Hi. I haven't written here in over 3 years. Hi.
In the meantime, I've:
--Whined that I should be writing
--Bitched about my husband
--Sold my old house
--Bought a newer, bigger, more expensive house
--Birthed a second child
--Lost weight
--Gained weight
--Succumbed and bought several pairs of skinny jeans
It's up to you to decide which of those is the Most Momentous.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Upon Electing a New President
Dear Bryce,
One day, you're going to learn about all this in school. One day they'll talk to you about this "historic" election, and you'll think, gee, that was so long ago. I was just a baby! I don't remember a thing! When that day comes, I want you to have something to look at, I want there to be a record of how it felt to be here. My parents always tried to explain these historic types of things to me, and it was never really "real". I hope this helps it to feel real to you.
This is an excerpt of an email i sent to my father, your grandfather, a person from a different generation than me and a waaay different generation than you. He's a person who has spent his life in a small, rural, racially-divided area that is incredibly dependent on a large military base. In other words, he has a different political outlook than I, and I was explaining to him why I supported Barack Obama for president:
What it comes down to for me is this. I see Barack Obama, this intelligent, well-spoken natural leader who has an overall calm presence. Even when he speaks passionately, he has none of the quiet undercurrent of anger that even someone like Martin Luther King exhibited. Just a calm, reasonable presence (I never saw Lincoln, but imagine that is how he was as well). On the other hand, McCain has been erratic at best, a crazed lunatic at worst. (Just his choice of running mate alone shows an incredible lack of judgement!) His record is nothing if not unreliable (the circa 2004 term "flip-flopper" that was bandied about during Kerry's campaign comes to mind).
I see the rallies. The people at Obama's are chanting that they want change, that they want to make our country great again. That they no longer want to feel ashamed, they want to work hard to make things better. McCain, on the other hand, has been using hate and fear to fuel his campaign. It's at his rallies that people yell "Muslim!" and "Kill him!" about Barack Obama. It's at his rallies where people who show up with Obama signs are roughed up and threatened.
Again, the crazed anger vs. the calm desire to make things better.
Mostly, I look at Bryce. I look at him and I know that one day, probably sooner than I want, he is going to look at all that's happened. He is going to see the history of things like Abu Ghraib and the president who is currently trying to push a bill pardoning himself of his own war crimes through congress. He's going to see all the women soldiers who are being raped by their supposed comrades, the men coming home in bodybags who were killed by the contractors our government hired. He's going to see the guerrilla forces that we are paying not to attack our troops, who we're arming by doing so. He's going to see this neverending war, where as of now we're more than 2000 days past "Mission accomplished!", where we've spent enough money to pave the entire US interstate highway system in 24k gold leaf. He's going to look at this bank bailout, where as soon as it passed some of the recipients of our money sent their employees on $3 million dollar spa
retreats. He's going to see the voting machines that are manufactured and run by huge monetary supporters of the Republican party that are "malfunctioning" and not recording votes properly. He's going to see the images of the anger and racism and intolerance and hatred that people use religion to justify, holding up their bibles as some sort of twisted weapon. He's going to see all of this, and he's going to ask me, "Why? How? How could you let that all happen?"
And when that day comes, I want to be able to look him in the eyes and say; that it was a dark time, a terrible time. A time that most of us couldn't understand, a time thick with corruption and shame. But that we fought, all of us, we fought together to take back our country and change things, to make them good again. I want to tell him that he will never have to fight and die for corporate greed, that he will never have to decide between buying food for his children and paying for their medical bills. I want to leave him a better legacy than this. And I'm scared right now, even with the numbers swaying violently to Obama's side. I'm scared of those fucking Diebold voting machines, I'm scared of the anger and violence that the McCain supporters are threatening. I'm thankful as hell that I live in a blueBlueBLUE state, or I'd be just terrified.
Mostly, I'm scared of not doing everything I can to make things better, so he won't have to grow up in the shadows of war and financial disaster.
I hope that I can help to make things better for you, now. I hope that things will get better. Now, we have a mixed-race president-elect, and a woman Speaker of the House. We live in a state where you can marry whoever you love. I hope that things will be so much better for you, and I hope that I am a strong enough person to fight so you can have the world you deserve. So we all can have the world we deserve.
After the election, people danced in the streets. Your father and I could hear the whooping all the way out here in the suburbs. People lined up for hours, demanded paper ballots, and wept for the joy of voting. People who had never before voted came out of the woodwork and finally let their voices be heard.
I don't know yet what kind of president Barack Obama will turn out to be. But if I had to tell you one thing about this time, it would be that this was a time when the majority of the country banded together and demanded change. A time when we moved forward as one, leaping into a future that we hope holds more promise.
I love you, and I hope that one day you will look back on this day in history and smile at what it made possible.
--Mama
One day, you're going to learn about all this in school. One day they'll talk to you about this "historic" election, and you'll think, gee, that was so long ago. I was just a baby! I don't remember a thing! When that day comes, I want you to have something to look at, I want there to be a record of how it felt to be here. My parents always tried to explain these historic types of things to me, and it was never really "real". I hope this helps it to feel real to you.
