Putting Jake to bed is the most rewarding thing in my whole entire existence. He delivers copious amounts of cuddles and hugs and uncontrollable sleepy giggle sessions and stories about his day (if you don't ask your two year old to tell you stories, make sure you do tonight. They are hilarious) and a bunch of "i love you mommy"'s all crammed in a fifteen minute time slot that hovers randomly around the eight o'clock hour every day. Most days.
This past week has brought a large amount of pleas to "stay just one more minute" and lots of "let's lay down together"'s and "don't go, stay here with me"'s and "I come downstairs with you"'s after we read a few books and sing a few songs. It's so sad/cute and Jake clings to me and kisses me and tickles my face and eyelashes so my eyes will stay closed and grabs hold of my neck and I'll sheepishly admit that it got so bad last night that he was sitting on his bed sobbing to the point of gagging while begging me (who was waaayyy over at the door) to "hold (him) like a little baby and rock (him) and hold (his) cup near (his) mouth like a bottle while (I) sing the Dream song". Direct quote. Good Lord my child is regressing because he feels abandoned. I am the worst. mother. ever.
If I would have just left when the pleading started it wouldn't have gotten to that point but I just feel so awful to leave my little boy who wants nothing* more than to have his mommy lay down next to him and tickle his tiny little bare hairy back while he falls asleep.
At the dayjob we tell parents that bedtime meltdowns are really just displays of exhaustion and they should try to put the kid down a little sooner and start winding them down about an hour before bedtime and under no circumstance should you stay in there while the kid falls asleep unless you are fine with doing that every single night until the kid is ready to fall asleep alone, usually between ages eight and ten. Which we are also supposed to say isn't good but I secretly disagree. I disagree with it happening in my own house, but what the heck is the harm in it as long as everyone is wearing pants and keeping their hands above the covers? Then we tell parents that if the kid wakes/gets up after you put them to bed you are to usher them back without saying a word.
Well, I'm trying. I'm trying to set a little bit of a bedtime guideline that says there is a certain point where I get up and leave before anyone gets too comfortable but it is just so nice to be there, crammed in that tiny little bed with that not-so-tiny little boy. I try to get out of there before he gets to the point where he thinks he needs me in there but the second we cross that threshold my heart melts and my blood and sound reasoning are replaced by hysterical hormones and irrational thoughts about the worst case scenario like what if he freaks out so bad that he bangs his head on the corner of the nightstand and he bleeds to death while I'm downstairs, happy that the kid finally shut up? It's tough stuff.
How is your brat sleeping?
*i just typo-ed "mother" right there where it says "nothing". as in, "my little boy who wants mother". i'm so tormented by that typo. it shows so much repressed guilt.
7.29.2008
7.28.2008
wishlist
Remember how I said that this was going to be my year? My year to shine and sparkle? To take over my life, my job, my finances, and maybe even yours too? The (first wave of (temporary) fiscal year) contracts are almost settled which almost just about assures that I will be gainfully employed for another year and the permanent ones will (hopefully) be rolling out a few short weeks after my birthday. My birthday. My birthday is in eighteen days. My thirty-second birthday. My thirty-second birthday will be happening two weeks from Friday. I'll be thirty-two on my birthday.
If this is truly going to be my year, I have to get on the ball. I think I'll start with this. I'll thank you in advance for having it delivered to my office. Delivering things to my house is risky. The package will just sit on my front steps until I get home and I don't want you to shell out almost $200 for my birthday present and have it land in the hands of some unemployed drifter.
And even though there is a pen in there, I think I'd rather do with this. Although this one reminds me of one my grandma had, and I always thought it was very grown-up of her to have a nice pen. But wait, I think the hardware on the planner is probably gold, so those ones might clash and none of my colleagues could ever take me seriously if my planner clashed with my pen so maybe this one would be better. Those can be either ordered to the store which is around the corner from my office or to my house because I think the box will be small enough for the delivery guy to shove through the mail slot. I just typo-ed "shove in my slot" but I changed it because I didn't want to sound gross.
And to stay in touch with everyone about everything I really think I need the Blackberry Pearl. In Red. Let me know if you will be buying this for me, because it would be easier if you gave me the cash and I pick it up so I can use my upgrade rebate. Then you can take me out for dinner with the $150 I'll be saving you. I've made out with this phone once and I think I can overcome that weird little navigator ball thing with a few therapy sessions. I think the pearl feels exactly like a... um, well you know. It rhymes with Delores. I know it comes with scheduling capabilities so I shouldn't need that burgundy planner, but I do. I'm not good with techy stuff and I love to pull out my datebook and hold it up so you can't see it and leaf through it while holding my pen between my teeth and pretend that it is so full that I can hardly squeeze anything else in there. It makes me feel important. If you only click on one link here, click that one. It is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life and even if you've already seen it you'll laugh again.
The fact that I'm even considering a PDA should shock you. What won't shock you is that I just learned the term PDA today when researching PDA's. I always called them Palm Pilots. I didn't know that Palm Pilots were a brand-named thing. I didn't even really know what Palm Pilots were, other than calculator-looking things with a calendar inside. I also didn't know what a Blackberry was until a few months ago when I got to touch one at Jake's birthday party. I thought they were just non-flip telephones with a keyboard for communicating with your boss. I had no idea they were like, a computer with social non-work-related functions. That you can talk on. I'm such a techtard.
With all these things I'll be so organized and professional that you'll hate me. I'll hate me. But things will be getting done! On time! In an orderly fashion! Fashion should be capitalized there! I'll be so orderly and Fashionable and professional that I'll be exhausted by November and then it will all fall apart and my fiscal year and my chronological year resolutions will be put off until it is time to make calendar year resolutions.
It's a viscious cycle, complete with one of those downward spiral vertigo optical illusion things and proverbial tubes that suck you in and away from everything, these resolutions.
If this is truly going to be my year, I have to get on the ball. I think I'll start with this. I'll thank you in advance for having it delivered to my office. Delivering things to my house is risky. The package will just sit on my front steps until I get home and I don't want you to shell out almost $200 for my birthday present and have it land in the hands of some unemployed drifter.
And even though there is a pen in there, I think I'd rather do with this. Although this one reminds me of one my grandma had, and I always thought it was very grown-up of her to have a nice pen. But wait, I think the hardware on the planner is probably gold, so those ones might clash and none of my colleagues could ever take me seriously if my planner clashed with my pen so maybe this one would be better. Those can be either ordered to the store which is around the corner from my office or to my house because I think the box will be small enough for the delivery guy to shove through the mail slot. I just typo-ed "shove in my slot" but I changed it because I didn't want to sound gross.
And to stay in touch with everyone about everything I really think I need the Blackberry Pearl. In Red. Let me know if you will be buying this for me, because it would be easier if you gave me the cash and I pick it up so I can use my upgrade rebate. Then you can take me out for dinner with the $150 I'll be saving you. I've made out with this phone once and I think I can overcome that weird little navigator ball thing with a few therapy sessions. I think the pearl feels exactly like a... um, well you know. It rhymes with Delores. I know it comes with scheduling capabilities so I shouldn't need that burgundy planner, but I do. I'm not good with techy stuff and I love to pull out my datebook and hold it up so you can't see it and leaf through it while holding my pen between my teeth and pretend that it is so full that I can hardly squeeze anything else in there. It makes me feel important. If you only click on one link here, click that one. It is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life and even if you've already seen it you'll laugh again.
The fact that I'm even considering a PDA should shock you. What won't shock you is that I just learned the term PDA today when researching PDA's. I always called them Palm Pilots. I didn't know that Palm Pilots were a brand-named thing. I didn't even really know what Palm Pilots were, other than calculator-looking things with a calendar inside. I also didn't know what a Blackberry was until a few months ago when I got to touch one at Jake's birthday party. I thought they were just non-flip telephones with a keyboard for communicating with your boss. I had no idea they were like, a computer with social non-work-related functions. That you can talk on. I'm such a techtard.
With all these things I'll be so organized and professional that you'll hate me. I'll hate me. But things will be getting done! On time! In an orderly fashion! Fashion should be capitalized there! I'll be so orderly and Fashionable and professional that I'll be exhausted by November and then it will all fall apart and my fiscal year and my chronological year resolutions will be put off until it is time to make calendar year resolutions.
It's a viscious cycle, complete with one of those downward spiral vertigo optical illusion things and proverbial tubes that suck you in and away from everything, these resolutions.
