Posts filed under 'Uncategorized'
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
Kibbles and bits, per usual, but this time with a giveaway! Of a book that I contributed to! Go team! Well, not really on the team part. But on the dinner part? Yes, GO TEAM!
1) The other day, I tasted Sam’s (white) grape juice and thought it tasted a little off. I wrote it off initially, because my allergies are HORRENDOUS right now, and this plus a recent cold means I’ve been stuffy/sickly for weeks on end. No, literally: WEEKS. Anyway, I gave it another taste this morning and, um, no. It was actually teetering towards flat-out rotten, and I’m fairly shocked she hasn’t been wasted, because that shit HAD to be well on its way to wine.
2) The June book for The Book Lushes is The Red Tent, and I’ve literally put off reading this bad boy for TEN YEARS. It’s … interesting. I’m enjoying, but not loving, it. Mostly, and you best believe I’ll be discussing this in the forums, I’m irritated by the writing style, but I can’t put my finger on why.
Also irritating? The fact that Diamant has to remind us somewhere in the range of every ten seconds that men and boys used to get it on with sheep and goats in the fields. Yes, Anita, we get it. I was shocked the first time, annoyed the second, and FULL-ON ROLLING MY EYES by the third. What a shame Christianity has already been sent up too many times, otherwise you’d have the next Satanic Verses on your hands! Or not.
The real point of this is that if you aren’t a member, you should be. Honestly, all the books we’ve picked have been good, if not great, and I’m really, really glad I read them, even if I didn’t like them. It made for a richer experience, too, to know that dozens, if not hundreds, of others were reading it at the same time. You can join and discuss at any time — although it is well into June, I haven’t fully formed my opinion on Olive yet, so that discussion is still happening.
(For those not playing along, the books thus far have been The Help, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Year of Magical Thinking, Olive Kitteridge and now, The Red Tent)
3) Dinner. OH DINNER. You guys! YOU GUYS. SUCCESS. We’re on Day Three of awesome fast dinners — the sausage pasta was a huge hit, as I mentioned, and since then, I’ve done two more meals that rocked and were fast and easy.
First, I made a Mexican rice mish-mash with lean ground meat of your choice (I used beef, but I would totally use ground turkey, chicken or buffalo), browned and then mixed with veggies of your choice (I used TJ’s fire-roasted corn and bell pepper mix, both frozen) and then mixed with rice (um, again, TJ’s chimichurri frozen rice mix — SO GOOD). I threw some taco seasoning on top of it all (cumin, chili powder, coriander, etc. or you can use a pre-mix) and stirred some low-fat cheese and salsa in and VOILA! Mexican mix! We ate this in either taco or burrito shells with light sour cream and jalapenos. So good. So fast — like, ten minutes, TOPS.
Tuesday, we had Greek cous cous and also, DELICIOUS. I used nap time to roast some veggies (onions and red peppers at 425 for 20 minutes), then boiled up some Israeli cous cous and mixed with the veggies and some pre-cooked grilled chicken (I love you, Trader Joe’s!). I made a quick Greek dressing with lemon juice, olive oil, lots of oregano, salt, pepper and feta and threw it on top, plus a little extra crumbled feta on each serving and again, dude, VOILA. I finished it all in a half-hour, and just heated it up a bit at dinnertime. The whole shebang was over and done with by 7 p.m. (Adam got home super-early.)
I feel like I’m winning some kind of BATTLE up in here. For the record, Sam ate the cous cous, but not the Mexican rice. Again, I made it a little too spicy for her delicate little tongue. Adam loved it, but requested that next time I make it with the tiny regular cous cous, as the Israeli version reminded him of spider eggs. However, he’s still gnawing on some leftovers as I type this, so whatever. Awesome.
4) This won’t make sense to many people, but longtime reader Suki? I owe you a thank you. For Kate, you know. And congratulations on your pregnancy! I think about you all the time! (See? This is how I draw you out.)
