she’s a little kid, and she’s building her immune system, so short of carting her around in a bubble, I figure she’s going to get sick often enough, so we might as well get it over with, amiright? It’s just not worth it otherwise, and this, too, shall pass. (Provided it’s not puke. I do not do well with puke.)
However, I am, shall we say, LESS THAN THRILLED when the sickness leaches to the rest of us, and I find myself lying supine on the couch, a puddle of drool under my mouth as my face is smashed up against the arm, praying, just PRAYING, for my kid to entertain herself for five whole minutes so that I can stay immobile for as long as possible. Adam and I BOTH got it this time, so it’s not even like one of us can play the sick card, so dealing with Sam was a bit like a game of chicken today. YOU take her. No, YOU. I INSIST.
We had old friends over for dinner this weekend — one half of the couple is my closest friend from college, and is credited with introducing Adam and me — and it was lovely to see them, as I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed them until I was with them again. That’s what’s been strangest, I think, about being back here — I have a long history here, with friends from all over the place, and former coworkers, and dude, I KEEP RUNNING INTO PEOPLE and it’s WEIRD. At the grocery store! The hair salon! (That was nice, when I thought my friend Deb was my new hairdresser, and she was all, “Um, Jonna? I’m not cutting your hair. IT’S ME. DEB. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”)
Five years of living places where you have no history and you NEVER see people you know will do that to you. It’s weird and a little unnerving, because going to the grocery store in yoga pants and no makeup can take a turn for the reunion over the cheese case with someone you haven’t seen in ten years. It’s even weirder, because MetroWest is not a small place. I mean, it encompasses nine or ten towns and almost 200,000 people, and yet, EVERY DAY, oh look, someone I know! Oh, dear.
Anyway, our dinner companions do not yet have children, and the conversation inevitably turned to when the right time is to have kids, and all that rot, and you know what? I really sucked at selling it. I was kind of alarmed to look back on the conversation with the realization that, to a certain degree, I sounded like every other totally obnoxious parent trying to answer the questions of the kidless about How It Is. I mean, I wasn’t condescending or anything truly egregious, but to say I undersold the experience is probably a vast understatement. I complained about the usual — the sleepless nights, the lack of travel ease, the three to five months of screaming and I think I even threw in a nice line or two about how newborns truly suck.
You give up a lot when you have a child, it’s true. But what I completely failed to focus on is what you get in return, and how none of that ever — at least for me — makes a lick of sense until the child is yours, and every little thing is effing MAGICAL. Our friends were discussing how most people have advised them to travel — to get in some truly selfish, glorious trips in before their lives become infinitely more complicated and heading off to Rome on a moment’s notice is a virtual impossibility. I answered by sort of rolling my eyes and saying yes, dude, YES, traveling with a kid is nothing like it used to be, as we have to get a suite and flying sucks and ugh ugh ugh.
And yes, that’s true. But what is also true is that honestly, one of the things I’m looking forward to most is taking Sam to see the world. Yes, my days of luxuriating on the beach with a good book and a fruity drink are long gone (or at least on hold), but in exchange, I’m going to get to show Sam some of my favorite things, and find out what hers are. Yes, I don’t get nearly as much sleep as I used to, but none of that compares to how stupidly, laughably proud I felt when Sam learned to sing “Ooh-Ah! Ooh-Ah!” along with Laurie Berkner’s “Walk Along the River.” Yes, I spent the day in a virtual faceplant, too exhausted to want to deal with a kid who was antsy and desperate to get out of the house, but when I finally loaded her into the car seat and opened the passenger window, she threw her arms in the air like she was on a rollercoaster and giggled like a fool while the breeze blew her curls around.
We don’t get out much. We’re working on finding a local sitter, and yes, of course, we’re looking forward to date nights and dinners out without her and the occasional movie. All things I totally enjoyed and took for granted when I was childless. But I do not, and I mean this, resent that those days are gone, or even miss them that much. For one, I’m usually too damn tired by the end of the day, and besides, Adam and I have learned to make time for each other after Sam’s asleep, and alternating who gets to go out and for what. And my marriage? Is even better since we had Sam. It really is.
And again, my God, I got so much in exchange. A kid who thinks the (cleaned, I swear) perianal squeeze bottle I got in the hospital is the greatest bath toy ever. Geezuz, you’d think she discovered WATER the way she carries on with that thing, squirting herself, me and anyone who dares enter the bathroom. It’s the most thrilling thing EVER, that squeeze bottle, and my heart breaks a little from joy every time she waves her arms in anticipation of playing in the tub.
The kid can spot a picture of a dog from a mile away. And a real dog? Brace yourself for some serious excitement. The full-body wiggling! The pointing! The cries of “GEE GEE GEEEEEE! DOGGEEEEE!” Sorry, but that shit is unparalleled. I don’t know that I’ve seen anyone that excited about anything, ever. Seriously. Sometimes I can’t even find the dog she’s so jazzed about, and I have to scan the room, only to find the ONE greeting card on a display ten feet away that has the face of a dalmation on the front.