7.24.2008
sw
I'm never one for blogging inside jokes and secret stuff, but look what Susan and Aaron took the time to do last night. The effort alone merits mention.
We were together in spirit, and that's what it's really all about at the end of the (Wednes)day.
7.22.2008
Oh, Eh?
Sorry I forgot to finish telling you all about my Canadian vacation.
Recap:
Friday and Saturday were spent in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Yes, you should go. Immediately. But only if you are into cute little places where there isn't much to do but bum around and stay slightly to moderately intoxicated on food, booze, and/or quaintness. There are tons of shoppes spelled with two p's and an e selling crap that you might like if you are from Nantucket, but you probably have no use for otherwise, like large brimmed hats and gingham-packaged jams and seasonal flags for your lawn so don't worry about pissing your cash away. There was golfing and hiking and biking and boating and fishing and probably some swimming if you are into that and maybe tennis. There weren't any sirens, bar fights, barky dogs, mass transit, bouncing basketballs, cats in heat, fire crackers/gunshots, car horns, screams from drunken teenaged hookers, nor skateboards so the tranquility was a nice break from the soundtrack of normal life.
Sunday we went to Toronto and did nothing but hang out and try to find food all day long. It was kind of hard to come by. Difference number one noticed immediately upon entering Canada: Canadians don't eat as much as Americans do. Probably because food is so ridiculously overpriced and once you fill up your car with billion dollar a litre gasoline you can't afford to feed your family. Or you can't afford to fill up your car because you like to eat and you can't drive anywhere but the grocer so you only eat at home and all the restaurants close down because no one eats and they are replaced by...
um...
I have no idea what all those building are. Banks and hotels and H&M's, mostly. Tim Hortons. We ate dozens and dozens of Timbits because it is obvious that is what fuels Canada and when in Rome. Oh, and Wendy's. There were a lot of Wendy's. We had it for breakfast once out of desperation. And no, Wendy's does not have a breakfast menu. And yes, it was pretty damn early.
So don't go to Ontario for the food. I forgot to tell you how shocked some of the NotL locals we talked to were at the idea of vodka sauce, cooking with wine, beer battered frying, and Guinness stew. They were so tickled by the fact that some of the wineries put their wines in spaghetti sauce. They must have thought we were total boozehounds.
No, just Americans. Who like to eat good food.
We checked out the Toronto waterfront and walked into a free summer art show that was either superbly bad or so good that we just didn't get it because our foreheads are a little too sloped to understand culture.
We went to the Hockey Hall of Fame and didn't feel like waiting in line to touch La Coupe. But we saw it.
We stopped in at Second City when we finally found that in a back alleyway somewhere. We were starving for food and drink, but service was slow and the guy forgot to come back around to ask us if we wanted to eat. We ordered drinks called Lake Ontario's that promised six types of liquor and a shot of toxic waste under the impression that it would be like a six-shooter (which are now illegal in Pennsylvania- rum, vodka, tequila, whiskey, gin, and grain with a shot of fruit punch), but it seemed to be a glass of sour mix over lots of ice. The comedians were a troupe that was graduating that day, and the show was free and the audience was mostly moms and dads and boyfriends and wives and the bits were funny, but not funny funny. I always think that I'm the funniest person in the world so I'm really a jerk when it comes to this stuff because all I do is sit and think about what I would have said and how it would go over better and then I laugh but I'm really only laughing at what is going on in my head but it seems polite and timely because everyone else is laughing at the joke that came after the one that I revamped so I may be seventeen seconds behind everyone else but no one can tell. But, I have no balls and cannot handle speaking in front of more than seven people and never on a stage and absolutely under no circumstances will I ever raise or project my voice so they were better than me on so many different levels and I slumped over my glass of sour mix and felt bad for myself and my wasted hilarity that the world will never know.
Jamie Kennedy was there too, with his uber-hottie girlfriend so Philadelphia was definitely well-represented over there on Mercer Street.
Practically starving by dinnertime, we found a place called the Loose Moose, where we had sandwiches and seafood tacos and fries and beers (its a fact: all beers in Canada cost $7.) and multiple Cptn and Cokes and then made jokes about loose mooses and fish tacos and asking the waitress if she could go one place tonight, where would it be. So that was fun. The food was halfway decent and the bar was that strange cross between a douchey fratboy hang out and a punkrock dive that happens way more often than you would think.
I absolutely had to see Casa Loma in the twilight because it was billed as this giant castle hosting a Renaissance Fair(e) so I hiked us up the 4kms past a really nice shopping district slash residential neighborhood with houses that looked exactly like what I thought I would be living in by the time I was as old as I am now and then through a neighborhood that was either straight up ghetto or just a bunch of art students and around a music university until we got to the Casa to see that it was nothing more than a building built to look like a castle by some rich guy at the turn of the century. Oh well. We walked back down University Ave and into a Caribbean Festival at Queen's Park. It became real clear real quick that white people were not invited to this event, but we barreled through anyway. Give me dirty looks 'cause I'm in your space and expect me to be scared? Please, I live in Philadelphia. I'm the only white girl for miles all the g-dang time. G. It's a fact: I'm blacker than a lot of black people in Canada.
The loose-moosed waitress who served us up some tasty fish tacos told us that if she could go anyplace on a Sunday night she would go to Queen Street so we went. It was nice. Ish. We had a seven dollar beer and went back to the hotel room to get some sleep. It was time.
I've never been a big fan of Toronto, and I tried to give it a second chance since I've never been there as a grownup and I had a lot of fun but it just reminds me of some sort of bizarre amalgamate of Erie and Philadelphia. Toronto has everything Erie has but better. Toronto has everything Philadelphia has but crappier. It was nice not to be home but feel at home. But I was ready to go home.
So we did.
Vacation is nice, but the world keeps happening while you are gone. The house was cathairy and pent-up and musty. The bills piled up on the floor by the mail slot. The emails filled up my office inbox causing a minor crisis at work because I didn't get important attachments that would decide the fate of next year's contracts. Voicemails were panicky because I didn't really tell anyone (read:my friends and coworkers) that I was going out of town because I wanted to be passive-aggressive about it. No one came to deep clean my house. Surprisingly enough, cramming your filthy laundry in a Wegman's bag and tossing it in the trunk for a few days doesn't have some sort of miraculous chemical-reaction cleansing power and all that happens is that your bras smell like socks and your pants smell like armpits and it takes two heavy-duty washing cycles to fix all that. Work calls you in to the office even though you are technically not on the clock. Neglecting to take out the garbage and letting it sit during a heatwave is a bad idea. The house seems really empty when your brat isn't noising it up. We really needed that vacation though, so all the crappy stuff didn't seem so bad.
Recap:
Friday and Saturday were spent in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Yes, you should go. Immediately. But only if you are into cute little places where there isn't much to do but bum around and stay slightly to moderately intoxicated on food, booze, and/or quaintness. There are tons of shoppes spelled with two p's and an e selling crap that you might like if you are from Nantucket, but you probably have no use for otherwise, like large brimmed hats and gingham-packaged jams and seasonal flags for your lawn so don't worry about pissing your cash away. There was golfing and hiking and biking and boating and fishing and probably some swimming if you are into that and maybe tennis. There weren't any sirens, bar fights, barky dogs, mass transit, bouncing basketballs, cats in heat, fire crackers/gunshots, car horns, screams from drunken teenaged hookers, nor skateboards so the tranquility was a nice break from the soundtrack of normal life.
Sunday we went to Toronto and did nothing but hang out and try to find food all day long. It was kind of hard to come by. Difference number one noticed immediately upon entering Canada: Canadians don't eat as much as Americans do. Probably because food is so ridiculously overpriced and once you fill up your car with billion dollar a litre gasoline you can't afford to feed your family. Or you can't afford to fill up your car because you like to eat and you can't drive anywhere but the grocer so you only eat at home and all the restaurants close down because no one eats and they are replaced by...
um...
I have no idea what all those building are. Banks and hotels and H&M's, mostly. Tim Hortons. We ate dozens and dozens of Timbits because it is obvious that is what fuels Canada and when in Rome. Oh, and Wendy's. There were a lot of Wendy's. We had it for breakfast once out of desperation. And no, Wendy's does not have a breakfast menu. And yes, it was pretty damn early.