5) Speaking of books, here we go! A Taste of True Blood is coming out on June 21 and I’ve got two copies to give away. Honestly, my chapter aside, there’s some crazy-ass analysis up in this thing, and it includes pieces by writers who are much smarter and more thoughtful than me. (My chapter is about how Bill Compton used to be hot, but now he’s … well, not. I never said I was an intellectual, okay?)
So! I’ll pick a winner at random, but I realize that some of you might not be into this, so if you want to comment AND you want to be entered, just write BOOK ME! somewhere in the comment, and I’ll include you in the, um, drawing. Which will happen electronically using one of those random generator things, which means that no one of the younger generations will even know what a drawing is.
I’ll be closing comments Thursday at 5 p.m. EST, and announcing a winner sometime Friday. Woot.
(Sadly, residents of the United States and Canada are the only ones who are eligible. Sorry, international friends!)
Happy trails! Happy Wednesday!
*KIng Britt and Sister Gertrude Morgan, from the True Blood soundtrack.
June 8th, 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
Holla! Just FYI, I’ve started a (paid) column/bit on diapering for our friends at the diaper company that rhymes with “Ruggies.” The first post is up, and you can read it here.
May 26th, 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
Well! That’s over. We had a family wedding this weekend, with houseguests, and have I ever mentioned that I love houseguests? I do. It’s a very strange thing, apparently, but a houseful of people always makes me feel warm and fuzzy and weirdly safe, like we can’t be broken into or murdered or anything strange, because there are so! many! people! Who could get away with such a thing? We have four-ish bedrooms and every last one of them was occupied by someone who would doubtless scream if intruded upon. Safety!
Plus, you know, I enjoy their company. That’s true, too. But once houseguests leave, there is the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Everything has three times as much dirt on it as before, because there were three more people involved and now there are toilets and laundry and maybe even bears, oh my!
It was a relatively uneventful family wedding–beautiful, loving and all that jazz. Two nights prior, however, my kid lost her shit at a family dinner in a janky-but-delicious Chinese restaurant (South Pacific in Newton, for those playing along at home–they have an original tiki room and serve scorpion bowls), and for the FRILLIONTH time, discovered that my kid bawls like a maniac whenever she’s confronted with an old(er) lady, this time being her great-aunt. There’s a juvenile prejudice that’s fun to explain! Hi! My kid hates old ladies! Yes, I’m sure YOU are lovely, but you are very clearly OLD and old ladies freak her out! So please, no no, don’t say hi to her, thanks. At all. It freaks her out. Yes, even you. YES, YOU, OLD LADY. YOU TOO.
Nice, right? Nice. My kid’s an ageist little pooper.
I am also really unclear why a restaurant, upon seeing a TABLEFUL of kids under the age of four, would refuse to deviate from their plan of offering their pu pu platters with towering flames in the center, but then again, some things defy logic, am I right? Here, kids! Let’s practice lighting our eyebrows on fire!
Anyway. Let us now discuss stink bugs. Do you guys KNOW what stink bugs are? HA HA. They look like this. (LINK TERRIFYING! WARNING!) And did you know those em effers can FLY? I did not know this. I had NO idea, in fact, until the other night when I thought I saw a fly and watched it land and NEARLY EFFING DIED. You can’t kill them, you see, because their stupid pheromones go shooting out and then you have a plague of stink bugs, not to mention they, um, STINK.
So there I am, trying to be calm and shit while I aim to trap it in two, um, cups (what?) and then … I LOST IT. AND FELT SOMETHING DOWN MY BACK. AND MADE A STRANGLED KIND OF NOISE. And God, look, there was wild running around and crazy tapdancing, and I wanted so bad to scream, but you know, MUST NOT WAKE BABY, so I just waved myself around wildly while frantically whispering, “HELP ME. HELP ME. HELP ME.”
