USS New York

While driving into the city Saturday night, Grant and I drove right past the USS New York docked at pier 88. I must say that I had no idea this ship existed nor that it was forged from steel from the World Trade Center debris. But after G filled me in on it, I set about trying to find out as much as possible about it, and Wednesday we'll be taking Griffin to see it in person.

I just find it deeply moving that the people who are responsible for it coming about had the foresight and determination to see this symbol of our nation's unity come to fruition. I think I am also still saddened by the Fort Hood tragedy, but seeing this ship has sent my emotions into overload, once again. I have such mixed feelings about the wars and our government, I'm truly torn when thinking about the future of our armed forces.

I guess I have this maternal feeling of responsibility to all of the men and women who protect our safety both here and abroad including the police, firefighters, marines, army, navy, coast guard, and anyone else I'm forgetting. Though I would cringe at the suggestion that Griffin someday enter into one of these incredible fields, I realize he may feel the need to serve his country this way and so I hope I would be able to support it. Because all of these people are somebody's son and somebody's daughter, let alone husband, wife, father, mother etc.

It makes me want to do small things for these people if and when I can. I try to buy police officer's coffee if I see them in line behind me at the bodega. And I keep procrastinating but will eventually bake something to take to my neighborhood firehouse too. I want to take Grif to see the ship so that one day we can talk about 9/11 and hopefully he'll feel some of these same emotions too. So, I guess I just wanted to share the story of this ship with you to get you thinking.

Probably Not Going to Make "Most Popular" with This One...

Alright, I admit it, I'm a card carrying member of a "Mom's Group". I'm not proud of it, but at this point, it's either talk crochet and crockpots or completely lose my mind. Now where's my damn knitting needle?

So to carry my weight in the Mom's Group I've posted several memo's on our google page from time to time. The last post being yesterday and involving the first mention in 2 months of a night out for the mom's to leave the kids behind with dad and finally get to know each other a little more than, "Sara! Get that light plug out of your mouth!" or "I've changed 15 poopy diapers today!" Do you see the problem here?

Cut to this morning when I eagerly log in to check all of the hits I've gotten on my Night Out invite and do you want to know what I saw?

(MNO) Mom's Night Out
By Teresa B* - Nov 5 - 1 author - 0 replies

W.O.W. Not only do I have no prospects for sanity here, I'm now the "Bad Mom" because clearly I "don't care" about my kid and his infinite poopy diapers and lego stacking abilities. I'm sure the group owner is scouring her google capabilities to see how fast she can un-join me from the group. But I've got news for you, Crazy Mom Group Ladies, I hate crochet! In fact. I've had the same scarf in progress for 3 YEARS, and I'm damn proud of it. So shove that in your crockpot and slow-cook it.

And Now You Know Why My Cable Guy is on Speeddial

Big plans for the weekend, huge (compared to my normal plans verging on minute). Griffin's going to carve his first pumpkin. Well actually, I'm going to carve it and then after covering him head to toe with dropcloths, give him all of the pumpkin innards to play with. After which I will photograph him and show you later, because that's what parents do. They humiliate their offspring and publicize it for laughs. And in response, said offspring spend their entire lives trying to even the score. Now you never need to watch another Dr. Phil episode again. Didn't think you'd reap such an amazing benefit from reading my stuff, now did you? Consider yourself gifted with the majesty of avoiding Dr. Douchbag.

In related news, you know how most of my friends are tv personalities? Yeah, you too? Good, I love when we find things in common. We'd kill on eHarmony Olympics. Anyway, I've talked before about Op's and Ellen, but recently I have a major crush on the entire cast of 30 Rock. Like insane group crush. Not your usual Jim and Pam - 2 person crush, nope the whole shebang. It's not that I want to be on the show as a castmember, I just want their characters to be real life people that I work with. Then I for sure wouldn't be falling asleep at my desk every half hour... What? Did I say that? Ha.

What did people do before sitcoms? Horror.

Yep, I Did That.

To save you the trouble of googling this before you send an email to the entire department that confirms the suspicions that you're a flaming idiot.

Moot Vs. Mute.

Anything I can do to help my fellow 'Intellectually Challenged' persons.

In other news, on my way to work this morning a man walking his 5 year old daughter to school gave me the once over and proclaimed, "God Bless You". And hereafter my list:
1. Shut up, you're walking your daughter to school.
2. What the hell does that even mean anyway? Do I need blessed today?
3. I reiterate: You, with a 5 year old (though she is insanely cute with her pink backpack) = not hot.
4. I do confess that the blessing was much classier than the whistle, the profanity, or the gesturing but still - 5 year old. Gross.

I Get It! Frigid-Air! Silly GE.

Temperature Alert: It is f-ing FREEZING here. When did that happen? Where have I been that I didn't notice it until my fingers were so stiff I could no longer type or pull my pants up after visiting the you-know-where? I mean don't get me wrong, I love October. But we could use a little easing into winter instead of this frat party bingefest of frigid air and freezing rain. Like give me an orientation week or two, at least.

Hold on, my Pandora's way too loud.

There, much better for think/writing. Plus, I just noticed the people in the hallway are headbanging to my Beyonce and that is so not cool. My Beyonce. Mine.

Can you tell I have a 14 month old? No? Yes? No? (Welcome to Parenthood. Now you get why Mommy needs her cocktail.)

My little buddy is getting so big these days. In true genetic brilliance he said his first sentence the other day. "Dada byebye". And he even knew how to use punctuation after quotation marks correctly. Sheer genius. He also picked up an acorn at the playground, (because out of all the amazing and fun looking pieces of equipment he could possibly play with he chooses small choke hazards - why do I feel karma is associated with this reality?) and held it up in one hand while using his other hand to sign "eat" to me with a question mark in his eyebrows. PEOPLE. Maybe you don't understand that this translates into English as "Hello, I will be the next leader of the free world", but that is exactly what it does. Just saying.

It IsTime For Change

Seeing as how it's Fall, I've made an executive decision that it is New Leaf Day in our household. There has got to be a way to squeeze more productivity from my day, and by God, I'm going to find out how. Starting with writing, I have got to get my act together and write more. I think some of this problem stems from the fact that when I'm crazy busy I feel like I don't have the time to write something great. And if I can't create something quasi-intelligible, I don't want to even bother with the time.

So more on this later, the babe is a-stirring, but what would you do on New Leaf Day?

*Brainstorm #3* They Also Drink Out of the Toilet

Does anyone else find it offensive that dog food commercials now very closely resemble TGI Friday's commercials? Maybe it's just me but the day I buy Chef Michael's Canine Creations for our dog is the day I iron my dinner napkins (or in other words, never). Plus, they try to sell the food because it looks like table food when in reality it looks like chunky dog food covered in gravy.

Attention Chef Michael advertising committee: the people of America do not think your commercial is appetizing. Because *Brainstorm #1* we can tell the difference between real food and dog food. What was that team meeting like: I know! Let's appeal to the people who think regular dog food does not look appetizing enough for their dogs! *Brainstorm #2* let me put this delicately: dogs lick their own butts. Are you really concerned they may not find dry dog food appetizing?

I have a better idea, can you do anything for Olive Garden? They need you now more than ever.

Note to Self: Dye Hair Before 15-Year

Why haven't I told you about my 10 year high school reunion yet? Why? Why? Why? Because I don't care if you have never met anyone from my high school at all, this is an entertaining story.