This is an excerpt of an email i sent to my father, your grandfather, a person from a different generation than me and a waaay different generation than you. He's a person who has spent his life in a small, rural, racially-divided area that is incredibly dependent on a large military base. In other words, he has a different political outlook than I, and I was explaining to him why I supported Barack Obama for president:
What it comes down to for me is this. I see Barack Obama, this intelligent, well-spoken natural leader who has an overall calm presence. Even when he speaks passionately, he has none of the quiet undercurrent of anger that even someone like Martin Luther King exhibited. Just a calm, reasonable presence (I never saw Lincoln, but imagine that is how he was as well). On the other hand, McCain has been erratic at best, a crazed lunatic at worst. (Just his choice of running mate alone shows an incredible lack of judgement!) His record is nothing if not unreliable (the circa 2004 term "flip-flopper" that was bandied about during Kerry's campaign comes to mind).
I see the rallies. The people at Obama's are chanting that they want change, that they want to make our country great again. That they no longer want to feel ashamed, they want to work hard to make things better. McCain, on the other hand, has been using hate and fear to fuel his campaign. It's at his rallies that people yell "Muslim!" and "Kill him!" about Barack Obama. It's at his rallies where people who show up with Obama signs are roughed up and threatened.
Again, the crazed anger vs. the calm desire to make things better.
Mostly, I look at Bryce. I look at him and I know that one day, probably sooner than I want, he is going to look at all that's happened. He is going to see the history of things like Abu Ghraib and the president who is currently trying to push a bill pardoning himself of his own war crimes through congress. He's going to see all the women soldiers who are being raped by their supposed comrades, the men coming home in bodybags who were killed by the contractors our government hired. He's going to see the guerrilla forces that we are paying not to attack our troops, who we're arming by doing so. He's going to see this neverending war, where as of now we're more than 2000 days past "Mission accomplished!", where we've spent enough money to pave the entire US interstate highway system in 24k gold leaf. He's going to look at this bank bailout, where as soon as it passed some of the recipients of our money sent their employees on $3 million dollar spa
retreats. He's going to see the voting machines that are manufactured and run by huge monetary supporters of the Republican party that are "malfunctioning" and not recording votes properly. He's going to see the images of the anger and racism and intolerance and hatred that people use religion to justify, holding up their bibles as some sort of twisted weapon. He's going to see all of this, and he's going to ask me, "Why? How? How could you let that all happen?"
And when that day comes, I want to be able to look him in the eyes and say; that it was a dark time, a terrible time. A time that most of us couldn't understand, a time thick with corruption and shame. But that we fought, all of us, we fought together to take back our country and change things, to make them good again. I want to tell him that he will never have to fight and die for corporate greed, that he will never have to decide between buying food for his children and paying for their medical bills. I want to leave him a better legacy than this. And I'm scared right now, even with the numbers swaying violently to Obama's side. I'm scared of those fucking Diebold voting machines, I'm scared of the anger and violence that the McCain supporters are threatening. I'm thankful as hell that I live in a blueBlueBLUE state, or I'd be just terrified.
Mostly, I'm scared of not doing everything I can to make things better, so he won't have to grow up in the shadows of war and financial disaster.
I hope that I can help to make things better for you, now. I hope that things will get better. Now, we have a mixed-race president-elect, and a woman Speaker of the House. We live in a state where you can marry whoever you love. I hope that things will be so much better for you, and I hope that I am a strong enough person to fight so you can have the world you deserve. So we all can have the world we deserve.
After the election, people danced in the streets. Your father and I could hear the whooping all the way out here in the suburbs. People lined up for hours, demanded paper ballots, and wept for the joy of voting. People who had never before voted came out of the woodwork and finally let their voices be heard.
I don't know yet what kind of president Barack Obama will turn out to be. But if I had to tell you one thing about this time, it would be that this was a time when the majority of the country banded together and demanded change. A time when we moved forward as one, leaping into a future that we hope holds more promise.
I love you, and I hope that one day you will look back on this day in history and smile at what it made possible.
--Mama
Monday, July 07, 2008
On Soup and Environmental Artists
When people ask me what I do, in the capitalized sense of Do, as in, (whilst smiling without their eyes), "What is it you Do, Redpanda?", I sometimes have a nearly irrepressible urge to tell them that I spend my day picking up soup cans. Really, it's not exactly a lie. It's just that it makes me sound like a grocery store stocker in a starched, unflattering blue smock when really I'm just the mom to a toddler. A resourceful toddler. One who enjoys carrying around soup cans. One who screams loudly and stamps his tiny feet if said soup cans are removed from his vicelike grasp. One who drops aforementioned soup cans around the house like breadcrumbs of Christo-like proportions.
That is all.
That is all.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Things you never thought you'd say before becoming a parent
My favorite thus far is: "Do NOT blow your nose on the elephant!"
Today's unlikely entry comes via the excellent Sesame Street:
On broken beds:
Harry Monster: I'm Ok, but I have to ask, did you test this bed before you bought it?
Maria: You mean, did I exercise on it like a monster? No!
Today's unlikely entry comes via the excellent Sesame Street:
On broken beds:
Harry Monster: I'm Ok, but I have to ask, did you test this bed before you bought it?
Maria: You mean, did I exercise on it like a monster? No!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
"Work"
I loathe the phrase "stay-at-home-mom" (and the acronym SAHM actually causes me to retch), but it is some of my current (retch) SAHM brethren that I feel compelled to write about today. Not all of them, just those who verbally stamp their feet begging for recognition and the corresponding verbal back-pats. I take exception to women who cry, stuffed full of righteousness and self-induced martyrdom, that they do work! They work at home! All day!