HELP NEVER CAME. Or rather, it did, but HELP WAS LAUGHING TOO HARD TO ACTUALLY HELP. This went on for several minutes until I finally just locked myself on the sun porch and got buck naked, dislodging the stink bug from … oh God, from WHEREVER IT WAS, and Adam took it outside, thank you Jesus, and Amen.
GHWRLKHTHEWARTTICKETH.
I mean, RIGHT?
And now, let us cleanse ourselves with a delightful picture of my daughter, looking rather diabolical, yet adorable, in her wedding finery. Well, with strawberry stains, but whatever.
(Yes, that’s me in the background at an Unfortunate Angle, I hope, as I am looking rather PREGNANT, which is a state that I am not, I assure you.)
Happy Tuesday!
*Rusted Root
May 24th, 2010
So.
Last week happened.
That was something. If by “something,” I mean something horrible and soul-crushing and easily the most challenging two and a half days of my entire — no, seriously, ENTIRE — life.
(Warning. This is kind of painful, but I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. IT WAS THAT BAD AS MY TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN ATTEST AS I LIVE-TWEETED THE HELLFIRE.)
The short version is this: I got the flu — the achy, shivering, feverish, want-to-die kind — plus barfing. The pukles! I GOT THEM! I woke up at 2 a.m. Wednesday morning thinking, boy, that London broil was a bad idea … I wonder if it was old? And by 3, I was in the bathroom, still holding onto hope that it was just a passing food thing when I realized, hm. Adam seems to be holding up just fine. By 7, I was starting to panic, and by 7:30, I was back in the bathroom ready to gouge my eyes out with my Venus razor. By 8, I realized desperately that Adam was leaving on a business trip (an interview in Boston, among other things), and I was supposed to go with him to visit my sister and have dinner with our friend Eve and there was no way in HIZELL I was going to make it.
Now all this seemed fine and good until I realized that while *I* was off the hook for traveling 300 miles (IN A CAR THAT WAS MOVING), Adam was still slated to be there, by hook or by crook, which meant that *I* was going to be home alone with a baby and a dog and The Pukles and … oh heavens, my friends, it was awful. Awful. AWFUL. It was EPIC in its awfulness, and I plopped my kid in front of the TV all day, every day (THE GUILT) and I watched the same! Laurie! Berkner! DVD! over and over again, and I acquainted myself with The Wonder Pets, and twice, I threw my screaming little baby into her crib while I desperately ran to the bathroom to throw up because she was doing something like reaching for the scissors on the counter and … oh.
Random aside: she’s effing tall enough to reach for shit on the counter. She’s not even 13 months old. She’s SO EFFING TALL, you guys, what is this MINIATURE GIANTESS I am raising?
Anyway, the whole thing was a horror show, and honestly, no exaggeration, CHILDBIRTH was easier than that shit, yo. CHILDBIRTH. I was in tears, I had a 102-degree fever, I was throwing up, I was desperate — oh, so desperate — for sleep and by the time Adam came home with sweet, sweet relief on Friday afternoon, the house looked like someone broke in, I hadn’t showered since Monday and Sam was happier than a pig in shit because she was basically wading in piles of it.
I tell you though, and I don’t mind saying this, for I feel I’ve earned it: When Adam came home, and everyone had survived? Dude. I felt like I was fucking BADASS, which is, when you think about it, ridiculous, but I’m telling you, it was like running five marathons with a colicky baby strapped to your chest while getting poked in the lady bits with a ceremonial sword or two. (Maybe the one Jacob and the Man in Black keep trading back and forth?) I LIVED. THE BABY LIVED. Oh y’all. I can do ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, the dog. My God, the dog. The dog was acting like some kind of FREAK DOG the whole time Adam was away — she followed me around underfoot, she barked at the air, she barely slept. Since he’s been home, she’s been passed out on his chest, snoring, every chance she gets. If I may anthropomorphize for a moment, I think she felt like she had to be on high alert because her alpha was gone. (I am not the alpha. Or even the beta. I’m pretty sure I’m her underling. She heeds the BABY better than she listens to me.)