I'll skip over the part where I was either gigantically popular or enormously stupid which led me to be our senior class president, but I was. Which leaves me forever strapped to the responsibility of planning our reunions, and thereby receiving months and months of hate-mail emails telling me what a horrible job I'm doing, and how the reunion is going to suck, and how my eyebrows are uneven. *Highlight.* And maybe some would even say I deserve the hate email because I don't "plan things in advance" or "give a shit", but I say to those people, "f%$^ off" and if you would rather snort spaghetti through your nose than come to a reunion planned by me, than go for it Chef Boyardee. L'chaim.

My idea for our reunion involved two things: people and booze. Now, maybe I'm a little conceited here but I didn't estimate it taking me very long to secure these things for the party, like, all of 4.7 seconds of my time. Which must have just really pissed some people off. Wait I retract, there was a good 15 minutes it took me to stop and pick up sticky name tags, 15 minutes 4.7 seconds total. Added to some serious Facebook and emailing efforts to reach people and we were in the money.

Day of reunion arrives and Grant and I get there early, but not early enough because there was already 4 or 5 people waiting. Wow, the enthusiasm. I measure the evening on several points that added up to an all out raging success. The points are as follows:

- Out of 210ish classmates, around 80 were in attendance.

- A total of 4 people were cut off at the bar before 9pm.

- The cops were called 3 times.

- My tab was under $100.

If not for some minor fall backs (ie the bartender recognized me immediately as the "older sister" of one of her friends and ps she graduated high school in 2005), I was thrilled to have so many people there and watch everyone having a great time together. Especially, the part where our former classmate cornered Grant by the bar to give him this card before launching into a 15 minute narrative about his trip to the Netherlands for the Redhead Convention. Let that just sink in for a minute. Poor guy spent the entire party trying to locate every person in our class who had red hair to initiate them into the club. And by the way, you have to have a passcode to get into the website. Those redheads don't joke around. But by far, my favorite comment of the night was his and his alone, "Hey Mike, does your sister still have red hair?".

A-may-zing.

Flying My Bird to the One I Love

Have I told you about my hatred of flying? Well, I kind of freak out a tad and then there's the packing cluster f*^% that is my part time hobby considering how much we travel on a weekly basis. So all in all, it's a horrible experience for all parties involved. And since you know me so well by now, you know I have a husband story that I'm gearing up to tell you, right? Right!

You be the judge, do I need more shit going on when we fly to add to the 12 overweight bags that are costing me 1,000's of $$ that I don't have, which I have to now pay for online to save 15 bucks (because you know if there's 15 whole dollars to save I will walk to Nebraska, skin a goat, build an igloo, and be back before lunch thank-you-very-much), as well as online check-in to save us 15 minutes, and a screaming baby attached to my body by some chinese torture straight-jacket, and 398 liquids that are neither less than 3 oz, nor in a plastic ziplock bag, and God knows how I feel about the laptop that is completely pointless to take on a 3 day trip, but if he wants to take the GD thing then fine, take the GD thing, just don't ask me to help you at the conveyor belt because I also have a stoller, a diaper bag, a carry-on suitcase, and a purse all packed with roughly way too much crap that will probably be exploded on the other side of the x-ray scanner, just as they stop the husband for a 25 minute pat down because did I ever tell you that he is the Incredible Steel-Machinery man with at least 45% of his body made up of metal and or iron of some sort? Well, do I?

No. The answer is I do not need more rediculous shit to encumber me through airport security.

And yet.

After actually successfully maneuvering myself, my crap, and my screaming baby through the above cluster f%#*, I'm hobbling through the terminal towards the gate when my husband chases me down to tell me I have to go back out through security and check his carry-on suitcase at the counter because (wait for it) they won't let him carry-on his Gigantic Electric Power Drill.

[Blink.]

[Blink, blink.]

[Head ever so slowly tilts to one side.]

Friends. I started out under the premise that this is a safe place here on this site and I want it to remain one, so I will not actually tell you the 4 letter and 7 letter words I had to share with my happily wedded husband at that moment. I'll leave that for my diary and my shrink (read: bottle of vodka). Just take faith that I will never have to instruct Grant to forego packing the powertools in his GD carry-on bag ever again. Enough said.

How I Fired My Editor

What's awesome these days? Ooh! I know. How about teenage acne? I think I'd like to single handedly bring it back in style for the 20-something crowd. Hey, what can I say. I'm a trend setter!

And in other things that make my life awesomer, I'm about to leave work for a much needed 2 week vacation and everyone decided to flip the f out at me yesterday for taking my God-given right to paid time off. Bon Voyage, A-holes!

In conclusion, I don't know if I've told you before how I am frequently and rudely edited by my not-so-literary husband from time to time. (I mean his idea of writing involves Microsoft Excel. Can you imagine the horror?) Well, it just happened again and in response I've decided to tell you horrible stories about him here. Witness:

A few weeks back we ran the NYC half marathon together. I believe it was his idea and I was actually excited to participate (this isn't the horrible part). We did an okay job training for it and ran some of our training runs together with the Maestro in the baby jogger, which was cool and grown up of us. Cut to the week or two before the race when my training topped out at 7 miles and I would receive daily emails from the husband bragging about his 9 mile run, and his 10.5 mile run yada yada. To which I swiftly told him to shove his feet alternatingly into his behind. Along comes race day and we think we're ready. If you've ever participated in a run like this or any long course athletic venture you know what I mean when I say we "thought" we were ready. Because for the rest of you, you have no f-ing clue if you're ready or not, you're just hoping you don't die or get picked up by the ambulance for moving slower than the pace of time.

We're about 1 mile into the 13.1 mile death course when Grant loses his shit on me and screams that "You're running too fast! I can't keep up with your pace! WHY DO YOU KEEP RUNNING ONE STEP AHEAD OF ME?! As soon as I catch up, you speed up!" And trust me, I took pity on you by limiting my exclamation points to 4 in that excerpt. So there I am standing dumbfounded in the middle of 4 million racers, trying to estimate the time loss I'll experience by strangling my husband and chopping his legs off.

Turns out I didn't have the time. Lucky for him.

E.I.F.S. Exercise Induced Flip-out Sessions

Now I've seen it all. Several medical phenomena have occurred this weekend and I feel it's only right to notify the press about them (ie post it here).

1. (Did you miss my lists?)

2. I did not die during the NYC Half Marathon yesterday.

3. I did not die after the NYC Half Marathon yesterday.

D. I am still alive today.

E. Those little emotional-hormonal "episodes" that start when you're pregnant, peak post partum, and continue through breastfeeding months are still here and make themselves known when it's not at all medically necessary. (Let me explain).

I sent a mini-mass email to my family before the race to let them know I might require one of their assistance with Medical Power of Attorney should Grant and I both die during said race. And I got several responses of good luck and encouragement back. Upon which, when reading these I started balling and hyperventilating simultaneously. Then, I emailed everyone after the race telling them that in fact, we did not die but are mostly completely incapacitated from soreness. To which I got several more notes of congrats. To which I read with tears streaming down my face. Finally, I wrote my friends in NY a note thanking them for helping us out over the weekend with the Little Man and for their support and love. During which I again sat staring at the keyboard, wondering why the letters were swimming together in a pool of tears through 2 swollen eyes. I mean. WTF? It's just a freaking jog through the park. Get a grip, Weirdo. There are much more pressing matters to worry about.

Like what we're going to do without Paula.

And PS. if this is what exercising does to you, then I'm f-ing out. Nuf said.

To The Tune of "Please Don't Go Girl"

Dear Tikka Masala In My Belly,

I thoroughly apologize for what I did to you today, but the thing is you're so amazing that I had to have you all to myself. Sure, I contemplated saving half of you for tomorrow, but swiftly realized there was not going to be anything leftover once my craving was fed. I mean, honestly? I almost lost a few fingers mixed in with the naan. If it's any consolation, the Palak Paneer didn't stand a chance either. If anything, I think you should be flattered that if you were being held captive by the North Korean government I wouldn't send in Bill, I'D SEND IN JESUS. Do you understand my love for you now? Okay. Good.