Ladies, you disgust me.
I am home with my fantastic son now. I am not working right now, period. I'm not even dabbling at freelancing or dribbling through any contracting. I am just home with my son. (Notice how I don't describe myself as a 'stay-at-home-mom'? As if that's all I am and all I do? But that's another topic...) He is an often-challenging toddler. And I would never, ever, unless you pulled at my ears and jabbed things into the soft flesh under my fingernails, describe what I do with him all day as "work".
"Work" is something you do because you have to. You do it because you need the money, you need the validation, you need to justify your student loan debt. "Work" is a somewhat unpleasant requirement that tends to get in the way of how you'd really like to be spending your time.
Being home with my son is not and never could be "work". Is it difficult? Yep. Is it rigorous? Sometimes. Do I occasionally fantasize about being on a no-children-allowed tropical island with unlimited umbrella drinks instead? Oh hell yeah. But that doesn't make it "work".
Spending my days and nights with my pint-sized tornado, my wee imp who can and does undo all the steps I've taken towards cleanliness with a mischievous grin, that's not work. Witnessing him learn to chase the dog, laughing gaily with unabridged mirth? Not work. Beckoning him to me enthusiastically as he took his first tentative, wobbly steps? Not work. Holding his chubby hand as he gingerly picks his way up the stairs, focusing intently on not falling? Not work. Sitting placidly as he screams his indignation at being confined to his high chair and not being permitted to play with the kitchen knives? Again, though not my favorite past-time, still not work.
Sharing my days, my nights, my life with my son is a privilege. It is an honor of the highest level. I can't imagine taking such a precious thing for granted by flippantly calling it "work".
My husband spends his days at actual "work", coming home weary but game shortly before our son's bedtime. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his love for his son painting his face with joy. Their time together is sweet but scarce. I can tell him about the first wobbly steps, about the first taste of crimson strawberries, about the new songs sung in the car. But he can't be here to see those small momentous occasions. That is the sacrifice he makes every day. That is work.
Raising and loving my child is not.
Ladies, you disgust me.
I am home with my fantastic son now. I am not working right now, period. I'm not even dabbling at freelancing or dribbling through any contracting. I am just home with my son. (Notice how I don't describe myself as a 'stay-at-home-mom'? As if that's all I am and all I do? But that's another topic...) He is an often-challenging toddler. And I would never, ever, unless you pulled at my ears and jabbed things into the soft flesh under my fingernails, describe what I do with him all day as "work".
"Work" is something you do because you have to. You do it because you need the money, you need the validation, you need to justify your student loan debt. "Work" is a somewhat unpleasant requirement that tends to get in the way of how you'd really like to be spending your time.
Being home with my son is not and never could be "work". Is it difficult? Yep. Is it rigorous? Sometimes. Do I occasionally fantasize about being on a no-children-allowed tropical island with unlimited umbrella drinks instead? Oh hell yeah. But that doesn't make it "work".
Spending my days and nights with my pint-sized tornado, my wee imp who can and does undo all the steps I've taken towards cleanliness with a mischievous grin, that's not work. Witnessing him learn to chase the dog, laughing gaily with unabridged mirth? Not work. Beckoning him to me enthusiastically as he took his first tentative, wobbly steps? Not work. Holding his chubby hand as he gingerly picks his way up the stairs, focusing intently on not falling? Not work. Sitting placidly as he screams his indignation at being confined to his high chair and not being permitted to play with the kitchen knives? Again, though not my favorite past-time, still not work.
Sharing my days, my nights, my life with my son is a privilege. It is an honor of the highest level. I can't imagine taking such a precious thing for granted by flippantly calling it "work".
My husband spends his days at actual "work", coming home weary but game shortly before our son's bedtime. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his love for his son painting his face with joy. Their time together is sweet but scarce. I can tell him about the first wobbly steps, about the first taste of crimson strawberries, about the new songs sung in the car. But he can't be here to see those small momentous occasions. That is the sacrifice he makes every day. That is work.
Raising and loving my child is not.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
I Should Blog More
It's been what, a million years?
The thing is, I get paid to WORK using my laptop. I do not, on the other hand, get paid to BLOG on my laptop. Some people do. Me, not so much; and I've pretty much given up hope of being "discovered" like some gangly coltish teenager plodding down Newbury Street, head down to hide her height and oblivious to how lovely she'll be on the runway. Nope, in order for that to happen you have to 1) blog more often than once every 3 months, and 2) make me want to roll my eyes*.
Since I don't know that I'll be blogging more often, that's pretty much out. And since I hardly ever roll my own eyes at myself, that's probably out as well. But hey, who knows, maybe I'll do something so exasperating that I cannot withstand it and am forced to partake in self-directed eye-rolling.
Baby is fine, husband is fine, pets are fine, it's hot, I'm bored.
There, now you're more or less all caught up.
*Yes, I'm sure that there are paid bloggers who would not make me want to roll my eyes. But I haven't bothered to read any of their stuff. Thus, i will continue my blogger-eye-rolling in earnest.