So don't go to Ontario for the food. I forgot to tell you how shocked some of the NotL locals we talked to were at the idea of vodka sauce, cooking with wine, beer battered frying, and Guinness stew. They were so tickled by the fact that some of the wineries put their wines in spaghetti sauce. They must have thought we were total boozehounds.
No, just Americans. Who like to eat good food.
We checked out the Toronto waterfront and walked into a free summer art show that was either superbly bad or so good that we just didn't get it because our foreheads are a little too sloped to understand culture.
We went to the Hockey Hall of Fame and didn't feel like waiting in line to touch La Coupe. But we saw it.
We stopped in at Second City when we finally found that in a back alleyway somewhere. We were starving for food and drink, but service was slow and the guy forgot to come back around to ask us if we wanted to eat. We ordered drinks called Lake Ontario's that promised six types of liquor and a shot of toxic waste under the impression that it would be like a six-shooter (which are now illegal in Pennsylvania- rum, vodka, tequila, whiskey, gin, and grain with a shot of fruit punch), but it seemed to be a glass of sour mix over lots of ice. The comedians were a troupe that was graduating that day, and the show was free and the audience was mostly moms and dads and boyfriends and wives and the bits were funny, but not funny funny. I always think that I'm the funniest person in the world so I'm really a jerk when it comes to this stuff because all I do is sit and think about what I would have said and how it would go over better and then I laugh but I'm really only laughing at what is going on in my head but it seems polite and timely because everyone else is laughing at the joke that came after the one that I revamped so I may be seventeen seconds behind everyone else but no one can tell. But, I have no balls and cannot handle speaking in front of more than seven people and never on a stage and absolutely under no circumstances will I ever raise or project my voice so they were better than me on so many different levels and I slumped over my glass of sour mix and felt bad for myself and my wasted hilarity that the world will never know.
Jamie Kennedy was there too, with his uber-hottie girlfriend so Philadelphia was definitely well-represented over there on Mercer Street.
Practically starving by dinnertime, we found a place called the Loose Moose, where we had sandwiches and seafood tacos and fries and beers (its a fact: all beers in Canada cost $7.) and multiple Cptn and Cokes and then made jokes about loose mooses and fish tacos and asking the waitress if she could go one place tonight, where would it be. So that was fun. The food was halfway decent and the bar was that strange cross between a douchey fratboy hang out and a punkrock dive that happens way more often than you would think.
I absolutely had to see Casa Loma in the twilight because it was billed as this giant castle hosting a Renaissance Fair(e) so I hiked us up the 4kms past a really nice shopping district slash residential neighborhood with houses that looked exactly like what I thought I would be living in by the time I was as old as I am now and then through a neighborhood that was either straight up ghetto or just a bunch of art students and around a music university until we got to the Casa to see that it was nothing more than a building built to look like a castle by some rich guy at the turn of the century. Oh well. We walked back down University Ave and into a Caribbean Festival at Queen's Park. It became real clear real quick that white people were not invited to this event, but we barreled through anyway. Give me dirty looks 'cause I'm in your space and expect me to be scared? Please, I live in Philadelphia. I'm the only white girl for miles all the g-dang time. G. It's a fact: I'm blacker than a lot of black people in Canada.
The loose-moosed waitress who served us up some tasty fish tacos told us that if she could go anyplace on a Sunday night she would go to Queen Street so we went. It was nice. Ish. We had a seven dollar beer and went back to the hotel room to get some sleep. It was time.
I've never been a big fan of Toronto, and I tried to give it a second chance since I've never been there as a grownup and I had a lot of fun but it just reminds me of some sort of bizarre amalgamate of Erie and Philadelphia. Toronto has everything Erie has but better. Toronto has everything Philadelphia has but crappier. It was nice not to be home but feel at home. But I was ready to go home.
So we did.
Vacation is nice, but the world keeps happening while you are gone. The house was cathairy and pent-up and musty. The bills piled up on the floor by the mail slot. The emails filled up my office inbox causing a minor crisis at work because I didn't get important attachments that would decide the fate of next year's contracts. Voicemails were panicky because I didn't really tell anyone (read:my friends and coworkers) that I was going out of town because I wanted to be passive-aggressive about it. No one came to deep clean my house. Surprisingly enough, cramming your filthy laundry in a Wegman's bag and tossing it in the trunk for a few days doesn't have some sort of miraculous chemical-reaction cleansing power and all that happens is that your bras smell like socks and your pants smell like armpits and it takes two heavy-duty washing cycles to fix all that. Work calls you in to the office even though you are technically not on the clock. Neglecting to take out the garbage and letting it sit during a heatwave is a bad idea. The house seems really empty when your brat isn't noising it up. We really needed that vacation though, so all the crappy stuff didn't seem so bad.
7.18.2008
underwear bingo
Ladies, listen. Germs, skip this post.
You know how all these years I've been telling you to get your rear end to a real lingerie store and have yourself professionally measured? And you know how you've been shocked into bliss at how more well adjusted you and the girls are doing now that you found a good bra?
Well, I haven't been professionally measured for a non-nursing bra in about five years.
Because I don't like to be touched. And because last time I was measured I was shown contraptions that looked more like a scoliosis brace than a sexy underpinning and required at least three teamsters to figure out all the metalwork on the back of the thing.
After a month long search for something that fits me between the range of 32 and 38 from Bravo to Delta at discount department stores I put aside the fact that I might cry inside a little while some lady wearing too much perfume pokes around at my funbags and went ahead and got measured and holy crap. I never would have even guessed. It sounds so porny because the number is so tiny and the letter is so big. Okay, letters are so big. Don't judge me because there are multiple letters in my bra size. Especially since I know some of you who's bra size is a zip code.
Is it just me or are there some other girls out there who are really not happy with the size of their boobs?
I'm half kidding. If I could pick out a perfect set I'd pick my friend Samantha's. If she could pick out a perfect set I'm sure she wouldn't pick her own. Someday when I'm rich as a result of being famous I'm getting some sort of lift that would keep the same shape that they have now but pare them down to a nice sveltely supple B that sits a little closer to my chin and further away from my knees. An A if I had my real choice, but I don't want that problem where my belly sticks out further than my boobs and I don't know if I can ride out this flat stomach thing for more than a decade (she types as she throws away a Take 5 wrapper and opens a roll of Rolos, smiling because it's too hard to hide 'cause Rolo is a whole roll o'smiles). I want cute bras that don't require multiple hooks and the option not to wear any at all. A viable option for not wearing any at all.
Speaking of underthings, what's the deal with ill fitting underwear? I buy my underpants by the bag. At Kmart or Target or wherever. I used to love the Fruit of the Loom Hipsters, but now they are made of the scratchiest cotton ever. Then I loved Hanes Low-cut Bikinis, but then they changed the waistband to "the world's most comfortable waistband ever' but it is about seven sizes smaller than the original and not comfortable at all.
No matter what brand/cut/size I buy, the elastic is too tight and the fabric is too big and I end up looking like the Michelin Man in a muumuu. All dents and creases and slack cloth that leaves visible folds under my pants and when I take them off they leave marks on my body and I feel really unsexxxy because you can see where my underwear was when it isn't anymore. Maybe I should break free of the belief that a pair of underwear should never cost more than one dollar and fifty cents per pair and invest in something that doesn't make my midsection feel sausage-like.
All these dysmorphic hangups are leaving me a bit low lately, so I'm resolving to take some time and really learn to love and/or appreciate all my parts.
I'm starting with my hands, because if you can't learn to love your hands you're in pretty deep. My poor little gnarled up arthritic hands have been the brunt of some pretty nasty feelings these past few years. Now if they hurt I'll realize it is because they are working overtime. They get to experience the world from the front lines, touching people I love, things I love (read: the inside of my nose and cute butts on the subway), bringing me food and drinks whenever I want them, typing and writing important work stuff and not-so-important personal stuff, coloring, painting, and playing with my kid, and cooking up delicious treats once a month or so when the mood hits. I read something when I was up in Toronto at an art exhibit about how Descartes wrote that if you asked a man who has been blind and deaf from birth where the soul is, he would say that it resides in the fingertips. I like it. I'll live it.
You know how all these years I've been telling you to get your rear end to a real lingerie store and have yourself professionally measured? And you know how you've been shocked into bliss at how more well adjusted you and the girls are doing now that you found a good bra?
Well, I haven't been professionally measured for a non-nursing bra in about five years.