Now tomorrow is another day. And maybe, just maybe I'll leave some of you for the next day. (But more than likely not because I don't work on Friday and there is no way you're staying in that fridge until Monday so I better just finish you off tomorrow as well.)

Salaam,

India-or-Bust

Didn't Davy Crockett Die There?

Now I will readily admit that remembering historical dates is not one of my most intense forte's. Nor was it during middle or high school when I was actively learning it. How I managed to get through those classes without failing, is still a mystery up there with MJ's toxicology report but at least it's over, right? However, I do have some sort of sentimental need to visit historical sites and imagine myself living through whatever battle or march or wagontrain adventure that once took place there. Hence my intense desire to see the Alamo when we were in San Antonio a few weeks back.

My best friend from high school, (and coincidentally college as well) and the only one who can make me scream laugh instantaneously by imitating yours truly, got married to the cutest Texan podiatrist you have ever met. And we all know how those guys grow on trees down there, am I right? So we trooped the fam down south for the main event and had an awesome 3 days catching up with friends, tubing down the Gruene River, and 2-stepping our pants off at the reception. It went way too fast and everyone was gone before I even had the time to get sick of them. The nerve.

When I booked the trip to the Great State, I decided to give us a late flight out on Sunday so we didn't have to rush around totally hung over in the morning only to realize we missed our flight which left us time to sightsee for a hair or two. All weekend we had been trying to find something to do that day until someone casually mentioned they had went to see the Alamo the day before. WHAT? You mean there's actually an ALAMO? And it's in my near vicinity? And there followed several straight hours of me chanting: MUST SEE ALAMO. MUST SEE ALAMO. So that together with Griffin screaming about the heat and his dislike of his rental car seat, directly led to Grant's head exploding several times that day. Holy Matrimony, Batman.

Eventually, we worked our way to downtown San Antonio and found a parking garage relatively near where we thought the Alamo was. ALAMO. ALAMO. ALAMO. We pack up Grif in the stroller and laden ourselves down with 80 million pounds of shit and no I don't know why, but we're parents and that is what parents do. And we've walked two steps out of the garage before the heat of Satan's Inferno descends on the 3 of us and we almost spontaneously combust right there on Main Street. Did you know that about San Antonio in July? I guess I should have been tipped off when I learned San Antonio actually means Satan's Inferno. (Yeah-huh.) Somehow we make it the 3 blocks to the ALAMO and we enter the grounds. The gardens are beautiful and there are these huge big billowy trees giving shade to the crumbling old stone walls that you can tell were hand stacked way back in something-07. The place was packed and we tried in vain to wander around taking it all in as quickly as possible before death overtook us in the form of a Flaming Grim Reaper. Grant kept asking to leave but I hadn't quite had my historical site fix so I kept inventing things to show him so we'd have to stay a little longer.

Finally, after a grueling 2 hours of the heat I give in and we walk back to the car. We're sitting in the cool of the air conditioner waiting to pull out of our parking spot when Grant goes, "What the hell happened at the Alamo?"

Though I really wished I could scream at him for an insensitivity to the sweat, toil, and sacrifice of our forefathers, I could only say, "Hell if I know, that's why I picked up this brochure".

Ah history. I can only hope to impart such a keen sense of nostalgia to our son someday.

Altogether Not Together

Let's do a spit polish on our relationship here so we can get past it and move on, okay? I've been extremely neglectful of Laugh More and I realize none of you have laughed since July 7th which is entirely inexcusable. Now, on to bigger and better things.

My boobs are my own again! Rejoice with me. And take this moment to mentally note that you owe your mother a whole hell of a lot of nice Salt Water Taffy for giving you the benefit of breastmilk because let me tell you, it is not pretty nor non-labor-intensive to do so. But alas, I've made it a year, well almost, 11 months and that's close enough for me (except when it's a measurement of days past your 4th Anniversary that your husband hasn't gotten you a gift, and then a month's leeway is absof-inglutely not acceptable). I digress.

In other news, and to link two bits of otherwise unrelated information: 1.) It's Shark Week and 2.) My baby is about to turn 1 year old on Sunday. Now, these two seemingly unrelated events are in fact, quite related. To quantify how rediculously insane female reproductive hormones are, and how debilitating they can be to 51% of our population, I must expain about my emotions and feelings and "issues" with having my baby turn 1. I have found sentimental and/or emotionally devastating all things that I come in contact with lately. Exhibit: Shark Week.

Last weekend we threw a little Pre-1st Birthday party in Riverside Park for the big man and on our way down there, I noticed the billboard sporting the "Shark Week is Coming!" advertisement (that coincidentally was the same billboard that said it last year too - quirky this little City we have here), and completely had a full on hyperventilatory break down. ........ What the mother loving h*ll. So I smacked my own face several times and asked it, "why are you nostalgic about Shark Week?" And my face said, "because, you heartless cow, my baby was born just after Shark Week last year!" And then I said, "you're right! And I am a heartless cow. Now let's both cry and if Grant asks what's the matter let's yell at him, ok?"

So yes, Shark Week ended with a bang and a flying placenta last year and that is how my baby is related to sharks. Swiftly on the heels of this psychotic break, I also thought to myself, I bet Stacey posted about Shark Week this week. And sure enough: Shaaaaaark Week!! I love my friends.

Zest-fully Clean

Quick, be quiet, I don't have much time.

Since returning to work has amounted to me working 168 hours a week and overtime, I have very little time to update you. But I've been dieing to talk to you, so work is on hold and you are my focus for the next 3.75 minutes.

Several orders of business: I got my hair cut again, circa 2 years ago and since every time I get my hair cut anywhere my only request be it Super Cuts or Bumble and Freaking Steal-Your-Money Bumble is to cut it so I don't have to do anything short of apply shampoo and conditioner to get out of the house in the morning, they succeeded in selling me some bullshit product for $25 that is supposed to make it look like I "spent the day at the beach". Revelation: "spending the day at the beach" hair looks like shit. And so I cannot fault Bumble for ripping me off because I'm the asshole who bought the product with full disclosure. Henceforth, I arrive at work every morning to people saying things like, "Wow, it was that kind of night, huh?" Yes ma'am, I spent the whole night flying a kite in a rainstorm trying to recreate the great experiments of one truly amazing Benjamin Franklin. Thank you for noticing.

On another note, did you know that my neighborhood post office, the one that I was truly moving to my neighborhood specifically for because in my last neighborhood it took 2.5 hours, $75, and three desert sheiks to get to totally pissed me off, you know that one? Well, did you know it opens conveniently at 8am? And that subsequently you can go before work to do your posting business, only not exactly so because the tellers don't start working until 9am? Now shouldn't the person who thought up this fantastic idea be promoted? I'd say. Promoted to uprighting tipped over porta-potties. Whew, it's a cleansing morning for me today, and I already feel better.

Last but not least, I am uber excited to be in my BFFFFFF's wedding on Saturday in a beautiful dress that is totally sexy and when I went to get it altered, the 107 year old Russian seamster (?) said, "hubba hubba", it looks that good. On an unrelated note, if you happen to wear a size 9 ladies dress shoe and happen to have a pair of silver heels in that size, would you like to overnight them to me so I can have them for sure by Saturday morning? Thank you. Totally random question, I know. Kidding Sara! Totally kidding...

Happy Tuesday! Alternate side of the street parking is in effect.