The thing is, I get paid to WORK using my laptop. I do not, on the other hand, get paid to BLOG on my laptop. Some people do. Me, not so much; and I've pretty much given up hope of being "discovered" like some gangly coltish teenager plodding down Newbury Street, head down to hide her height and oblivious to how lovely she'll be on the runway. Nope, in order for that to happen you have to 1) blog more often than once every 3 months, and 2) make me want to roll my eyes*.
Since I don't know that I'll be blogging more often, that's pretty much out. And since I hardly ever roll my own eyes at myself, that's probably out as well. But hey, who knows, maybe I'll do something so exasperating that I cannot withstand it and am forced to partake in self-directed eye-rolling.
Baby is fine, husband is fine, pets are fine, it's hot, I'm bored.
There, now you're more or less all caught up.
*Yes, I'm sure that there are paid bloggers who would not make me want to roll my eyes. But I haven't bothered to read any of their stuff. Thus, i will continue my blogger-eye-rolling in earnest.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Things I Have Bought the Bug in the Last Week
Being a parent is an expensive proposition. When shopping for myself, I tend to be much thriftier (Ok, not really...), but when purchasing things for my adorable baby? Oh, nothing is too good. I've practically bought one of everything at Isis Maternity--it would really be easier if I could somehow arrange for our house to just annex the greater portion of the store.
Anyway, just for fun, I thought I'd share a smattering of my recent purchases.
First, since the Bug is a Giant Big Boy now, we finally broke down and got an Exersaucer. I think I was the very last mom from any of my moms' groups to get one, which is most unlike me. The pediatrician even suggested one. Still we waited. Finally, we broke down and bought the most expensive one we could find. Hey, if you're gonna cave, cave right. Bug loves it.
Now of course, we are in possession of the ubiquitous Winkel. And the Tizoo, which is really just sort of a foppish Whoozit. The Bug needed a little something different. I can't ever seem to resist anything dog-themed, so we are now the owners of a Take-Along Dog. He's not the favorite thus far, but is still a popular item.
Since you can never have too many Manhattan Toy items, we also picked up the Wiggle Ball and the Carosel Tiger Toy. Sadly, the other Manhattan Toy item we selected is not listed on their site. The salesgal thought it was called a "Ziggle". Who knows?
The Squish was out of stock, sadly. But we'll be back for you next week, Squish!
Now, moving on from toys, it was also time for us to get a new, more portable stroller. Since Sean is Unearthly Tall, no ordinary stroller would do. The Maclaren Techno XT happens to be just about the only umbrella-style stroller with adjustable handle heights, so the Techno XT it was. I've taken it for a spin around the block and can attest that it handles quite well for a midpriced stroller. Yay Maclaren!
Since the Bug has (happily!) finally deigned to allow himself to be fed from something other than boob alone, we were finding ourselves overrun in bottles and pumping accessories. Skip Hop Splash to the rescue! No more bottles rolling around the counter on a lame towel. We went with Poppy, of course.
We had planned to get another Baby Bjorn to supplement the old-skool one we got from Craigslist when the Bug was first born, either an Air carrier or Active. Neither one seemed particularly comfortable, however; and we read some slightly disturbing things about dangers of hip dysplasia and restricted bloodflow to the groin area when the baby is in a hanging carrier of this design for extended periods. It seemed like we'd have to settle for short spates in the Bjorn or longer ones in one of our Kelty Kids backpack carriers. Thank goodness I heard about the Ergo Carrier! I ordered this one, in black and green. I can't wait to try it out! The Bug has recently allowed something of a Renaissance of his Maya Wrap Sling, so I have high hopes that he'll welcome rides in the Ergo.
Between buying these things, there was of course the ever-present trip to Target for a giant box of wipes and a small package of diapers (although we use cloth almost exclusively at home, I do cheat and use disposables when we go out at times!) And probably some bottles and nipples of some descrip. And maybe numerous other things that I've managed to either forget or block from memory. Like the seersucker pants outfit and linen romper from Baby Gap. And the sun hat. And the sunblock. And the animal-print shortalls. And...
Anyway, just for fun, I thought I'd share a smattering of my recent purchases.
First, since the Bug is a Giant Big Boy now, we finally broke down and got an Exersaucer. I think I was the very last mom from any of my moms' groups to get one, which is most unlike me. The pediatrician even suggested one. Still we waited. Finally, we broke down and bought the most expensive one we could find. Hey, if you're gonna cave, cave right. Bug loves it.
Now of course, we are in possession of the ubiquitous Winkel. And the Tizoo, which is really just sort of a foppish Whoozit. The Bug needed a little something different. I can't ever seem to resist anything dog-themed, so we are now the owners of a Take-Along Dog. He's not the favorite thus far, but is still a popular item.
Since you can never have too many Manhattan Toy items, we also picked up the Wiggle Ball and the Carosel Tiger Toy. Sadly, the other Manhattan Toy item we selected is not listed on their site. The salesgal thought it was called a "Ziggle". Who knows?
The Squish was out of stock, sadly. But we'll be back for you next week, Squish!
Now, moving on from toys, it was also time for us to get a new, more portable stroller. Since Sean is Unearthly Tall, no ordinary stroller would do. The Maclaren Techno XT happens to be just about the only umbrella-style stroller with adjustable handle heights, so the Techno XT it was. I've taken it for a spin around the block and can attest that it handles quite well for a midpriced stroller. Yay Maclaren!