Because I don't like to be touched. And because last time I was measured I was shown contraptions that looked more like a scoliosis brace than a sexy underpinning and required at least three teamsters to figure out all the metalwork on the back of the thing.
After a month long search for something that fits me between the range of 32 and 38 from Bravo to Delta at discount department stores I put aside the fact that I might cry inside a little while some lady wearing too much perfume pokes around at my funbags and went ahead and got measured and holy crap. I never would have even guessed. It sounds so porny because the number is so tiny and the letter is so big. Okay, letters are so big. Don't judge me because there are multiple letters in my bra size. Especially since I know some of you who's bra size is a zip code.
Is it just me or are there some other girls out there who are really not happy with the size of their boobs?
I'm half kidding. If I could pick out a perfect set I'd pick my friend Samantha's. If she could pick out a perfect set I'm sure she wouldn't pick her own. Someday when I'm rich as a result of being famous I'm getting some sort of lift that would keep the same shape that they have now but pare them down to a nice sveltely supple B that sits a little closer to my chin and further away from my knees. An A if I had my real choice, but I don't want that problem where my belly sticks out further than my boobs and I don't know if I can ride out this flat stomach thing for more than a decade (she types as she throws away a Take 5 wrapper and opens a roll of Rolos, smiling because it's too hard to hide 'cause Rolo is a whole roll o'smiles). I want cute bras that don't require multiple hooks and the option not to wear any at all. A viable option for not wearing any at all.
Speaking of underthings, what's the deal with ill fitting underwear? I buy my underpants by the bag. At Kmart or Target or wherever. I used to love the Fruit of the Loom Hipsters, but now they are made of the scratchiest cotton ever. Then I loved Hanes Low-cut Bikinis, but then they changed the waistband to "the world's most comfortable waistband ever' but it is about seven sizes smaller than the original and not comfortable at all.
No matter what brand/cut/size I buy, the elastic is too tight and the fabric is too big and I end up looking like the Michelin Man in a muumuu. All dents and creases and slack cloth that leaves visible folds under my pants and when I take them off they leave marks on my body and I feel really unsexxxy because you can see where my underwear was when it isn't anymore. Maybe I should break free of the belief that a pair of underwear should never cost more than one dollar and fifty cents per pair and invest in something that doesn't make my midsection feel sausage-like.
All these dysmorphic hangups are leaving me a bit low lately, so I'm resolving to take some time and really learn to love and/or appreciate all my parts.
I'm starting with my hands, because if you can't learn to love your hands you're in pretty deep. My poor little gnarled up arthritic hands have been the brunt of some pretty nasty feelings these past few years. Now if they hurt I'll realize it is because they are working overtime. They get to experience the world from the front lines, touching people I love, things I love (read: the inside of my nose and cute butts on the subway), bringing me food and drinks whenever I want them, typing and writing important work stuff and not-so-important personal stuff, coloring, painting, and playing with my kid, and cooking up delicious treats once a month or so when the mood hits. I read something when I was up in Toronto at an art exhibit about how Descartes wrote that if you asked a man who has been blind and deaf from birth where the soul is, he would say that it resides in the fingertips. I like it. I'll live it.
7.17.2008
more
Oh, and Jake knows right from left and just about all if not all the sounds the letters make.
I'm just saying.
I'm just saying.
two and one thirds
I stopped posting monthly updates because it was just too complicated to fit everything Jake can do into a post. I figured every two months would be better because something major and note worthy was bound to happen in eight weeks' time. It's still too hard.
Jake is the most amazing thing in the whole world. He knows the names of so many things that I never even considered teaching him. This morning he brought me a bottle cap and said "here mom, here's a bottlecap. it's a top for a bottle, right? a bottlecap top."
Um, yes Jake. That is exactly what this is.
Jake rarely calls me "mommy" anymore. He started testing "mom" and "dad" a few months ago, and would say it over and over again to see if we would answer. Now he only adds the -my/-dy if he is really excited or overly tired. He shortens Kat Kat to Kat, and Mimi to Meem sometimes too. I don't know where he got it from, probably just from watching all the big kids do it.
Jake is waayyy into me lately. If I'm on the phone he says "stop talking, mom. i'm here now. talk to me" or "put it away. come play with me". If I'm on the couch he wants me on the floor. If we are walking he wants me to pick him up so he can "see my mouth talking". He still begs "i wanna hold you, pweease" if he wants to be held. On the way up to Erie he asked if he could hold me when he was getting tired. When I told him he could hold my hand he answered, "but i wanna hold your face". Melt.
This boy is so happy in the morning that I almost don't hate morning anymore. Almost. He says "g'mornin mom(my)! i'm awake! i'm happy! i'm excited for my milkshake! where's my dad(dy)?. i see him! daddy, wake up! come sit onna couch with me! i watch diego pwease?". The other day I remembered how he used to say "cracker please!" first thing in the morning. Of course he would say it all ghettified because we taught him how. That makes me laugh. CraCKa Pleese. We are funny parents.
Jake loves tools and cars. And books about tools and cars. And shows about tools and cars.
I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but for the past four or five months, Jake has been memorizing all of the car insignias. As him what H stands for- honda! And L? lexus! How about A? acura! What's VW stand for? volkswagen! He knows (and there may be more) Buick, Chevrolet, Cadillac, Mazda, Dodge, Plymouth, Jaguar, Ford, Honda, Lexus, Saturn, Subaru, Hyundai, Toyota, Acura, Chrysler, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Suzuki, Mitsubishi, Volkswagen, Nissan, GMC, and the other day he stopped dead in his tracks and said "oh, mommy, that is such a beautiful scion. i wanna go in it".
What the hell is a Scion? Why the hell does my kid know all these cars? He has always been really good at recognizing corporate logos, AT&T was one of his first words. When he was about 21 or 22 months old he was playing with my wallet and said "oh, mommy, you gotta blue cwoss!". He knows Sprint and Comcast and a billion other logos, mostly those companies that sponsor sporting events. He's gotten so good at the cars that he can recognize ones that have been debadged. I don't understand it. I can't even recognize my own car. I'm embarrassed to tell you how many times I've tried to open Camrys and Accords and other little silver cars. Remember when Dave mistook another car for ours? If only Jake had been around to help. And another thing he can do is tell you what kind of car everyone has. He has a weird little file drawer in his head where he stores the make of your car and something that happened to it. What does Uncle Brian have? a mazda. i puked in uncle brian's mazdacar. What kind of car did we take to the zoo? adewi-in's nissancar with babycousin payton. Who has a Dodge? uncle sammy has a dodge van and it plays music and we dance. It's freaky.
The "L" is the sound of the week. All L's are overLy enunciated and there is a Lot of fLappy tongue to teeth aLL over the pLace whiLe they are practiced.
Jake pees on the potty sometimes! You should see his face when he does it. He looks down, pees a little and looks up with his eyes and mouth wide open and says "i peed in it! i peed in the potty! i'm so proud! i do more!". He gets stickers as a reward. I'm not rushing the potty thing. When he is ready, he'll be ready. Why fight?
We go for long walks in the neighborhood almost every day and end up at the park or the pizza shop. Or both. We always stop by the fountain to make a wish. I forgot the pennies yesterday, and a dad who happened to be shopping at the Wednesday Passyunk Fountain Farmer's Market gave Jake a nickel, but he asked me if it was okay first. It's okay, but grown men who give coins to little boys creep me out.
Jake likes to spot the maple seed things and throw them in the air and yell "helicopter" and I like when he does it.
Jake always wants to walk really slowly through the sidewalk cafes on Passyunk and gives his "sexy eyes" (I'll try to get that on film. You'll die) to all the ladies. He is really trying to get their french fries. He gives high fives to all the weird tattooed kids at the Cantina and tries to pet their dogs. Usually I just pick Jake up when we pass through those couple blocks because before I had kids there was nothing grosser to me than kidhands. There are still very few things on the list that I consider grosser, but they don't totally repulse me anymore.
Jake doesn't seem to be so scared of bugs and butterflies anymore, but he is convinced that there are ghosts everywhere. He will tell you if there is one in your house. I'm considering calling A&E or TLC to see if they need another show about ghostspotters. I haven't seen it done with babies yet. ViVi and Monica live in our house. And sometimes one of them is IN! MY! BED! They don't seem to bother Jake, so they don't bother me. If you want a real good ghost story involving Jake, let me know. You probably already think I'm crazy, and this will be the nail that seals it. And you will get shivers up your spine.