Well, Do You?!

The second series of events set in motion during the Pallone Hotel Patio Fiasco of 2009 was my dad showing up after wandering in the wrong courtyard looking for us for some undisclosed amount of time that might have resembled about an hour. Dad shows up with his suitpants and a white t-shirt on and immediately takes a seat of honor and beer from Vince. Gina offers him a brownie, to which he automatically says, "These aren't marijuana brownies, are they?" .......

Because did you know, my family is big on marijuana brownies? And especially serving them on hotel patios? With a million kids around? And especially offering one to my dad? Well, I didn't either. Cut to the rest of us just losing our shit again and it taking a good 5 minutes to regain breathing function before we're able to have a conversation. Now I see where we all get it from. Epiphany.

Which isn't even the funniest part, a while later my dad leans over to my brother in law Mike and says, "Hey Mike, how would you ask an old lady if she wants some chicken?"



And so ends the rest of any coherent conversation during that evening because the only thing that happened after that was a series of different people in different pitch ranges, with differing volumes screaming at the top of their lungs, respectively, "DO YOU WANT SOME CHICKEN?!"

The end.

DO YOU WANT SOME CHICKEN?!

Let me explain.

This past weekend was my cousin on my father's side, Dominic's wedding in Ohio. 2, repeat 2 weeks ago I decided to pack the whole fam-damly up and go home for it. Leading up to our departure a series of hectic things occurred, per usual, and had me contemplating my intelligence score several times over. However, with the promise of things to come in my head, I persevered and boy was I not disappointed.

The wedding was beautiful, outdoors, under the shade of giant oak trees on the front lawn of this tiny little Inn in Granville, OH. After the ceremony, we all smashed inside for the dinner and dancing (aka. free Budweiser and wine). We danced a little, ate a lot, smoked cigars on the patio, and imbibed on a few free beverages. Then the beer ran out. So they broke out Bud Lite bottles and the party really got started. Excuse me, it's hot in her'.

Round about 8:45ish pm the little one was getting tired and we decided to continue the party back at our hotel where we could put him to sleep, go next door and drink the rest of the night away with my siblings. My brother Vince and his wife Heidi came with and voila! Grif hit the sack immediately and we were 3 or 7 drinks in, as well as 3 or 5 philosophical convo's in, by the time the rest of the fam showed up.

Needless to say, more drinks were poured and consumed hastily. And the first of 2 series of events was set in motion: I'm jittery still thinking of how hard we were laughing, or maybe that's the coffee. Who cares anyway. So, all of our rooms had walk out patios to this central courtyard thingy. We were on Vince and Heidi's patio and had accumulated round about 14 chairs from miscellaneous departments for all to have a seat. Mindi, my other sister in law, was the first victim. She was only maybe 1 or 2 drinks into the hotel scene when she decided to go back in the room for something and whamo right into the screen door, full tilt and dropped like a hotcake right ontop of Grant who was the lucky one in the chair closest to the door. What else would you do when you make a fool out of yourself in front of a hugemungous group of people, she blames Grant for "pushing her into the screen door", right.

Next up was Julia, Mindi and Noah's 7 year old daughter. She's talking and walking and talking and whamo II. Screen door meet Julia face. Hello? How are you? For this we try to muster not laughing so as not to hurt the little one's feelings, but no sooner is she out of earshot before we lose it and 1 if not 2 unnamed victims slightly peed themselves.

Third time's a charm and my sister Marie was that lucky charm. She decided to take a different approach and run through the screen from inside the room coming out, so we all got to see her face as she realized mesh is not as forgiving as once thought. And this was a pivotal run-in because she set the screendoor off the track. Setting up the 4th and finale of all screen door run-ins: Noah.

So in an attempt to encourage more gathering and boozing, my brother Noah went to his car to get 2 bag chairs he brought from home to set up outside. He was returning to the patio, from inside the room, 2 bag chairs over the shoulders and a beer in hand. Not only does he smack the screen door with his forehead, knock it to the ground and faceplant, he does it without dropping the chairs or his drink. It was a hotel patio miracle folks, and I wish you were there. Who needs church when you have God making miracles happen every day?

And I'll go on record here as the one who peed my pants, no qualms about it. And yes, it was well worth it.

The Next Billy Elliot Emmerges

In terms of stressful life events I'm going to go ahead and throw out a 9 on the 1-10 scale these days. Can I decompress a minute? So in a nutshell, (Help! How did I get in this tiny nutshell?!), in the nutshell, the lazy, gradual merge back into the working world that I was planning on has taken a turn for the worse. But for good reason. The girl, Erin, who had previously taken over my work responsibilities post flying placenta is pregnant and I am awaiting her delivery to return to work part time. However, after a cleverly orchestrated maneuver with the bosses, we worked it so I could return a little early to "review" all the new goings on in our department so I would know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing there when I return.

After exactly 2 half-days of reviewing, Erin's baby decided he couldn't possibly miss this year's Tony awards and so Evan was born last Friday afternoon. Mama and babe are healthy and happy and loving life currently, whilst I shi# my pants because we have about 4 million things going on and I don't even know which button turns on the new printer in my office. Holy Xanax, Robin.

Remind me why I wanted so desperately to return to the working life of bees? At this point I would like to retract those statements and go back to wearing my pajamas all day and drinking 14 cups of coffee while watching my tivo'd episodes of Home Sweet Hollywood and Top Chef. Sorry about the confusion. No, I don't want to mastermind the entire department's study enrollment nor send out faculty emails about research updates or really even wear my hospital id. So leave me alone. Now pass me my coffee.

Cough Up the 79 Cents for the Gerber Crap, It's Worth It

Round about 5 months ago I lost my mind. I decided that rather than buy perfectly good (and organic mind you) jarred baby food from the neighborhood grocery store, I would make him his first baby foods from scratch. Please don't let this cloud your judgement of me, I am college educated and got that stupid little gold emblem in the corner of my degree to boot. But alas, I embarked on a journey that there was no turning back from. And so help me, if this child ever once raises his voice to me or comes home after curfew you better believe he's going to get an earfull of homemade baby food ranting and several pots and pans thrown at him. I'm just saying.

Homemade baby food preparation, regardless of what your Homemade Baby Food Preparation Made Simple book will tell you, is basically everything you don't have rolled into 1 fantastic endeavor. You don't have the 3 hours it takes to start, prepare, and finish the process, you don't have the 14 extra pans it will require to successfully cook and store said food, you definitely forgot several of the ingredients required for 1 "simple"recipe, and you sure as hell don't have the patience to follow the "simple" directions. Start with this knowledge and you'll be far ahead of where I was when I lost my brain function trying to accomplish it. I would right my own book but it would be short, "Homemade Baby Food Preparation Rules: smack yourself in the forehead with a large steel soup ladle. The end."

Here follows a pictographic montage of the destruction involved in baby food prep 101: (You hilariously think you'll accomplish this whole task while the baby is taking his nap. You funny, funny lady).

It starts out simple enough with a few pots, a food processor, and some storage containers.
Only you didn't have the storage containers when you started cooking so you had to stop mid-prep to run on an hour and a half errand to Babies R Us to get some. Oh and the baby gets up as soon as you return. Awesome.
Then while you're cleaning, peeling, chopping, steaming, boiling, and processing the food, the baby freaks out. Pause for baby redirecting and distraction techniques 1-4.
By now you're accumulating more dirty dishes, silverware, tupperware, and towels than you ever realized existed on this planet.
And then you start dropping miscellaneous pieces of food, ie a carrot which swiftly becomes part of the dog's organic food preparation, not what you had in mind when you lost your mind taking on this project.But finally, finally it is finished and your freezer is full of several home made baby food items which you cannot wait to try out on the baby because he is going to LOVE it, love, love, love...