Since the Bug has (happily!) finally deigned to allow himself to be fed from something other than boob alone, we were finding ourselves overrun in bottles and pumping accessories. Skip Hop Splash to the rescue! No more bottles rolling around the counter on a lame towel. We went with Poppy, of course.
We had planned to get another Baby Bjorn to supplement the old-skool one we got from Craigslist when the Bug was first born, either an Air carrier or Active. Neither one seemed particularly comfortable, however; and we read some slightly disturbing things about dangers of hip dysplasia and restricted bloodflow to the groin area when the baby is in a hanging carrier of this design for extended periods. It seemed like we'd have to settle for short spates in the Bjorn or longer ones in one of our Kelty Kids backpack carriers. Thank goodness I heard about the Ergo Carrier! I ordered this one, in black and green. I can't wait to try it out! The Bug has recently allowed something of a Renaissance of his Maya Wrap Sling, so I have high hopes that he'll welcome rides in the Ergo.
Between buying these things, there was of course the ever-present trip to Target for a giant box of wipes and a small package of diapers (although we use cloth almost exclusively at home, I do cheat and use disposables when we go out at times!) And probably some bottles and nipples of some descrip. And maybe numerous other things that I've managed to either forget or block from memory. Like the seersucker pants outfit and linen romper from Baby Gap. And the sun hat. And the sunblock. And the animal-print shortalls. And...
You Know You're in Boston When...
...out of the parents sitting in a circle and chatting at playgroup, it comes up that 4 of the 12 or so of them have PhD's.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
I Don't Know Whether to Laugh or Cry
The Rack, undoubtedly the very worst bar in Boston, has closed up shop and is now set to become a Hard Rock Cafe.
Now, I won't mourn the loss of The Rack. The Rack was one of those establishments that most people with an IQ over 40 outgrew their senior year of high school, the kind of place that got by on lame promos and appearances by "Boston Sports Figures". I went once and danced on the 10' square makeshift dance floor while people milled about the (covered up) pool tables. While I danced, a small latino man about 4'8" in height began repeatedly smacking my ass while yelling "Whee!
(I am not a carnival ride. But since I had never been treated as such before, I frankly was too flabbergasted to do much more than look surprised. Dude, that is so beyond the level of appropriate pickup behavior that I can't even begin to address it.)
So, yeah. I think that experience pretty well sums up The Rack.
But now, a Hard Rock Cafe instead? Yet another watered-down chain littering Faneuil Hall? Ick.
I'm literally sitting here mentally debating about which establishment I loathe more--The Rack or the Hard Rock Cafe. One is yet another representation of the Disneyization (is that a word?) and over-franchisement of America, one sucks with a virulent suckage generally reserved for things like reality TV and fast food. Really, I'm not sure you could win either way. Just avoid the area entirely. Nothing to see here. Look away from the carnage. Move along.
Now, I won't mourn the loss of The Rack. The Rack was one of those establishments that most people with an IQ over 40 outgrew their senior year of high school, the kind of place that got by on lame promos and appearances by "Boston Sports Figures". I went once and danced on the 10' square makeshift dance floor while people milled about the (covered up) pool tables. While I danced, a small latino man about 4'8" in height began repeatedly smacking my ass while yelling "Whee!
(I am not a carnival ride. But since I had never been treated as such before, I frankly was too flabbergasted to do much more than look surprised. Dude, that is so beyond the level of appropriate pickup behavior that I can't even begin to address it.)
So, yeah. I think that experience pretty well sums up The Rack.
But now, a Hard Rock Cafe instead? Yet another watered-down chain littering Faneuil Hall? Ick.
I'm literally sitting here mentally debating about which establishment I loathe more--The Rack or the Hard Rock Cafe. One is yet another representation of the Disneyization (is that a word?) and over-franchisement of America, one sucks with a virulent suckage generally reserved for things like reality TV and fast food. Really, I'm not sure you could win either way. Just avoid the area entirely. Nothing to see here. Look away from the carnage. Move along.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
And So it Starts
While I was on the phone with my mother today, I happened to complain about the nasty, rainy weather we're experiencing in Boston this weekend. Incredibly nasty rainy weather of the nastiest, rainiest sort. She replied: "Well, if you lived further south, closer to here, than you wouldn't have to put up with such nasty, rainy weather. And then I'd be closer to you and could see my grandson more often!"
And so, let it be known that on this day, the genesis of Project Get Grandson Closer (PGGC) has commenced! Huzzah!
And so, let it be known that on this day, the genesis of Project Get Grandson Closer (PGGC) has commenced! Huzzah!
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Perfecting My Own Special Brand of Crazy
When your perfectly nice if a bit nosy neighbor offers you cuttings from her forsythia bush, and you don't want to offend said neighbor but also LOATHE forsythia with loathing that churns sickeningly in your stomach, what do you say?
Scenario #1: Brutal Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSTYTHIA is all! Pleasure to see you!"
Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.
Scenario #2: Gentle Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just have never been a big fan of forsythia. Nope, really! Yes, I know it's not that hard to grow. Yes, I'll agree that the yellow flowers are splendid. Yes, I'm sure it would grow nicely over there by the fence. BUT I FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSYTHIA! Pleasure fo see you!"
Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.
See? Both of these scenarios bring about the very same result: an offended neighbor. Now I ask in all seriousness, is the following scenario an improvement?