Jake's favorite toys are the little metal Cars cars. He has Doc, Sheriff, and McQueen and we hear about them all. day. long. Besides his little toolkit that I bought him for his birthday, he doesn't play with much else. Which makes for very little clutter around my house. The boy despises a mess, and he cleans up after himself all the time. Well, most of the time.
I framed a couple of pictures Jake painted and put them up in the living room. He is so proud of them, and every time he sees them he says "i painted that one!". They go quite nicely with our bright red couches that don't go with anything else in the house. Ikea, anyone? It's funny how your furniture standards change when someone is wiping their nose on your sofa once a day.
Bedtime is the best time for me. Jake is so willing to go to bed and tell stories and sing songs and we take turns rubbing each other's faces and patting each other's backs. Dave put him to bed last night and was all squishy when he came back down because it is such an amazing thing to put that kid to bed.
Jake loves music, but only music he loves. He will be quick to tell you when he doesn't like something. We have different tastes. That's all I'll say. If Jake could watch BET videos all day long he would be in his glory. If BET played Life is a Highway he would be practically raptured. It's so cute to hear him sing that song. life's a hiiiiiggggyywayyyy. riiiiiidddeeee it. all. night. long. myyyyy wayyyyy. drive youuuuu. all. night. long.
I think that's about it. If you need to know anything else, just ask. My brain is too full of sugar coaty wonderment over that brat.
Jake is the most amazing thing in the whole world. He knows the names of so many things that I never even considered teaching him. This morning he brought me a bottle cap and said "here mom, here's a bottlecap. it's a top for a bottle, right? a bottlecap top."
Um, yes Jake. That is exactly what this is.
Jake rarely calls me "mommy" anymore. He started testing "mom" and "dad" a few months ago, and would say it over and over again to see if we would answer. Now he only adds the -my/-dy if he is really excited or overly tired. He shortens Kat Kat to Kat, and Mimi to Meem sometimes too. I don't know where he got it from, probably just from watching all the big kids do it.
Jake is waayyy into me lately. If I'm on the phone he says "stop talking, mom. i'm here now. talk to me" or "put it away. come play with me". If I'm on the couch he wants me on the floor. If we are walking he wants me to pick him up so he can "see my mouth talking". He still begs "i wanna hold you, pweease" if he wants to be held. On the way up to Erie he asked if he could hold me when he was getting tired. When I told him he could hold my hand he answered, "but i wanna hold your face". Melt.
This boy is so happy in the morning that I almost don't hate morning anymore. Almost. He says "g'mornin mom(my)! i'm awake! i'm happy! i'm excited for my milkshake! where's my dad(dy)?. i see him! daddy, wake up! come sit onna couch with me! i watch diego pwease?". The other day I remembered how he used to say "cracker please!" first thing in the morning. Of course he would say it all ghettified because we taught him how. That makes me laugh. CraCKa Pleese. We are funny parents.
Jake loves tools and cars. And books about tools and cars. And shows about tools and cars.
I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but for the past four or five months, Jake has been memorizing all of the car insignias. As him what H stands for- honda! And L? lexus! How about A? acura! What's VW stand for? volkswagen! He knows (and there may be more) Buick, Chevrolet, Cadillac, Mazda, Dodge, Plymouth, Jaguar, Ford, Honda, Lexus, Saturn, Subaru, Hyundai, Toyota, Acura, Chrysler, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Suzuki, Mitsubishi, Volkswagen, Nissan, GMC, and the other day he stopped dead in his tracks and said "oh, mommy, that is such a beautiful scion. i wanna go in it".
What the hell is a Scion? Why the hell does my kid know all these cars? He has always been really good at recognizing corporate logos, AT&T was one of his first words. When he was about 21 or 22 months old he was playing with my wallet and said "oh, mommy, you gotta blue cwoss!". He knows Sprint and Comcast and a billion other logos, mostly those companies that sponsor sporting events. He's gotten so good at the cars that he can recognize ones that have been debadged. I don't understand it. I can't even recognize my own car. I'm embarrassed to tell you how many times I've tried to open Camrys and Accords and other little silver cars. Remember when Dave mistook another car for ours? If only Jake had been around to help. And another thing he can do is tell you what kind of car everyone has. He has a weird little file drawer in his head where he stores the make of your car and something that happened to it. What does Uncle Brian have? a mazda. i puked in uncle brian's mazdacar. What kind of car did we take to the zoo? adewi-in's nissancar with babycousin payton. Who has a Dodge? uncle sammy has a dodge van and it plays music and we dance. It's freaky.
The "L" is the sound of the week. All L's are overLy enunciated and there is a Lot of fLappy tongue to teeth aLL over the pLace whiLe they are practiced.
Jake pees on the potty sometimes! You should see his face when he does it. He looks down, pees a little and looks up with his eyes and mouth wide open and says "i peed in it! i peed in the potty! i'm so proud! i do more!". He gets stickers as a reward. I'm not rushing the potty thing. When he is ready, he'll be ready. Why fight?
We go for long walks in the neighborhood almost every day and end up at the park or the pizza shop. Or both. We always stop by the fountain to make a wish. I forgot the pennies yesterday, and a dad who happened to be shopping at the Wednesday Passyunk Fountain Farmer's Market gave Jake a nickel, but he asked me if it was okay first. It's okay, but grown men who give coins to little boys creep me out.
Jake likes to spot the maple seed things and throw them in the air and yell "helicopter" and I like when he does it.
Jake always wants to walk really slowly through the sidewalk cafes on Passyunk and gives his "sexy eyes" (I'll try to get that on film. You'll die) to all the ladies. He is really trying to get their french fries. He gives high fives to all the weird tattooed kids at the Cantina and tries to pet their dogs. Usually I just pick Jake up when we pass through those couple blocks because before I had kids there was nothing grosser to me than kidhands. There are still very few things on the list that I consider grosser, but they don't totally repulse me anymore.
Jake doesn't seem to be so scared of bugs and butterflies anymore, but he is convinced that there are ghosts everywhere. He will tell you if there is one in your house. I'm considering calling A&E or TLC to see if they need another show about ghostspotters. I haven't seen it done with babies yet. ViVi and Monica live in our house. And sometimes one of them is IN! MY! BED! They don't seem to bother Jake, so they don't bother me. If you want a real good ghost story involving Jake, let me know. You probably already think I'm crazy, and this will be the nail that seals it. And you will get shivers up your spine.
Jake's favorite toys are the little metal Cars cars. He has Doc, Sheriff, and McQueen and we hear about them all. day. long. Besides his little toolkit that I bought him for his birthday, he doesn't play with much else. Which makes for very little clutter around my house. The boy despises a mess, and he cleans up after himself all the time. Well, most of the time.
I framed a couple of pictures Jake painted and put them up in the living room. He is so proud of them, and every time he sees them he says "i painted that one!". They go quite nicely with our bright red couches that don't go with anything else in the house. Ikea, anyone? It's funny how your furniture standards change when someone is wiping their nose on your sofa once a day.
Bedtime is the best time for me. Jake is so willing to go to bed and tell stories and sing songs and we take turns rubbing each other's faces and patting each other's backs. Dave put him to bed last night and was all squishy when he came back down because it is such an amazing thing to put that kid to bed.
Jake loves music, but only music he loves. He will be quick to tell you when he doesn't like something. We have different tastes. That's all I'll say. If Jake could watch BET videos all day long he would be in his glory. If BET played Life is a Highway he would be practically raptured. It's so cute to hear him sing that song. life's a hiiiiiggggyywayyyy. riiiiiidddeeee it. all. night. long. myyyyy wayyyyy. drive youuuuu. all. night. long.
I think that's about it. If you need to know anything else, just ask. My brain is too full of sugar coaty wonderment over that brat.
quality
I thought it was so nice and I was so lucky that Jake never went through a separation anxiety phase.
I felt like a genius that I figured out the proper balance between time at home and time with family because Jake was comfortable anywhere with anyone at any time. He didn't need anything special to help him fall asleep. He would eat just about anything put in front of him by just about any one.
I could leave him in his playpen with his toys while I showered or cleaned. I could leave him to fall asleep alone if I just couldn't take another minute with him during those long, long days of babyhood. He was thrilled to spend time at someone else's house, and would hardly look up from what he was doing to say goodbye when we left him.