Oh, he really hates, hates, hates it? He really makes a face so horrific you have to close your eyes lest you turn to stone? He really uses his entire body, cowlick to toenail, to gag on one small spoonful of carrots and sweet potatoes? Ha! Hahaha. Ha. Good one, Life! Life = 24, Me = 0.

There's More to Love Than Just the Irish Butter

Something crazy happens when I go over to my neighbor/landlord's house. I lose track of time and, or possibly because of, the fact that the baby behaves himself for extended periods of time. Did you hear that? To my friends who've not yet sprung life from their gonads, I will interpret: (in list form, of course)

a.) When you have a baby it's so easy at first because they're basically a stationary object, much like a giant hungry potato.
b.) When the baby grows, it acquires many new skills which are amazing and adorable.
c.) Eventually you realize God makes babies cute because the trick's on you and those adorable skills now render you a homebound, shut-in bunch of haywire nerves ready to self destruct at every moment and around every bend.

But for some reason, which may have something to do with several facts concerning how my neigh/lords are straight off the boat Irish, drink like fish, resemble TV characters, and speak in accents thicker than molasses, Griffin is completely at home and relaxed and good. I don't even dare talk about it less I break some kind of spell and he turns back into the firebreathing couch clutcher he once was long ago. Brrrr.

Anyhow, the neighlords are so sweet they are kind of obscene. Friends, listen. They actually love to cook me dinner. Comprende? Also? They push alcohol on me like they're my own flesh and blood. And that says AMEN all over it. I haven't been treated this nice since before I hit puberty and my parents decided I was adopted. The majesty. Needless to say I'm pretty much over there every day and you know its bad when I don't even bitch at Grant for coming home so late because I'm 3 sheets* and it's 10pm before I even know it. So what if my new best friends are 60+ years old? At least they can order off the Seniors menu at Bob Evans. What can you do?

*To the wind. Aka: shitty, shitty, bang, bang.

That's Why Grif's Not Allowed to Watch Extreme Home Makeover

So today was my first official day back to work post-'flying placenta' and it was a success. I had mixed feelings going in and Grif definitely smelled a rat (and one pro of living in BFE Bronx is that I know there's not a rat dead in my apartment somewhere, sorry B to the rooklyn) so he would not leave my side all morning as I got ready and the nanny came to take over. But he adapted and was good and happy and alive when I returned, which far exceeded my expectations of him shooting up heroin while pimping hookers in a craigslist sex crime ring while simultaneously clubbing a baby dolphin, shotgunning BPA, and misspelling s-e-p-a-r-a-t-e. Horror.

Work is an absolute shit show right now and reminds me of the Guinness Book guy who has to spin 43 plates simultaneously off of different parts of his body, a guy whom I have never admired nor even fully appreciated because, hello? Why are you doing that? You aggravate me, Guy. Stop it before I flick your nuts and really piss you off. You'll thank me later. But all in all, I'm glad I'm busy and don't have to think about the heroin and the grammar catastrophes because I would surely give up on the whole "living in the black" idea and go back to where we're comfortable, flaming hot in the red.

Enough about my gay friend, let's talk gossip. I don't want to name drop, but I kind of do, and so I must tell you I'm a bridesmaid in a wedding this fall wherein the bride's bachelorette party is in South Hampton this summer, ergo I will be in South Hampton this summer in a fatty bo batty house with a pool and I'm kind of so excited about it my eyebrows hurt, so there's that. And in total transparency I also must tell you that a certain Housewife of NYC that may or may not be affiliated with a certain reality TV show and is also a caterer may be playing a part in the bachelorette festivities. I need to be honest with you, it's kind of a big deal. So there's also that.

In summation, this is a good day and I'm on my second vodka and lemonade proceeded by two glasses of amazing red wine from my landlord/neighbor (I really have to tell you about him) and I am feeling Tony the Tiger: Grrreat. And I needed this like Ty Pennington needs Ritalin. You know it's bad. Holla.

Like A Short, White Oprah

Listen, I've been known to exaggerate a number or two to make a point*, who doesn't, but no exaggerating required to implore upon you to shoot and dismember the voice in your head if it ever tries to convince you to sign up for a half or full fledged marathon, because you will be forced to run 4,599 miles a day in preparation for your race. Now, maybe it's just the fat little short girl inside of me that thinks that's a bit ridiculous, but you be the judge. And when has that fat little short girl ever led me astray? She was right about the Skinny Cow ice cream, and that makes her credible in any language.

Nuf said.

PS. Grant's always trying to up his funny scale to make a cameo on this website, and recently he did by not even trying. He forwarded me his registration email for the NYC half marathon and the subject line was, "I'm an idiot". Several emails later he forwarded me my registration email, subject: "You're an idiot". Touche' my love, touche'.

*Did I tell you how upon hosting 2 friends to New York for the first time I told them Central Park was, "Like 7 acres big!"? No? Okay, pretend I never told you that.

Who Needs Marilyn Monroe...

...when you've got this Little Dude?
Happy Birthday, Mr. Laugh More!


And Caitlin, too!
Hats and candles courtesy of Stacey Marie Hall. Of course. (Streamer not pictured.)
Good times. And successful in terms of no one lost their dinner over the side of our front porch this time. Remind me to tell you the story of the weird British dude in Grant's MBA class. It's a keeper.

Centering

Yesterday, we spent the day in Central Park because, 1. It's Central Park and 2. the Bronx is not Central Park. The weather was amazing, there were thousands of people there, and it was spectacular. I'm less and less in love with NY every day, but that day in the park with awesome friends was one thing I will miss. There's something about picnicking with so many people, albeit strangers, that makes you feel like its not the biggest city in America, but more like a neighborhood block party.

It is also the only place we can take Mr. Grifster now where he is content and cannot get into too much trouble. I say not too much because several times I did find him chewing miscellaneous items of Mother Nature, eh, oh well. Our ancestors used to eat twigs and berries in Prehistoric times and they seemed to manage, right? It's good fiber anyway.

You tell me, is this the face of a kid who's not loving the hell out of himself? I concur.

Automatic Update

Listen, we have a lot to cover in a very short time, so zip it and listen.

Item 1: I have not had much time to post lately because Griffin has morphed into some kind of rollerskating chimpanzee on steroids and caffeine. (Watch for his piece on Ripley's Believe It or Not).
Item 2: We just returned from 2 weeks in Ohio visiting family/ hosting a baby shower/ attending baptisms/ I can't even remember what happened so I'm a little on the fritz.
Item 3: Hunter the Magnificent is currently at summer camp at Grandma and Grandpa's horse farm which surprisingly is making me appreciate the little bastard a lot more. (Holy backfire, Batman).
Item 4: I think I've entered the hysterical phase of parenthood, brought on possibly by the fact that my 9 month old refuses to sleep more than 2.5 hours consecutively, and when I found a completely foreign pair of brand new, never before worn pair of dyeable bridesmaid shoes* in my closet, size 6.5 (because you know I haven't fit into a shoe that small since Janet Jackson had a hit album) I started hysterically laughing until I almost peed myself.
Item 5: I return to work in exactly 9 days [Insert gasp and music crescendo here].
Item 6: I have more items on my to do list than OJ has felony charges.
Item 7: The contents of my frig include a spoiled gallon of milk, frozen broccoli, and 42 Yuengling. (Who says making your own baby food is hard? Who?!)

If I think of any other notable items, I'll call you. Better yet, I'll show up on your doorstep asking you for money and I accept personal checks.