Scenario #3: Letting the Neighbor See a bit of The Crazy: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that FORSYTHIA IS THE FLOWER OF THE DEAD! THE DEAD! DEAD PEOPLE! I SEE DEAD PEOPLE IN THE FORSYTHIA!"
Result: Neighbor runs away screaming, but does not feel that her forsythia is in any way lacking. Which it isn't, it's the most lovely forsythia I've ever seen, assuming of course that it's possible for forsythia to be lovely, which of course it isn't.
Finally, this brings us to the next scenario, the one in which I show the neighbor a bit of my tormented, (crazy!), endearing soul.
Scenario #4: Waaaay Too Much Information: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that for me, forsythia will always be the flowers I saw, stained amber from the windows of the cold black limousine, when we were on the way to the cemetary to bury (insert names of various dead people here). So it tends to make me feel a bit queasy. That's all! Yours are lovely, though! Pleasure to see you!"
Result: Neighbor knows her forsythia is lovely, but pities me because I am Crazy. And maybe is concerned for my son, having to grow up in a godless, forsythia-free home.
Stupid neighbor and her stupid green thumb.
Scenario #1: Brutal Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSTYTHIA is all! Pleasure to see you!"
Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.
Scenario #2: Gentle Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just have never been a big fan of forsythia. Nope, really! Yes, I know it's not that hard to grow. Yes, I'll agree that the yellow flowers are splendid. Yes, I'm sure it would grow nicely over there by the fence. BUT I FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSYTHIA! Pleasure fo see you!"
Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.
See? Both of these scenarios bring about the very same result: an offended neighbor. Now I ask in all seriousness, is the following scenario an improvement?
Scenario #3: Letting the Neighbor See a bit of The Crazy: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that FORSYTHIA IS THE FLOWER OF THE DEAD! THE DEAD! DEAD PEOPLE! I SEE DEAD PEOPLE IN THE FORSYTHIA!"
Result: Neighbor runs away screaming, but does not feel that her forsythia is in any way lacking. Which it isn't, it's the most lovely forsythia I've ever seen, assuming of course that it's possible for forsythia to be lovely, which of course it isn't.
Finally, this brings us to the next scenario, the one in which I show the neighbor a bit of my tormented, (crazy!), endearing soul.
Scenario #4: Waaaay Too Much Information: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that for me, forsythia will always be the flowers I saw, stained amber from the windows of the cold black limousine, when we were on the way to the cemetary to bury (insert names of various dead people here). So it tends to make me feel a bit queasy. That's all! Yours are lovely, though! Pleasure to see you!"
Result: Neighbor knows her forsythia is lovely, but pities me because I am Crazy. And maybe is concerned for my son, having to grow up in a godless, forsythia-free home.
Stupid neighbor and her stupid green thumb.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Money is the New Goldfish
For that gal who has everything, Tip Jar platform heels!
Wow. Seriously, wow. If I wore those, I'd be 6'7". Then I'd topple over and break something, probably something humiliating like my coccyx.
But, feel free to ask me about my accessible insole.
Innovatively designed with a slot opening on the clear platform's side-wall, the collection allows tips to be conveniently inserted through the slots and retrieved from the accessible insole. Usually accompanied with attractive appliqués such as lips, butterfly or dollar signs in colorful neon and glitter materials, these playful slot openings offer novel and naughty ways for admirers to express their appreciation and gratification.
Wow. Seriously, wow. If I wore those, I'd be 6'7". Then I'd topple over and break something, probably something humiliating like my coccyx.
But, feel free to ask me about my accessible insole.
Sleazy Home Improvement
Now that spring and warm weather are well underway (FINALLY!), it's officially time to pay men in tool belts exhorbitant sums of money to do the things you said you'd do as soon as you bought your house, you know, a few years back. If you're us, that means a (partial) new roof, gutters, and some yard work. And maybe we'll finally finish up the painting we started last year, and hang some art on our sad, sad walls.
But hey, I don't want to go overboard just yet. Baby steps, people! I mean, we really only painted in the first place because there was a sale at Home Depot on paint; and because we had to paint the baby's room something other than bright purple (unlike the previous homeowners, we do NOT believe that bright purple is an ideal choice for a little boy's room, unless you're going for a Purple Unicorns Rule theme or something...)
I digress. If you're wide-eyed innocents like Sean and I, you could easily fall prey to Unethical Home Improvement Guys. These men prowl your neighborhood in their enormous Ford F-7659's, twirling their Simon Legree mustaches and giggling evilly at the many schemes they have to seperate you and your hard-earned cash. Check out some of Bankrate.com's suggestions as to what you should look out for!
I was especially interested in the claim that duct cleaning is an unnecessary scam, since we were thinking of having our ducts cleaned this spring. (Whether or not that's a euphemism I'll leave up to you, dear reader. I'm too busy CLEANING MY OWN DUCTS to explore this further.)
But hey, I don't want to go overboard just yet. Baby steps, people! I mean, we really only painted in the first place because there was a sale at Home Depot on paint; and because we had to paint the baby's room something other than bright purple (unlike the previous homeowners, we do NOT believe that bright purple is an ideal choice for a little boy's room, unless you're going for a Purple Unicorns Rule theme or something...)