When we were together I got his undivided attention and he loved to cuddle and kiss and look back at me when he felt brave enough to explore something across the room or on the other side of the park. When he didn't see me for five minutes he was just as excited to see me as he was when he didn't see me for five hours or even five days.
It was fabulous.
And I think it is coming to a screeching halt.
I'm sure it has everything to do with his ten day vacation at my mom's house, followed by a crazy weekend and an overnight stay at his favorite aunt Kat Kat's house this week. I guess it caught up to Jake the way it caught up to me. I'm dying to spend some quality time with him at and around home. Life just keeps getting in the way of it.
Jake cried a little on Monday when I dropped him at daycare. Tuesday he pushed us out the door, but only because we were taking attention from Kat Kat that he should be getting. Yesterday he wanted to stay at "home with mommy" and needed the promise of cookies at daycare to get him in the car. I felt terrible when I left work and spent the day at home, but when you have a bad case of the p&p's you can't really have a kid at your side. He cried that he wanted to "come-a work and make-a the money" with me this morning too, but stopped crying when his lady promised him some juice- a treat that we don't allow at home. Because it "rots-a you teef".
I'm trying to think of good, fun, cheap local family bonding activities to do so we get out of our sweltering house and town. Last weekend we drove out to Valley Forge, under the impression that it would be a nice, breezy wooded area perfect for hiking and picnicking. Wrong. It was a three or so mile concrete trail through the battlegrounds with little to no historic markers or learning stations. No shade, hot sun, lots of bugs. But we saw some deer! And a lot of signs that warned of asbestos and various carcinogens in the soil and plants! I guess they used the gullies in the area for toxic waste dumping and now you can only look but not touch anything that slightly resembles a rambling wooded path. Supposedly there are some really nice hiking/biking/horsing trails that are part of the Appalachian Trail there somewhere in there, but damned if we saw any of them. Jake is still talking about the "stinky houses" and the deer, so I guess it was worth the trip.
I'd love to take a trip up to the Tyler Arboretum, but it isn't free and there isn't anything of real interest going on up there on Sunday. Linvilla is fun, for about ten minutes. There is a treehouse exhibit at Longwood Gardens that might be of interest to Jake.
There is a wildlife refuge in Southwest Philly, and maybe we will go there this weekend. Things to see there are (and I lift this directly from the website):
1. The Sun Oil Company tank farm.
2. The defunct Delaware County Sewer Treatment Plant.
3. Action Concrete's Recycling operation.
4. The refuge's fenced water control structure. The 48 inch diameter pipe allows for some control of the large pond's water level.
Ahh Philadelphia, home to both culture and industry. Can'tchya just smell it?
I felt like a genius that I figured out the proper balance between time at home and time with family because Jake was comfortable anywhere with anyone at any time. He didn't need anything special to help him fall asleep. He would eat just about anything put in front of him by just about any one.
I could leave him in his playpen with his toys while I showered or cleaned. I could leave him to fall asleep alone if I just couldn't take another minute with him during those long, long days of babyhood. He was thrilled to spend time at someone else's house, and would hardly look up from what he was doing to say goodbye when we left him.
When we were together I got his undivided attention and he loved to cuddle and kiss and look back at me when he felt brave enough to explore something across the room or on the other side of the park. When he didn't see me for five minutes he was just as excited to see me as he was when he didn't see me for five hours or even five days.
It was fabulous.
And I think it is coming to a screeching halt.
I'm sure it has everything to do with his ten day vacation at my mom's house, followed by a crazy weekend and an overnight stay at his favorite aunt Kat Kat's house this week. I guess it caught up to Jake the way it caught up to me. I'm dying to spend some quality time with him at and around home. Life just keeps getting in the way of it.
Jake cried a little on Monday when I dropped him at daycare. Tuesday he pushed us out the door, but only because we were taking attention from Kat Kat that he should be getting. Yesterday he wanted to stay at "home with mommy" and needed the promise of cookies at daycare to get him in the car. I felt terrible when I left work and spent the day at home, but when you have a bad case of the p&p's you can't really have a kid at your side. He cried that he wanted to "come-a work and make-a the money" with me this morning too, but stopped crying when his lady promised him some juice- a treat that we don't allow at home. Because it "rots-a you teef".
I'm trying to think of good, fun, cheap local family bonding activities to do so we get out of our sweltering house and town. Last weekend we drove out to Valley Forge, under the impression that it would be a nice, breezy wooded area perfect for hiking and picnicking. Wrong. It was a three or so mile concrete trail through the battlegrounds with little to no historic markers or learning stations. No shade, hot sun, lots of bugs. But we saw some deer! And a lot of signs that warned of asbestos and various carcinogens in the soil and plants! I guess they used the gullies in the area for toxic waste dumping and now you can only look but not touch anything that slightly resembles a rambling wooded path. Supposedly there are some really nice hiking/biking/horsing trails that are part of the Appalachian Trail there somewhere in there, but damned if we saw any of them. Jake is still talking about the "stinky houses" and the deer, so I guess it was worth the trip.
I'd love to take a trip up to the Tyler Arboretum, but it isn't free and there isn't anything of real interest going on up there on Sunday. Linvilla is fun, for about ten minutes. There is a treehouse exhibit at Longwood Gardens that might be of interest to Jake.
There is a wildlife refuge in Southwest Philly, and maybe we will go there this weekend. Things to see there are (and I lift this directly from the website):
1. The Sun Oil Company tank farm.
2. The defunct Delaware County Sewer Treatment Plant.
3. Action Concrete's Recycling operation.
4. The refuge's fenced water control structure. The 48 inch diameter pipe allows for some control of the large pond's water level.
Ahh Philadelphia, home to both culture and industry. Can'tchya just smell it?
7.16.2008
1234
There must be some pretty good marketing directors over there on Sesame Street, because every kid under the age of three is head over Chuck T's in lub with this girl and her little song
7.15.2008
molt
You know what else is kind of crazy about the crap I am getting rid of? Most of it is from the nineties. The nineties.
Remember that? Way back then?
Stuff from the nineties is outdated. I don't want to be one of those people. I especially don't want to be one of those moms.
One of those moms who loved herself best in her mid-twenties so she stops changing her haircut and her make-up and the cut of her jeans and her shower curtain and sofa cushions and taste in music and television.
I'm growing into adulthood. And developing as a person, dammit. I'm practically effing morphing over here.
You might want to step out of the way.
Remember that? Way back then?
Stuff from the nineties is outdated. I don't want to be one of those people. I especially don't want to be one of those moms.
One of those moms who loved herself best in her mid-twenties so she stops changing her haircut and her make-up and the cut of her jeans and her shower curtain and sofa cushions and taste in music and television.
I'm growing into adulthood. And developing as a person, dammit. I'm practically effing morphing over here.
You might want to step out of the way.
7.14.2008
purge
I've lived in my house for three and a half years. I haven't lived anywhere for three and a half years since I was twelve years old. I haven't been twelve years old for twenty years.
Maybe that explains that weird drowning feeling I get every once in awhile when I look around at all my stuff. Maybe not, but that would be a wholenother issue. One for a professionally trained person.
Every one or two or three years for the last twenty I have packed up my stuff and moved somewhere else. Packing involves sorting and tossing and donating and cleaning. Those things make me feel all good and clean. Getting rid of stuff and organizing what is left serves as a colonic for my soul and ipecac for my living space.
I'm making it my mission to go through every room of my house and touch everything twice to make a decision whether to keep it or not. I'm almost done with the basement, but only because I decided not to go through the holiday decorations until the holidays are over.
I have unopened wedding presents (I was a child bride, married off in the '90s) that are too old and dusty to be regifted. I have baby stuff that no one would want because the laundered puke stains are starting to oxidize and resurface. I have empty photo albums, and full ones of pictures that will never hold much meaning. Old books with worms in the binding. Costume jewelry which will never come back into style. Stretched and pilled sweaters that I have only kept because they were aspensive. Dry clean only means dry clean only.
I have so many really nice wall pictures but I'm sick to death of them. Rearranging and rehanging helped, some. A few have gone down to the basement and I'll pull them out again in a couple years. Maybe I will love them again then.
Candle sconces anyone? I'm throwing out two today. I'm sick of them kicking around, and good candles cost too much and cheap candles burn too dirty.