*If these perchance are yours, I'll sell them back to you for $49.99 or a month of babysitting. You're welcome, that's what friends are for.

The Swine and I

Have you heard the one about the crazy lady who spent all day on Craigslist trying to find affordable (ha! What's affordable to a family with no income?!) toys to stimulate her son's brain so as to teach him to save the world in his adult life? And then after unsuccessfully securing any toys or strollers she finally finds fresh meat in her own neighborhood and spends the entire evening tracking down the woman who posted several toys were available because said woman had to move back to Israel? But then while in the process of cleaning said Woman from Israel out of house and home and simultaneously breaking the heart of Israel Woman's little girl for "stealing" all her toys, Crazy Lady finds it odd that Israel Woman is hacking up a lung, eyes and nose running like 2 leaky faucets, but shrugs it off for sheer joy of securing cheap toys?

Then cut to several moments later when it dawns on Crazy Lady that Lady from Israel must have the Swine Flu? Therefore, said Swine Flu must have been passed through Crazy Lady to her son, who had a runny nose so she convinced herself and anyone in earshot that he had swine flu and was on his death bed? Mind you the boy is a playing machine who hasn't stopped sprinting the length of her apartment for 2 seconds in the past 3 days. But it's swine flu. Of course he has swine flu. He must have it. And the entire world's population will die in exactly 2.5 hours. Then the lady passed out cold because her brain decided there was faulty wiring somewhere or perhaps it absorbed too much bleach from the cleaning fluid she soaked all the toys in for 17 hours so as to kill any remaining Swine Flu Virus.

Ha ha. That was a good one.

Today, Yada Yada, Vol. 9

I almost, almost roundhouse kicked a woman's ass for selling a jogger right out from under me. I haven't been this mad since Kathie Lee joined the Today Show.

Downward Facing Dog Sleep Manuever Expert

Air conditioner, I love you.

Last night was the first night of the season for our AC to be on and it was the most glorious night of sleep I've had since I discovered Jamocha shakes at Arby's. There's something about the loud whirring white noise that puts me into a coma. The bambino loved it as well, because listen to me now, he's still asleep. Do you understand what it's like to sleep till 9am when that hasn't happened in over a year and a half? It's like chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast followed by banana walnut pancakes swimming in banana butter. (Whoa, I'm heavy into the junkfood analogies this morning, my apologies). I'll I'm trying to say is, hell yes in a handbasket.

Though I drifted off to sleep ticking off dollar amounts that will be reflected on our next Con Ed bill, I don't even care about the money. That's right, it's not your imagination, I said I don't care about going broke to pay an electric bill that is insanely offensively high because of my selfish need to sleep in air conditioned spirituality. It's just the way it is. I'll bitch about paying $1.29 for a fountain diet pepsi at Wendy's, but I will not utter a word about the electric bill in the summer. No, siree. You can't put a price on sleep quality in this house. It's a mythical being right up there with unicorns and no national deficit.

But what makes my day is seeing Griffin's pose of choice during sleep these days. One night he was sleeping scooted all the way up against the end of the crib, with his feet straight up in the air. Another favorite is face down in the mattress on his elbows and knees with his butt up in the air. Two days ago he was completely passed out sitting Indian style. We have one of those video monitors and watching his night time routine is better than 30 Rock. Yeah, I said it. Eat that, Tina Fey.

Recently, friends took mercy on us for being cooped up in New York during the longest winter in America to invite us up to Connecticut for the weekend. I think Griffin's face here sums up how excited we all* were to get out of dodge and enjoy some sunshine and green grass.
Erica and Carter, you are the butter to my lobster roll (which we inhaled at the fish shack on our way home Sunday). We needed this like the captain needed those Navy snipers.

I will try to sum up to those of you who do not live in NY the appeal of "weekending". At first it sounds like something those damn pretentious East coasters made up to flaunt their money, and I'm not denying that is somewhat true. But for the other 89% of the population who cannot afford a room in a hotel, let alone an estate in the Hamptons, traveling away for the weekend to go anywhere, be it roadside bus stop or midstream beaver dam, relieves the pressure of living in a city that eats crack for breakfast and breaths fire down your back every 5 seconds.

I'm going to go on record here and admit that if anyone invites us anywhere other than New York, and I can drive there before Grif has a complete meltdown in his carseat, I'm there like sequins on Cher's ass, that's right, for the long haul. So if you're sitting there reading this and thinking, is this a cheap plea to be invited to our summer home? Know this: YES, IT IS and NO, WE'RE NOT BUSY. You're welcome.
*No, Hunter didn't make the trip. Because when Momma's on vacation she don't pick up shit. Literally.

Bring It On, Mom Vs. Manny Edition

Lately Mother Nature and I have had somewhat of a falling out. I mistakenly thought we were homegirlz now that I've created, carried, and birthed another human life into this world, but alas, we are not. I guess all good friends tend to differ on certain subjects, and old Mama Nature and I differ on this: IT'S TOO F-ING COLD AND RAINY FOR MID-APRIL. Now, I'm not sure what she wants from me, perhaps I should have shot 2 babies and 2 placentas forth from my uterus to warrant a weightier opinion on the matter. And all I have to say to that is "Mother Nature, eat shit". You have forever caused my boobs and my ankles to be next door neighbors, and I can't sacrifice much more than that.So in light of our recent crappy weather, I took the bambino to the Children's Museum of Manhattan yesterday and I think my feelings about it can be summed up in the song: The Wind Beneath My Wings. This place makes McDonald's Playspace look like the Humane Society. And at this point in the winter (Because yes, fun fact: it's still winter in New York!) I'm not above taking him to the Humane Society and dropping him off for a little tummy time. He'd probably like it better than our matchbox apartment right now anyway. But thankfully, the CMOM saved us from flea bites and Children's services investigations, always a good thing.

The entire 3rd floor is a magical land of playthings for babies and crawlers especially. He spent 3 hours there and would have kept it up had not either of the following 2 things happened, which they did. 1. We'll just call her "hyperactive", hyperactive 6 year old Chuck Norris's him to the face with her shoes on. (Let me interpret that for any childless readers of this site: A GROWN woman tried to KILL my baby). And #2. I go completely apeshit on the grown woman's Manny and almost get arrested before deciding to quietly take my leave of CMOM.
In retrospect, no I do not expect that Grif will never get rough-housed or kicked, slapped, pushed around by other children. I guarantee he will. However, my issue is with the Manny and his utter inability to have a motherloving clue what he should be doing with the hyperactive 6 year old. Hey Manny, possibly taking a hopped up second grader to the baby room is not such a good idea, else you appreciate your ass being kicked by wackjob mom's on a regular basis.

You're Welcome,
The Management

All Aboard the Roller Coaster of Generational Differences

Because my new mom neurosis (or NMN) prohibits me from ever fully relaxing and permitting me 15 minutes of zone out time, the amazing massage I got last weekend did not extend to my brain. Whilst lieing face down on the massage table as Hannah took the muscles in my back hostage, I started philosophizing about the state of our union, meaning my personal life, and what it is lacking. I realized that I don't have that voice in my life that tells me "everything is going to be alright" anymore. I used to have it, but either it's on vacation or it got laid off. Now stay with me, I'm not trying to profess my downward spiral into depression (that's tomorrow's post), I'm just saying that I think my "voice" was the presence of my grandmother and even my grandmother-in-law in my life.

Our grandparents are a constant reminder that hey, you'll make it through this, because I'm here and therefore I made it through a lot of shit to get here. But with the loss of my grandmothers over the past few years, I've lost the incarnation of "this too shall pass" and "it's nothing in the grand scheme of things". I also doubt the fact that they ever realized they fulfilled this part of my life, and I post-it noted myself to tell them when I meet them again in Heaven*.