And the Frankensteining around! Toddling side-to-side, totally unstable, but fearlessly plunging ahead anyway. Oh, man. It can’t be beat. It just can’t. I love this kid so much, and seeing her grow up is something I wouldn’t trade for a million years of travel on an unlimited budget. I wouldn’t give up a second of this for anything in the world, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.
This is all sounding very trite and lame, right? Of course it is. And I think that’s why I resort to complaining about the hard stuff. Because it’s easier to sound like the snarkier cliche than the glowy brainwashed one who goes on and on for a solid five minutes about how amazing it is that my kid — the one who didn’t sleep for more than two hours in a row the first ten months of her life — now snuggles into bed with Mr. Mouse and waves night-night to me before settling down FOR THE WHOLE NIGHT. UNTIL LIKE, SEVEN AM.
There’s no way to explain it. None at all. But if you’re thinking about it, want to do it, and just aren’t sure if it’s the right time, because you have all these things you want to do? Eh. Screw ‘em. Just do it. You won’t regret it. You’ll still be you. But it doesn’t make a difference what I say, because you have to find out for yourself. That’s the truth.
Happy Tuesday! I hope you had a great holiday weekend.
*Rufus Wainwright
May 31st, 2010
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
May 27th, 2010
Aw, hell, you guys, I am really going to spend all of our money if I keep this up. I *am* like the Beverly Hillbillies up in here, because today was positively ENTRANCED by a Staples. A fucking STAPLES. I was perusing the aisles like some kind of caveman, marveling at all the fancy office supplies. I must have spent ten minutes in the highlighter section alone, and frankly, I have always found highlighters to be irritating and sort of stupid, not to mention blinding. I don’t LIKE highlighters, but I suddenly had the urge to buy every highlighter they made! I need to highlight important clauses on my freelance contracts before I send them back! I need to highlight my bank statements! Credit card bills! In hundreds of beautiful shades! OOH LOOK, CHARTREUSE.
I have this uncontrollable reaction when I’m near any kind of retail –like I have to gobble it all up instantly, planning not just for right now, but for a future that may not include access to fancy filing folders with flowers on them in case I want to pretty up my tax filing for 2010. I’m like the college kid who grew up in a strict household who’s suddenly like, HEY! BEER. Let me drink it all — every last beer in sight — TONIGHT.
I feel kind of barfy and purgey, as if such a thing was possible when referring to material goods. Except that I swear — swear! — we need most of this stuff. Because, if you recall, I have a husband who refuses to move mashed potatoes, much less something like extra Swiffer pads or sponges or anything useful. And besides, I needed new shirts! And Sam only had Robeez and oh, look! Cute sandals!
Erm. You see? You see where this is going? You see why although I saved money by purchasing a dress for $20, I then proceeded to accessorize it with more than $100 of add-ons? I might as well just have bought the $150 dress to begin with. Sick. I’m sick. Help me.
(Mom and Dad, please don’t worry, I’m really not going to spend Sam’s college fund on sparkly earrings from Target, I swear.)
The other issue I’m running into — will always run into, I fear — is road rage. I have it. Not the kind that makes people run random drivers off the road to beat the bag out of them for an erroneous directional or anything, but if you cut me off or fail to use a courtesy wave or–or!–have your turn signal on and are not turning or vice versa? I wave my arms and yell. I can’t help it. And people, they are AWFUL THINGS I’m yelling, and I’m amazed at how quickly I can come up with them, as though they are so ingrained in some dark, hidden corner of my twisty little mind. Douchenozzle! Taint face! (Oh, I know PRECISELY where I got that one, thanks to my friend Anna, and her douchey commenter!) Terribly, awfully offensive iterations of fuck!
But still! No one should be able to conjure–much less actually USE–those terms while driving in a motor vehicle with their impressionable toddler in the backseat.
Do you think … do you think when Sam is saying “shoosh!” for juice that she is actually saying … douche? OH M’LANDS.
Although really, that will be the last thing we need to worry about, as Adam quite accurately points out that someone might shoot me. I saw a BULLET HOLE in a car the other day, and in Vermont, when you saw a bullet hole, you knew it was because it was they just MISSED THE DEER.
Anyway, I know this is lame–getting back on the writing horse is HARD–but look, allow me to go on about my kid for a minute, if I may. She is, in a word, amazing. I know she’s just like most other kids, and that all moms feel this way, I know. I know this. But the progression of watching a little blob turn into a person? I never, ever expected it to be so cool. I never thought I’d have this much fun. She’s Frankensteining around like a little drunkard, and if I pay close enough attention, I can actually decipher what she wants. It’s INSANE.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. True story. I can’t believe I waited so long. I wonder … will I feel the same about the second? Because that doesn’t seem POSSIBLE. It seems like two would kind of SUCK and yet I want two–at least two. AND YET AND YET.
Happy Wednesday!
*Queen. And others. Also? FROM MYSELF.
May 25th, 2010
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