I gave away a lamp yesterday. And my big fabulous faux fur (oh those poor, poor fauxes, always being slaughtered for their poly-nylon hides) jacket that I bought for the eve of the new millennium. I wore that sassy emmer effer into the ground. It was hilariously funny to wear north of Washington Ave, and the pinnacle of haute style south of it. Long live the memory and spirit of that big muppetesque monstrosity. Hail be to the seven inch by two feet of closet space that is now available in it's absence.
I know all you moms are envious of the total lack of toy flotsam in my house. Jake has plenty to play with, but it is pretty well contained. A lot of his stuff is donated to shelters and poor kids. He favors tiny cars over all else, and they don't take up much space.
If you need anything, let me know. I might have it. If I have anything of yours, let me know. I might throw it out.
Maybe that explains that weird drowning feeling I get every once in awhile when I look around at all my stuff. Maybe not, but that would be a wholenother issue. One for a professionally trained person.
Every one or two or three years for the last twenty I have packed up my stuff and moved somewhere else. Packing involves sorting and tossing and donating and cleaning. Those things make me feel all good and clean. Getting rid of stuff and organizing what is left serves as a colonic for my soul and ipecac for my living space.
I'm making it my mission to go through every room of my house and touch everything twice to make a decision whether to keep it or not. I'm almost done with the basement, but only because I decided not to go through the holiday decorations until the holidays are over.
I have unopened wedding presents (I was a child bride, married off in the '90s) that are too old and dusty to be regifted. I have baby stuff that no one would want because the laundered puke stains are starting to oxidize and resurface. I have empty photo albums, and full ones of pictures that will never hold much meaning. Old books with worms in the binding. Costume jewelry which will never come back into style. Stretched and pilled sweaters that I have only kept because they were aspensive. Dry clean only means dry clean only.
I have so many really nice wall pictures but I'm sick to death of them. Rearranging and rehanging helped, some. A few have gone down to the basement and I'll pull them out again in a couple years. Maybe I will love them again then.
Candle sconces anyone? I'm throwing out two today. I'm sick of them kicking around, and good candles cost too much and cheap candles burn too dirty.
I gave away a lamp yesterday. And my big fabulous faux fur (oh those poor, poor fauxes, always being slaughtered for their poly-nylon hides) jacket that I bought for the eve of the new millennium. I wore that sassy emmer effer into the ground. It was hilariously funny to wear north of Washington Ave, and the pinnacle of haute style south of it. Long live the memory and spirit of that big muppetesque monstrosity. Hail be to the seven inch by two feet of closet space that is now available in it's absence.
I know all you moms are envious of the total lack of toy flotsam in my house. Jake has plenty to play with, but it is pretty well contained. A lot of his stuff is donated to shelters and poor kids. He favors tiny cars over all else, and they don't take up much space.
If you need anything, let me know. I might have it. If I have anything of yours, let me know. I might throw it out.
7.11.2008
vacation's over
I'm just about to get in the car to go to the airport and pick up my baby who I haven't seen in a week and two hours! I can't wait, but don't tell anyone I'm such a sap.
He is going to seem huge and verbose, I just know it.
He is going to seem huge and verbose, I just know it.
day two
Last Saturday morning we woke up in an amazing businessman's hotel right off the QEW, about fifteen minutes down the street from the cutest town in the world.
Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario (click for pics) is one of those quaint little places that make you want to wear itchy lace collars and white kid gloves and gladly pay some velvet-clad fancy-pantsed sheister for some sort of urine-colored tonic in a glass bottle with a cork stopper that kills bugs while restoring lost hair and virginity.
We didn't, but we did get a little dressed up and stopped at the Charles Inn for an amazing breakfast, a gentleman's game of monkey bar challenge (I won. Long arms and the power of feminine sway help), and a stop at the Cherry Festival before embarking on a 35 km bike tour of the Niagara wine country.
We stopped and tasted and tasted and tasted at Jackson-Triggs, Peller Estates, Lailey, Reif, and Marynissen- where we ran into a girl I used to be total work bff's with back in the olden days when we were working the streets and sizing up crackheads and crazies in the peejays of West Philly (holler) and writing up wildly official reports to send to the State so important decisions could be made regarding the future of the aforementioned. Yeah. So. Um. We were livin' loca back then and were more interested in life from 5-9 than we were from 9-5. Maybe we should have taken things a bit more seriously. But really, I can't go anywhere without seeing someone I know. There I was in the middle of the remote Ontarian countryside and I run smack into the face of someone who I had practically almost accepted that I would never see again in my whole entire life because she grew up and earned her PhD and was off doing smart people things in New York. Cue the Small World song played on a tiny violin.
We ended the tour at a little pub in town, where we ate and downed a flight of four 7oz beers.
And then we started drinking for reals for reals.
Kidding.
And then we returned the bikes and took showers and ate leftover Chinese from Clifton Hill and stayed in bed for twelve hours watching FUBAR and other crazy Canadian crap on CTV.
Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario (click for pics) is one of those quaint little places that make you want to wear itchy lace collars and white kid gloves and gladly pay some velvet-clad fancy-pantsed sheister for some sort of urine-colored tonic in a glass bottle with a cork stopper that kills bugs while restoring lost hair and virginity.
We didn't, but we did get a little dressed up and stopped at the Charles Inn for an amazing breakfast, a gentleman's game of monkey bar challenge (I won. Long arms and the power of feminine sway help), and a stop at the Cherry Festival before embarking on a 35 km bike tour of the Niagara wine country.
We stopped and tasted and tasted and tasted at Jackson-Triggs, Peller Estates, Lailey, Reif, and Marynissen- where we ran into a girl I used to be total work bff's with back in the olden days when we were working the streets and sizing up crackheads and crazies in the peejays of West Philly (holler) and writing up wildly official reports to send to the State so important decisions could be made regarding the future of the aforementioned. Yeah. So. Um. We were livin' loca back then and were more interested in life from 5-9 than we were from 9-5. Maybe we should have taken things a bit more seriously. But really, I can't go anywhere without seeing someone I know. There I was in the middle of the remote Ontarian countryside and I run smack into the face of someone who I had practically almost accepted that I would never see again in my whole entire life because she grew up and earned her PhD and was off doing smart people things in New York. Cue the Small World song played on a tiny violin.
We ended the tour at a little pub in town, where we ate and downed a flight of four 7oz beers.
And then we started drinking for reals for reals.
Kidding.
And then we returned the bikes and took showers and ate leftover Chinese from Clifton Hill and stayed in bed for twelve hours watching FUBAR and other crazy Canadian crap on CTV.
7.09.2008
show me your beaver
We stopped up in Niagara Falls for the 4th. The Canadian side, of course. That's the real side of the falls. Who wants to be in America on the Fourth of July anyway? We didn't. After the parade we kissed the boy goodbye, jumped in Miss Bruce, and headed north immediately.
I thought it was enormously funny to see all of the Americans walking around Canada in their $5 Old Navy holiday t-shirts. Seriously, people. If you care about your Americaniess enough to advertise that you are an American, stay home. Go to Jersey. Eat a hot dog. Get out of my way, you are blocking my shot of the Veil. Isn't there some sort of International Code stating that you should be ashamed that you are American once you are out of America? That's why I told all the Italians that I was Canadian when I was over there. They treat you nicer that way.
It was weird to be in NF unchaperoned. I've never been there without parents before, mine or someone else's. It felt dangerous. It seemed bigger and badder and way more foreign. We had a hard time finding Clifton Hill because we got turned around with all the new walkways and stuff. That's never happened when I've been there with a mom. I should probably bring one with me next time I travel.
The town has certainly grown since I've been there last. There are tons of giant hotels and casinos and chain restaurants and better sidewalks and landscaping and more effective railings to keep you from taking a header into the drink. The falls have stayed the same. Still majestic by day and magical by night.
We stayed for fireworks, which was really neat because there were about five or six displays over in America that we could see plus one right over the falls. It reminded me of Erie when I was little. From a boat in the bay, you could see all the displays in town. I don't think there are as many places that shoot them off anymore, but it was pretty neat back then when Erie had jobs and people and entertainment. Now there is just a hampster in a wheel by the dock that they let you poke at with a piece of hay for the price of one shiny nickel and a welfare line that winds down the road for miles that they let you poke at for free.
And apparently there must be a barbershop up there that specializes in mullets and mohawks. WTF, ErPa? Are those like the official male hairstyles of the Northshore or have you all just lost your everloving minds?