Guarding the important people, before all hell broke loose.
Several epic naps, a husband who cleaned the entire house from top to bottom (including the CARPETS, people) and plenty of time lounging and I am almost recovered, at least physically. Mentally, it’s going to take some TIME, y’all. Like, YEARS.
In other news, I’m going to be in another Smart Pop book! This time in a guide for Glee! GLEE! It comes out in the fall, just in time for the second season. There’s also a contest if you want to submit your own essay on how Glee has impacted your life for a special section in the book.
GLEE!
GLEE!
Trust me when I say re-watching an entire season of Glee, over and over again (this time focusing on Mr. Schue and that irritating, no-good Emma Pillsbury. THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT. EMMA SUCKS.) is SO MUCH LESS TRAUMATIZING than two seasons of True Blood. (And infinitely easier than a day filled with C-SPAN.) TRUST ME. Let’s see: perky, whip-smart high school students embroiled in situations that don’t involve blood, guts and gore or John Boehner? Easy! Hell, after deconstructing two seasons of True Blood, teenage pregnancy seems downright wholesome.
And with that, happy Monday, y’all. May you all remain puke-free.
*Lady Gaga
March 28th, 2010
I can’t believe I neglected to mention that while watching Martha Stewart the other day, I witnessed her getting her exercise on a — well, it was on a stripper pole, friends. While she had the sense to turn down the request from the guest (a strip class instructor, natch) to do that upside-down stripper thing that probably has a more technical name other than “hump the pole upside down,” she still did that side swing thing that usually precedes it. I am completely traumatized, because again, if you missed it: MARTHA STEWART ON A STRIPPER POLE, DING DONG AND ALSO HALLO. During the same segment, she also admitted that she signed up for her first stripper-aerobics class and … well, God, thanks for the additional visual, Martha. Appreciate that.
I’m not sure if now is the time to admit that I have the television on almost the entire day while I’m home with Sam, but either way, there it is: I have the TV on quite a bit. I like to think I’d be one of those people who speaks of the evils of television and intelligently cites studies and articles about the loss of vocabulary in children who are exposed to it, and how television — even the most benign — encourages kids to be angry and violent, but I’m not. I can’t be. I want to be, but the truth is having adult conversation and adult themes in the background (even in the form of Martha humping the pole) is as important to me as it is to breathe.
The thing is, she doesn’t even look up at it or watch it. I am on the floor playing with my kid for most of the day. We read books at least three times every day. We have a ton of playdates and playgroups. We take time out to listen to music and dance around the living room. We build things with her kiddie-sized Legos, and I almost always catch her before she splits her lip on the coffee table. But yes, the television is on, and most days, I don’t feel bad about it, except when I do, which is also most days, when I worry that she’s going to become a non-verbal angry violent serial killer because I exposed her to too much Meredith Viera, and the occasional Bill Henrickson, including that very unfortunate time that he was boinking Margene.
***
Whenever I hear that someone is getting a divorce or is already divorced or is in the process of marital woe, I have an overwhelming urge to pick at it like a scab. If it’s a blogger, I go combing through the archives, desperately trying to find out what went wrong; I make three times the effort if I find out that they have children. I am of the futile mentality that by dissecting others’ relationships, I can prevent the same dynamics from occurring in my own marriage, as though fact-finding mixed with selfish, paranoid worry is protective, even though I am acutely aware that it isn’t.
I do this even though my marriage is among the most realistically happy I know. Some days I love him so much I can hardly contain myself. Like the love I feel for Sam, I want to pour him into a tall glass and drink him to make sure he’s comfortably inside me, safe and warm. Other days I wish we lived in a cartoon world where I could break him down limb by limb and put him in a wood chipper, taking immense pleasure in his demise, only to watch him put himself together again. Most days I just love him, and feel very lucky.
Have a happy Thursday.