I digress. If you're wide-eyed innocents like Sean and I, you could easily fall prey to Unethical Home Improvement Guys. These men prowl your neighborhood in their enormous Ford F-7659's, twirling their Simon Legree mustaches and giggling evilly at the many schemes they have to seperate you and your hard-earned cash. Check out some of Bankrate.com's suggestions as to what you should look out for!
I was especially interested in the claim that duct cleaning is an unnecessary scam, since we were thinking of having our ducts cleaned this spring. (Whether or not that's a euphemism I'll leave up to you, dear reader. I'm too busy CLEANING MY OWN DUCTS to explore this further.)
Monday, April 23, 2007
Two Birds, One Stone
When you're simultaneously overcome with the desire to occupy your 4 3/4-month old (I never know whether I'm supposed to discuss babies' ages in weeks or months--did I miss that memo while I was busy being all knocked up or struggling with sleep deprivation after the fact?) AND your incessantly energetic Jack Russell Terrier, don't despair. There IS a solution.
Bacon-scented dog bubbles!
Yes, it's true. This exists. Bacon bubble stuff. And the best part is that the 4 3/4-month old will be fascinated by the energetic Jack Russell Terrier as she leaps and twists and bounds and snaps at the bubbles.
It's a happy ending for everyone, really.
Bacon-scented dog bubbles!
Yes, it's true. This exists. Bacon bubble stuff. And the best part is that the 4 3/4-month old will be fascinated by the energetic Jack Russell Terrier as she leaps and twists and bounds and snaps at the bubbles.
It's a happy ending for everyone, really.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
True Story
So, I'm getting dressed this morning, and decide to put on makeup. It's like a light went off in my head--makeup! that is TOTALLY the answer! So I begin applying the makeup, all the while having a conversation with my husband in my head about it, something along the lines of "I've decided to start wearing makeup EVERY DAY now. I've decided to make time in the New Mom Crazy Confusion of Unattractiveness to be more attractive! So you can just keep the baby entertained for a little longer in the morning on weekends, ya hump!"
Then, distracted by my imaginary future conversation with my husband, I dropped my incredibly overpriced blush, sending little bits of incredibly overpriced blush rolling across our Dirty New Parent Floor. So, (obviously), I picked the cat hair off them, put them back in the incredibly overpriced container, and applied the incredibly overpriced blush remnants to the apples of my cheeks.
When I made it downstairs, my husband said I looked "Great!" with a degree of enthusiasm generally reserved for bacon.
I will consider this a happy ending.
So, I'm getting dressed this morning, and decide to put on makeup. It's like a light went off in my head--makeup! that is TOTALLY the answer! So I begin applying the makeup, all the while having a conversation with my husband in my head about it, something along the lines of "I've decided to start wearing makeup EVERY DAY now. I've decided to make time in the New Mom Crazy Confusion of Unattractiveness to be more attractive! So you can just keep the baby entertained for a little longer in the morning on weekends, ya hump!"
Then, distracted by my imaginary future conversation with my husband, I dropped my incredibly overpriced blush, sending little bits of incredibly overpriced blush rolling across our Dirty New Parent Floor. So, (obviously), I picked the cat hair off them, put them back in the incredibly overpriced container, and applied the incredibly overpriced blush remnants to the apples of my cheeks.
When I made it downstairs, my husband said I looked "Great!" with a degree of enthusiasm generally reserved for bacon.
I will consider this a happy ending.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
On the Road Again
When I was a kid, my parents were those parents. You know, the ones who piled kids into vehicles of varying degrees of suitability for the task and spent their "family vacations" driving to get places.
Until I was about 8, the chosen mode of transport was a 1979 VW Rabbit. It had a blue vinyl interior, no air-conditioning, and rear windows that didn't roll down. This was the car that drove them and 2 kids across the country the first time, through the Badlands, through Nevada, through various Really Freaking Hot Places. Hot! So hot! I was only four at the time and I still remember how miserably hot it was.
As the family progressed through the years, the car changed to a Ford Taurus wagon that was known to pull campers of various descrip behind it. The Ford gave way to several Enormous Trucks. (I'm not really sure of the make and model...they are all Enormous Trucks to me...) But again, I spent countless hours riding along placidly in the car, staring out the window at the scenery flashing by. The cooler months were the worst, the sun peering out through the leafless trees and causing a nausea-inducing strobe effect. The long cross-country trips were the best, waking up in the middle of the night to get roast beef sandwiches at the A & W, or resetting the trip odometer to see exactly how far away that grain silo in Kansas was. (Answer: 37 miles!)
When I grew up and moved Away, I still mostly drove to get anywhere. I was a poor college and then graduate student, and I certainly did not have the extra couple hundred bucks that a flight usually cost. But then, my car was stolen and never came home, and I became a public transit gal. So flying became my chosen mode of transport. It was easy, and cheap, and quick--that harrowing 13-hour drive home reduced to an hour flight!
I never drive anymore. We always fly. That was part of the reason we had to get a smallish dog--so she'd fit in a carryon. We fly a LOT--we actually earn free flights. And I roll my eyes (remember the eye-rolling???) at the non-frequent fliers who don't get the security procedures. Annoying!
But this year, for some reason, those flights shot up early and permanently. A round trip flight back home was $300 each. Add to that $600 (for me and Sean) the $200 or so it takes to rent a car and assure we are not forced to sit in my parents' living room the entire weekend, and you have nearly a thousand dollars. Which, I should note, is a lot more money when you are paying for oil spills and excavating basements and the like.