(*WOW, this is becoming one morbid piece of intellectual psycho-vomit, isn't it? Well, hold onto your toilet bowls, I'm not finished.)

So what are we left with? Our parents, the Baby Boomers. Now here's my biased and unresearched point of view. Though I feel for them and their current situation, the Baby Boomers (and I generalize the entire population from a few that I know) are kind of downers. They complain about being old, they don't understand technology, they abhor most of our generation's music, art, and pop culture. And as if they needed more to complain about, they are the same people who are currently watching their life savings and retirement funds dwindle to next to nothing. Congratulations! You partied like rock stars in the 70's, accumulated personal wealth, and now you're broke. Best wishes.

So my Easter message is this, everything is going to be okay. Those things I'm worried about? They will work themselves out. I have everything to be happy about. I will look at the beautiful things in my life and embrace how they make me feel. When I'm not doing so good, or having a bad case of Baby Boomer, I'm going to hold up those really special moments, memories, and feelings and let the happiness take over. The people who try to rope me with their lasso of misery? I'm shutting the door, phone, or computer on them. Because I'm not buying misery today. As a matter of fact, I'm selling bullshit and rainbows if anybody asks and I take Visa AND Mastercard. It's not always easy, and God knows I'm not great at it, but it beats the alternative every day and twice on Sundays.

Now go eat your Peeps.

Dr. Seuss Can't Hang

8 months and counting and again, I must ask the men to bear with me.

And now a short story:

Are You My Nipples?

Once there was a little girl who always wanted to be a mommy. (She also always wanted to be Christy Brinkley, but that's another story). One day the little girl grew up and married a wonderful man and they decided it was time to have a baby. (More like the tequila was talking, but isn't that how it always happens? I kid, I kid.) The baby is born and both mommy and daddy are over the moon happy.

Then the mommy realizes Mother Nature had a nasty turn in store for her. In order to make the baby happy and healthy, the mommy had to give up something she loved very much, her nipples. But since nothing was more important to her than raising that baby to be the happiest and healthiest nutcase this side of the Mason-Dixon, she relinquishes the nipples.

Several months go by and as the baby matures and mommy slowly goes crazy, mommy begins to plan on getting her nipples back. Only now the nipples are all, "Hell no, nu-huh, never ever ever" and the mommy is again without nipples.

Then in a surprising turn of events, Daddy decides enough is enough and if he's ever going to be back in this equation, he better do something fast. So he begins manufacturing fake nipples for mass distribution and in the current economic climate, hits the motherload (punny, huh?) So Mommy is happy, baby is happy, and consequently, Daddy is happy too.

The end.

Conducting My Own Investment Analysis

Congrats go out to Mr. Laugh-More for an amazing feat of brain power and ass-kicking in school on Friday. The long and short of it is this, there was a competition among the students of his business school to come up with an investment idea for a prestigious hedge fund in the city. Each team had 3 people and there were 40 teams in all. So since my mind is quicker than a calculator and sharper than a steal trap (allegedly) I will compute that my husband simultaneously kicked 123 asses by sweeping the competition. Now, I'm no mathematician, but I'd like to see Chuck Norris do that.

It was also exciting to meet some of the people he works with for his summer internship including the president of the company. And now, a confession and an observation: the fault was definitely mine for wearing a low cut shirt. However, I rarely go out in business public these days, like never, so my wardrobe choices are more "Kansas Housewife" than "City Business Sleek". That being said, it was no surprise when 1, 2, 14 people looked first at my cleavage and then at my face when we were introduced. Pretty much everyone in that room saw my boobs except the president of the hedge fund. His attention never once faltered from my face.

So in a nut shell, invest your money with that guy. Because if these knockers can't shake you, ain't nothing going to shake you, yes siree.

Mistaken Identity #34,661

Yesterday, I was hoofing it from 54th and 5th to 56th and 10th for reasons to be disclosed later, when I realized the man walking in front of me who kept turning around to stare at the discombobulated crazy woman trying her best to run down the sidewalk in heels was Fred Savage.

Only it wasn't Fred Savage, it was a look alike from his days on Boy Meets World. Turns out he doesn't look the same as he did 10 years ago. Who knew?

I must disclose that this happens a lot to me, mistaking ordinary citizens for famous people. It's just how sick my mind is. Other mistakes include: Howard Stern, Tom Brady, and Gweneth Paltrow.

Day Dream Believer

The ongoing catastrophe that is my sleep-dream cycle has once again spiraled out of control. Evidently, my real life isn't scary enough that I have to make up the craziest shit ever while trying to rest.

Cut to: the fog lifts to a scene between me (who is not really married to Grant anymore) Grant's mom and his dad. [I know you, you're thinking, "This is gonna be good!"]

Grant's dad to mom: So what I'm trying to say is, I had an affair 28 years ago and Grant is not really yours, he's mine and Teresa's somewhat related aunt (who is a fictitious person).

Grant's mom: Oh, okay then.

Me: WHAT THE FUCK?

Grant's mom: Well, it makes sense. I'm not mad at you, we've been married a long time and things like this are bound to happen. I'm glad you told me.

Me: WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?

Grant's dad: Don't worry Teresa, it's not your fault.

Me: I'm sorry, did you just say my fault? How the hell would this be my fault? I don't even know this woman you're saying is my aunt. And furthermore, are you insane? How can you not know you didn't give birth to your child? You're batshit, people. All of you.

Scene ends with Grant's parents trying to give me a group hug.

Holy hell, I'd rather just be awake. And though now I seriously want to Chuck Norris someone's face, I can't decide between his dad, his mom, my fictitious aunt, or Grant.

Power to the Little People

You may remember this story about my social prowess when fraternizing with important "power people" that my husband and I meet from time to time. You know the people, they may be slightly older than you, well established in impressive careers, usually very well traveled, and more often than not, expert conversationalists. Read: Intimidating as hell. Well, friends, I've been holding another such instance from you and per former president Billy Clinton, I must be honest about it.

Setting the scene: my husband and I are set to have dinner in the city with a certain power couple that we're somewhat familiar with. Since most of our meetings had previously been group gatherings, this would be the first stand alone social occasion for the 4 of us. The wife component of the other couple is a medical doctor (of course) and her husband after graduating from West Point and two trips as a paratrooper to Iraq (that's right TWO tours) is currently a professor of history at the Academy. Not at all intimidating. To add insult to injury, they are the sweetest, nicest people you've ever met with giant hearts to match their giant brains.

And in the other corner: me and Grant. Two homegrown, cornfed Ohioans who consider Florida a foreign destination. One, a boring baby nurse who may or may not have been fired/quit her previous place of employment for calling off to often, and the other a wet-behind the ears, freshman coffee boy* for Lehman Brothers (love you, honey). Stellar life experience alert! Look out.

Anyway, needless to say my desperation over making any friends in this city overwhelms my self consciousness about not being a "power" person and we're off! The evening begins splendidly and I make sure to only have one drink before we're seated so as to not appear the binge drinker that I am. We are seated and I'm spewing compliments about the restaurant, since it was their choice, and feeling like I'm on my A game. The waiter approaches for our order and I try to pick choices from a variety of ingredients rather than my usual selection from the children's menu: an order of chicken fingers and french fries. Everyone orders and conversation continues.

From time to time the conversation takes a turn that I have absolutely no f-ing clue about what they are speaking so I politely take a drink of water or go powder my nose. Standard. Our apps come and mine is amazing so I swiftly inhale it - without choking - and ready my place for the main course. And then it happens.