*Toad the Wet Sprocket
January 20th, 2010
One of the awful, terrible, annoying side effects of parenthood is that I can no longer just enjoy American Idol for the fluffy piece of SPUN FLUFF it is meant to be. Oh no no no. I can’t even get off on watching the asshole kids who think they can sing screw up royally and stomp off into the ether. OH NO NO NO. NOPE. What am I doing instead? I’m getting choked up and upset and and thinking THAT IS SOMEONE’S CHILD. (Yes, feel free to punch me, because isn’t THAT annoying as fuck.) And when I *do* get angry? I’m angry at the parents. I’m angry that the parents encouraged their kid to make a total ass of themselves on national television and were so freakin’ BLINDED BY LOVE that they thought their child could sing!
Please. Please give me the wisdom and strength to stop my child from auditioning for American Idol if, indeed, she cannot sing. Give me the courage to redirect her into something she CAN do, even if that thing is something as mundane as BASKET WEAVING.
Speaking of my progeny, did I tell you guys we spent Friday afternoon at the pediatrician’s office because I found a — wait for it — LUMP in my child’s, um, BREAST? Yes. Fantastic. I mean, don’t you think ten months old is a bit YOUNG to initiate BSE’s? Seriously, y’all, it was a fracking MASS. A MASS. Well, it IS a mass, I should say. As it turns out, however, it is a normal mass, and the result of her picking up MY hormones in the womb and WOW BIOLOGY IS SOME FREAKY, DISTURBING SHIT.
In thrilling news, I have lost eight pounds. Eight! On my Wii Fit! For SERIOUS! Yes, there are diet changes as well, but honestly, nothing too drastic. I eat pretty healthily as it is, and though I cut my portions a little (and by “a little,” I mean, “Stop sticking your face in the feed bag like it’s some kind of endless TROUGH”). The worst part? You can’t even tell, swear to Jebus. You can’t tell! It’s all the SAME up in this piece. My Mii still has a muffin top, it still hollers at me that I’m overweight, and it STILL says “Oh!” in a horribly accusatory tone when I step on to start a new exercise. You guys, all I want to do is fit into my old jeans and pants so I don’t have to buy new ones. THAT IS ALL I WANT. Am lazy! And ironically, the way to maintain my laziness is to exercise. Yes, friends, in the battle between exercise and buying new clothes, I have chosen exercise as the lesser of two evils. That’s how much I hate shopping.
And finally, because a day is not a day unless I’m kvetching about something meaningless and yet strangely offensive to a select group of people: Do you know what I find very strange? When people parade their significant others out there as pieces of meat for others to envy. I find it weirder if it’s your husband. Yes, I get that you love him and yes, he’s adorable, but … I … what? Are you REALLY trying to make me COVET your husband? I think that’s odd! I do! I mean, do YOU like him? Awesome! Good thing you married him! Hooray for you! I love my husband, too.
Believe me, it’s not that I don’t want to hear about your relationship, because I do! I really do! And I’m SO GLAD he is awesome and I want to hear how thoughtful he is, because I think YOU are great and you deserve it, but I don’t … I don’t know, I guess there is a TONE in the way some people refer to their significant others that is a little ODD, and I am doing a VERY BAD JOB of explaining this, but I think it’s WEIRD when I’m being put into a position that, again, I’m feeling like you’re trying to make me JEALOUS of the fact that you have a hot husband and I … eh?
This is not limited to the blog world, I must hastily add. This is one of those UNIVERSAL phenomenons that perplexes me offline and on in equal measure.
Again, I ask, does this make sense?
No. No it doesn’t. BUT IT IS WEIRD, YOU MUST TRUST ME.
Happy Wednesday! I have to make three loaves of banana bread for playgroup, and again, I tell you, I’m starting to feel like I have an elementary schooler who constantly needs CUPCAKES. BAH.
*Black Kids
January 19th, 2010
You know what still grates my cheese from time to time? Before I had Sam and loved to sleep in, people really loved to act like it was a bad habit and helpfully remind me that once I had children, I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. You know what? NO SHIT. But Jesus Christ, I KNEW THAT, and also, I maintain that it is an AWESOME habit, and everyone who can do it, should.