So long story short, it's roadtrip time. We're bundling up the Dog Kid (the cats are not fans of roadtrips) and heading for The Sticks this evening. In our car you will find 2 cases of Labatt Blue Light (my father's request) and a case or more of 2-Buck Chuck (My mother's request--you can easily see my family's priorites: Alcohol and Stinginess.) People keep asking me how long it will take, and I'm loathe to reply lest it take far, far longer than that (see also the trip to Philly for Dave and Joanna's wedding that took us about 8 hours...).
Should be entertaining, to say the least. Not much internet access in The Sticks, so turkey day love to all and know that if you're reading this, I'm thankful for YOU.
When I was a kid, my parents were those parents. You know, the ones who piled kids into vehicles of varying degrees of suitability for the task and spent their "family vacations" driving to get places.
Until I was about 8, the chosen mode of transport was a 1979 VW Rabbit. It had a blue vinyl interior, no air-conditioning, and rear windows that didn't roll down. This was the car that drove them and 2 kids across the country the first time, through the Badlands, through Nevada, through various Really Freaking Hot Places. Hot! So hot! I was only four at the time and I still remember how miserably hot it was.
As the family progressed through the years, the car changed to a Ford Taurus wagon that was known to pull campers of various descrip behind it. The Ford gave way to several Enormous Trucks. (I'm not really sure of the make and model...they are all Enormous Trucks to me...) But again, I spent countless hours riding along placidly in the car, staring out the window at the scenery flashing by. The cooler months were the worst, the sun peering out through the leafless trees and causing a nausea-inducing strobe effect. The long cross-country trips were the best, waking up in the middle of the night to get roast beef sandwiches at the A & W, or resetting the trip odometer to see exactly how far away that grain silo in Kansas was. (Answer: 37 miles!)
When I grew up and moved Away, I still mostly drove to get anywhere. I was a poor college and then graduate student, and I certainly did not have the extra couple hundred bucks that a flight usually cost. But then, my car was stolen and never came home, and I became a public transit gal. So flying became my chosen mode of transport. It was easy, and cheap, and quick--that harrowing 13-hour drive home reduced to an hour flight!
I never drive anymore. We always fly. That was part of the reason we had to get a smallish dog--so she'd fit in a carryon. We fly a LOT--we actually earn free flights. And I roll my eyes (remember the eye-rolling???) at the non-frequent fliers who don't get the security procedures. Annoying!
But this year, for some reason, those flights shot up early and permanently. A round trip flight back home was $300 each. Add to that $600 (for me and Sean) the $200 or so it takes to rent a car and assure we are not forced to sit in my parents' living room the entire weekend, and you have nearly a thousand dollars. Which, I should note, is a lot more money when you are paying for oil spills and excavating basements and the like.
So long story short, it's roadtrip time. We're bundling up the Dog Kid (the cats are not fans of roadtrips) and heading for The Sticks this evening. In our car you will find 2 cases of Labatt Blue Light (my father's request) and a case or more of 2-Buck Chuck (My mother's request--you can easily see my family's priorites: Alcohol and Stinginess.) People keep asking me how long it will take, and I'm loathe to reply lest it take far, far longer than that (see also the trip to Philly for Dave and Joanna's wedding that took us about 8 hours...).
Should be entertaining, to say the least. Not much internet access in The Sticks, so turkey day love to all and know that if you're reading this, I'm thankful for YOU.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Friday, November 11, 2005
Let the Revolution Commence!
Today is Sean's Big-Three-Oh! We have celebrated thus far by:
--Eating a McGriddle
--Braving the ridiculous, murderous-rage-inducing crowds at Ikea
--Eating a 50-cent hot dog from Ikea
--Buying new shoes
And last but not least, playing with Sean's birthday gift, Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!) Sean lept excitedly off the couch upon opening it, then sadly implored me not to make fun of him. As if it is possible to not make fun of someone playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). For anyone who hasn't experienced the wonder that is Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!), please know that until one gains vast experience at the game, ALL HUMAN BEINGS (present company tremendously included) look like a cross between Mr. Ed counting and doing the Hokey Pokey while playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). It is impossible to not laugh at such a spectacle.
Love you, honey. There's no one I'd rather laugh at. Or look like Mr. Ed counting while doing the Hokey Pokey in front of. Happy Birthday.
Today is Sean's Big-Three-Oh! We have celebrated thus far by:
--Eating a McGriddle
--Braving the ridiculous, murderous-rage-inducing crowds at Ikea
--Eating a 50-cent hot dog from Ikea
--Buying new shoes
And last but not least, playing with Sean's birthday gift, Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!) Sean lept excitedly off the couch upon opening it, then sadly implored me not to make fun of him. As if it is possible to not make fun of someone playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). For anyone who hasn't experienced the wonder that is Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!), please know that until one gains vast experience at the game, ALL HUMAN BEINGS (present company tremendously included) look like a cross between Mr. Ed counting and doing the Hokey Pokey while playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). It is impossible to not laugh at such a spectacle.
Love you, honey. There's no one I'd rather laugh at. Or look like Mr. Ed counting while doing the Hokey Pokey in front of. Happy Birthday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)