Oh, jeez. Wheels. I went on a Ferris Wheel. A big Ferris Wheel. A big scary Ferris Wheel. A big scary $10-a-ride Ferris Wheel. But it was totally cool because it was enclosed and new. Not like those rickety bench carnival things that I am scared poopless of. I got some great shots of the falls, which I will spare you because sometimes I think that showing my vacation pictures instantly turns me into that annoying lady who sits you down and shows you her slightly out-of-focus photos of a bunch of junk that you have seen a million times and you can easily access quality pictures of by Googling whatever it is that she is showing you while you are at work and you are getting paid to be bored silly by looking at a bunch of junk.
Totally different than being that girl who just types on and on and on about her life to keep you from being bored silly while you are at work.
I thought it was enormously funny to see all of the Americans walking around Canada in their $5 Old Navy holiday t-shirts. Seriously, people. If you care about your Americaniess enough to advertise that you are an American, stay home. Go to Jersey. Eat a hot dog. Get out of my way, you are blocking my shot of the Veil. Isn't there some sort of International Code stating that you should be ashamed that you are American once you are out of America? That's why I told all the Italians that I was Canadian when I was over there. They treat you nicer that way.
It was weird to be in NF unchaperoned. I've never been there without parents before, mine or someone else's. It felt dangerous. It seemed bigger and badder and way more foreign. We had a hard time finding Clifton Hill because we got turned around with all the new walkways and stuff. That's never happened when I've been there with a mom. I should probably bring one with me next time I travel.
The town has certainly grown since I've been there last. There are tons of giant hotels and casinos and chain restaurants and better sidewalks and landscaping and more effective railings to keep you from taking a header into the drink. The falls have stayed the same. Still majestic by day and magical by night.
We stayed for fireworks, which was really neat because there were about five or six displays over in America that we could see plus one right over the falls. It reminded me of Erie when I was little. From a boat in the bay, you could see all the displays in town. I don't think there are as many places that shoot them off anymore, but it was pretty neat back then when Erie had jobs and people and entertainment. Now there is just a hampster in a wheel by the dock that they let you poke at with a piece of hay for the price of one shiny nickel and a welfare line that winds down the road for miles that they let you poke at for free.
And apparently there must be a barbershop up there that specializes in mullets and mohawks. WTF, ErPa? Are those like the official male hairstyles of the Northshore or have you all just lost your everloving minds?
Oh, jeez. Wheels. I went on a Ferris Wheel. A big Ferris Wheel. A big scary Ferris Wheel. A big scary $10-a-ride Ferris Wheel. But it was totally cool because it was enclosed and new. Not like those rickety bench carnival things that I am scared poopless of. I got some great shots of the falls, which I will spare you because sometimes I think that showing my vacation pictures instantly turns me into that annoying lady who sits you down and shows you her slightly out-of-focus photos of a bunch of junk that you have seen a million times and you can easily access quality pictures of by Googling whatever it is that she is showing you while you are at work and you are getting paid to be bored silly by looking at a bunch of junk.
Totally different than being that girl who just types on and on and on about her life to keep you from being bored silly while you are at work.
first
Boy I would love to tell you all about my long weekend.
About how Jake stayed wide awake for 350 miles without complaining once and sleeping the other 75 last Tuesday night on the drive up to Erie, and how I got to see my grandma and she was doing quite well, despite being the oldest person I know. Oh, and I could tell you about how Jake met his cousin Payton and we went to the zoo and we all left the brats with my mom and went to Waldemeer and breathed in that cottoncandyapple motoroilfunnelcake hotdogpiss smell near the midway and heard that hernk-hernk-hernk sound that you know all about if you've ever been there and rode the (amazing, btw. Totally worth the wait for the front seat) new roller coaster and about I got legitimately scared on the Whacky Shack because they added something new for the first time in thirty years and that something new involves a loud noise and bright light and a severed head and I nearly peed my pants crying and laughing at the whole overstimulatiness of it.
But I just don't feel like typing all that much. My brain is still on vacation and I have lots of catching up to do at work because my FY08 stuff is all over the place and my 09 stuff needs a new home and I'm determined that this year, this year will be the one where I shine at my job and my desk will be clean and my files will be filed. I love to resolute, but the truth is that I still have a pile of 07 paperwork to organize.
So there is the short version of the first 24 hours of my trip. I'll spare you the long version with the promise that I'll sign back in shortly to give you deets about days two through four.
About how Jake stayed wide awake for 350 miles without complaining once and sleeping the other 75 last Tuesday night on the drive up to Erie, and how I got to see my grandma and she was doing quite well, despite being the oldest person I know. Oh, and I could tell you about how Jake met his cousin Payton and we went to the zoo and we all left the brats with my mom and went to Waldemeer and breathed in that cottoncandyapple motoroilfunnelcake hotdogpiss smell near the midway and heard that hernk-hernk-hernk sound that you know all about if you've ever been there and rode the (amazing, btw. Totally worth the wait for the front seat) new roller coaster and about I got legitimately scared on the Whacky Shack because they added something new for the first time in thirty years and that something new involves a loud noise and bright light and a severed head and I nearly peed my pants crying and laughing at the whole overstimulatiness of it.
But I just don't feel like typing all that much. My brain is still on vacation and I have lots of catching up to do at work because my FY08 stuff is all over the place and my 09 stuff needs a new home and I'm determined that this year, this year will be the one where I shine at my job and my desk will be clean and my files will be filed. I love to resolute, but the truth is that I still have a pile of 07 paperwork to organize.
So there is the short version of the first 24 hours of my trip. I'll spare you the long version with the promise that I'll sign back in shortly to give you deets about days two through four.
7.01.2008
setting
And one more thing about my Denver trip.
I was so beat from traveling the day I got back and I couldn't wait to put Jake to bed. Each night before we read a story, we talk about our day and tell each other what we did and who we saw. Coming off of the second worst jet lag of my entire life, I just wanted it to be all over and done with so I could get some sleep at near-sea-level so I could wake up feeling like a normal person for the first time in five days.
Jake told me all about waking up at his grandparents and going to Dave's baseball game and going home to see Tyler and Bailey* and then picking me up at the airport and about how he puked on an airplane once and puked at the diner after the last time he picked me up from the airport. I didn't know how I could top that, so I just went through my long transporty day. "I went to bed after going to a big fancy party and riding in limosines all day and woke up in a big fancy hotel with my friend and I got in a chauffered Lincoln Towncar and I rode beside the big mountains and I went to the airport and ate candy for breakfast and then I went up in the air and ate cookies for lunch and then I came home and we ate pizza pie and then we played and got ready for bed.
"wooowww, mommy!", Jake said. "i'm so excited for your day inna cars and inna plane and i puked inna plane, you puke inna plane mommy? i puked inna plane, and i picka you up with daddy and we played and we ate pizza pie and you went inna plane and to a party. wooowww".
Wouldn't it be nice if travel days were as exciting at 32 as they are at 2?
*Whenever Jake is tired and we are away from the house, he hugs me and tells me he misses Tyler and Bailey and he wants to go see them. He thinks he is fooling me, but I'm on to him.
I was so beat from traveling the day I got back and I couldn't wait to put Jake to bed. Each night before we read a story, we talk about our day and tell each other what we did and who we saw. Coming off of the second worst jet lag of my entire life, I just wanted it to be all over and done with so I could get some sleep at near-sea-level so I could wake up feeling like a normal person for the first time in five days.
Jake told me all about waking up at his grandparents and going to Dave's baseball game and going home to see Tyler and Bailey* and then picking me up at the airport and about how he puked on an airplane once and puked at the diner after the last time he picked me up from the airport. I didn't know how I could top that, so I just went through my long transporty day. "I went to bed after going to a big fancy party and riding in limosines all day and woke up in a big fancy hotel with my friend and I got in a chauffered Lincoln Towncar and I rode beside the big mountains and I went to the airport and ate candy for breakfast and then I went up in the air and ate cookies for lunch and then I came home and we ate pizza pie and then we played and got ready for bed.
"wooowww, mommy!", Jake said. "i'm so excited for your day inna cars and inna plane and i puked inna plane, you puke inna plane mommy? i puked inna plane, and i picka you up with daddy and we played and we ate pizza pie and you went inna plane and to a party. wooowww".
Wouldn't it be nice if travel days were as exciting at 32 as they are at 2?
*Whenever Jake is tired and we are away from the house, he hugs me and tells me he misses Tyler and Bailey and he wants to go see them. He thinks he is fooling me, but I'm on to him.
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