All those changes that happened when I had a baby were somewhat natural and easy, uh, relatively speaking. The whole thing is such a fucking shellshock that you’re not sitting around wondering why you’re not sleeping late, because you’re wondering why you’re not sleeping at all, I guess. I mean, you’re not going to sleep until 10 when you have a bleating newborn, and you just ADJUST. Yes, you’re tired, yes, it’s hard, but EEFRACKINGGADS, you can’t PLAN for them. And GOD it is so not HELPFUL to say that to someone who doesn’t have kids, and screeching, “You think YOU’RE tired!” is also not helpful and just makes someone feel shitty for no good reason. Childfree people: You are allowed to sleep late. You are ALLOWED to be tired and even complain about it. I chose to have kids, and I’m allowed to complain about it TOOO, but I’m not allowed to make you feel like your tiredness is INFERIOR TO MY TIREDNESS OH MY GOD.
P.S.: Sleep until 11 this weekend. FOR ME.
P.P.S. It seems I hold pointless grudges.
***
So I was watching SNL this weekend (Sunday morning, my pretties) and was once again smacked in the face with another nonsensical celebrity crush. No, not Andy Samberg, and at the rate my friends are crushing on him, he’s becoming almost MAINSTREAM, yo. And while yes, I ADORE Jason Sudeikis, who DOESN’T, I ask you? This was … well. It’s Bill Hader, okay? BILL HADER. The guy who walks around with a CREEPY FACE and DRINKS PEOPLE’S MILKSHAKES in a completely un-funny sketch and I … oh dear.
Bill Hader. John Malkovich. Gary Oldman. Did I say John Malkovich? MALKOVICH MALKOVICH MALKOVICH. Alan Rickman!
BILL EFFING HADER. GAWD.
I’m just grateful it isn’t Will Forte, is all I’m saying.
***
Sam has started talking a little, and it’s HYSTERICAL and also, the cutest thing I have ever seen. Thus far we have “doggie!” and “Dad-ee!” and “HIIIIII!” and they aren’t exactly crystal clear, but dude! She can SPEAK! And yeah, um, no “Mama” in there and I am TRYING NOT TO BE BITTER.
***
Speaking of Sam, I’ve posted it everywhere, but this OUTFIT. Seemed like SUCH A GOOD IDEA on the hanger, but on the body? GEEZUS. Circus music much?
***
MENSTRUAL-RELATED QUESTION, MALE EYES AVERT:
Since giving birth, I can’t use tampons. It’s not WORKING, people. IT IS NOT WORKING. There are MULTIPLE PROBLEMS, and ironically, none of them are because I have some kind of TWO-CAR GARAGE down there, but because … oh, forget it, I’m not even sure why, and I don’t even want to ANALYZE why. And I can’t find my Keeper, so I had to order a NEW ONE and folks, I’m using MAXI PADS. IT IS THE WORST TIME OF MY ENTIRE LIFE, this period. THE WORST. You know what makes it even worse? The dog. The dog taking maxi pads out of the garbage, eating them (OMFG) and leaving them all over the house. Like under the bed, where I have to fish them out with a goddamn COAT HANGER.
This is worse than CHILDBIRTH ITSELF AND I AM NOT KIDDING.
***
Ding dong, Heidi Montag plastic surgery, whaaa? No, really, WHAAAA? WHAAAAAA? THAT MUCH? Yes, she’s certifiable, but COME THE EFF ON, HEIDI.
***
A quick note about the book club: Even if you aren’t reading the specific book this month, there are some awesome conversations going on about OTHER books and OTHER genres and it’s morphed into a totally fun place in a totally unexpected way, and I encourage you to join if you read at all. For real. (And while it’s my thang, it’s not like I get PAID for you visiting or anything. It’s just been FUN.)
Happy Monday!
*Oh, BRITNEY
January 17th, 2010
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