In an attempt to complement their restaurant choice again, I take the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to clear my throat and pronounce proudly that, "My appetizer was wonderful! The sweetbreads didn't taste like bread at all!"

Nails in the coffin.

~R.I.P social networking skills~

We loved you once, and now no more.

*No, you were not really an errand boy, it just makes for a better story...

And Those Little Petite Fors, Too

I have recently entered the realm of Wedding Season Extravaganza which comes at a perfect time to mask my discontent over returning to work. My palms are sweaty with images of 2 of my closest friends tieing the knot this summer and fall and it's downright intoxicating. And since I cannot partake of actual intoxication these days, see here and here, I must take what I can get.

There are not many things I love more than weddings and rehearsals, showers and bachelorette parties, white lace and panty hose. I would guess that most people hold their own wedding up on a pedestal to compare every other wedding they attend to, but for me, every wedding is it's own special destination and the people who allow us to share in their journey there make each one the most special thing I've ever been a part of. What I'm trying to say is it's better than Grey's Anatomy, now do you understand?

So as the economy crashes and burns, our spending far outweighs our income (sidenote: I thought and/or think the opposite of income should be "outcome"), and the baby continues to wake me several times in the night, I can honestly say, it's okay! Because there are still weddings and people falling in love and candy almonds to get us through.

Whew.

Mighty Music

I have a confession to make, I've been neglecting more than my health, razor, and credit card statements lately. This list includes my favorite blogs. I used to check my fav's several times a day and now it goes weeks before I have time and energy to keep up this exhausting but enlightening hobby.

So today I found this post by Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl and I am renewed with the spirit of the blogging e-community again. I think I became immune to it for a while but I remember now how amazing it is that the web opens us up to so much exposure of so many different things and enables us to learn so much so quickly. What I'm trying to say is, I love you Internet, never leave me. Enjoy!

~ UPDATE! I just realized where I know Zooey from. She was in Elf. Whew, now I can relax for the rest of the day, instead of pulling my hair out one strand at a time trying to figure that out. [sigh]

She's No Mariska Hargitay

One positive note about living in the Bronx, and come to think of it, it's actually not so positive after all, they always shoot Law and Order episodes on our block. Ironic 3 days after my car was broken into right? Anyway, I've been freaking out excited since last week when I saw the no parking signs littering 4 square blocks for set traffic the day of the shoot. After being rained out on Friday, they rescheduled for Tuesday and I was ready! I mentioned more than once to Grant who was trying to ignore me that once they took a look at the face of our beautiful child they would fall prostrate to him and immediately swear he had a face for crime novel tv show history.

My first trip (of many) to the set on Tuesday yielded much success as Katheryn Erbe walked right past me (across the street anyway) and would have totally noticed us but her attention was drawn to the coffee and bagel in her hands. I mean, the woman needs her strength, I totally understood. So I took a lap with Griffin in the stroller and what do my wandering eyes find but Vince D'Onofrio AND Katheryn in the middle of talking scene talk with some director-looking people. They would have totally noticed me and called us over but they were focusing so intently on their scene, completely understandable.

Trip #2 to the set a few hours later produced another clear shot of Katheryn, this time leaving the shoot for her trailer. It was pretty cold out (ask Griffin, I didn't have time to dress him very warmly considering I needed to maximize our time "on set") so she pretty much ignored everyone as she headed into the trailer, sadly we were part of the "everyone". But some nice looking directorish man smiled at us as we walked past, which may or may not have had something to do with our little gang's appearance. [Griffin in the Bjorn, me on the cell phone looking interesting, and Hunter dragging both of us down the street so he can pee on the 74th tree in 5 minutes.]

The third and final trip I felt comfortable in making, considering there were several police watching over the set and I'm pretty sure they were getting ready to arrest me, was uneventful. No Katheryn. No Vince. And no director-looking people. However, I'm pretty sure a lighting guy was trying to pick me, and my baby, up for the night. Awesome.

All in all, I am slightly disappointed that I was too embarrassed to snap a pic (though in my head it definitely turned into an all out photo shoot where Katheryn and Vince would hold Griffin between them and pose like a family at Disney for the first time - what? Like you wouldn't do that) and that we weren't approached to be extras. But at the end of the day, I decided that's no life for a little boy.

He should never settle for anything less than the lead.

Caution: Meltdown Imminent

After basically surviving Hell and back* today I finally made it all the way downtown for Dooce's book launch and signing only to find they were sold out of the book when I got there, Grant and Griffin in tow. Fanf-ingtastic.

Contents include: up several times during the night with the screaming teething baby (not that this is an unusual occurrence, he hasn't slept through the night more than twice in his 7+ months on this planet), a window replacement for the car that was 3+ hours late, a visit to the pediatricians office AGAIN because I thought Grif had another ear ache (turns out he doesn't and I'm now the "weirdo" mom at the office, walking a tightrope all day to keep the baby from scratching his eyes out from irritability and boredom, wrestling the screaming child into and out of his snowsuit several times to take the dog for his obligatories, making a death defying dash to shower, get dressed, and perform the makeup overhaul, and finally, actually body slamming him to get him into the car at 7:15 PM to try to make it down to Columbia to pick up Grant and then on to Tribeca to the book signing. Where, evil of all evils, I got a really great parking space. Ain't life a bi^$%? Er, I mean, grand?

And THAT's Why I Love The Bronx

Does it strike anyone else as odd that every single thing that goes wrong with your car is always less than the deductible on your insurance? [Insert aggravation shrug and hand in the air throwing].

Would you like me to extrapolate? I was awakened Saturday morning to my lovely husband posing an odd question to me while my eyelids were still closed in full sleep.

"Did you have anything in the car that could be stolen?"

I'm sorry, hamina hamina what? As my brain snapped to full awake mode way too quickly, I almost thought he was telling me the car was stolen, or the baby was stolen, or the baby stole the car. Time stood still as we sat there staring at each other, both in stupified bewilderment. Finally, my brain regained the use of its neurons and I realized what he meant to say was, "Good morning, Sunshine! I love you! Everything is perfectly okay, and the baby is sleeping snug in his bed. Oh, by the way Dearest Love Noodle, unfortunately some sad soul broke the window of our car last night and stole our Garmin. But do not fret Sweet One, I'll clean up the mess and have the glass fixed in a jiffy. Love you!"

He's just slightly vocabularily challenged and used alternate verbage.

So at day's end the tally is: the window's broke, the Garmin's gone, the insurance won't cover either, and my "guard dog" barks at everything that moves except the things that move to break into my car.

Life - 4, Me - 0

But in the Cage Fight Rematch, that Bitch is going d-o-w-n.

Top Ten Things I Want To Do In My Lifetime, (This Month)

1. Have many more children - like 4. (Coincidentally, this also accomplishes another goal of mine: Disregarding my husband's wishes).

2. Visit Tahiti for long enough to actually enjoy it to the fullest. (Fully aware this may exceed a year's time).

3. Learn an Asian language.

4. Publish something I wrote.

5. Own a home.

6. Take my kids camping.

7. Kayak the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon.

8. Travel to Italy with my parents.

9. Spoil my grandchildren. (With attention).

10. Wake up every morning of my life to my awesome, red-headed husband, snoring and stealing the covers.

*What's on your list?

Today In My Life, Vol 8

It's near 8pm when I realize I have two different socks on. AND, I was excited this morning upon donning them and incorrectly assessing them as a matching pair.

[Sigh.]

On Sale Now At Macy's Fragrance Counter

The newest development in my life of late involves that of a minor nuisance we are currently experiencing known as "we're f-ing broke". Several suggestions have been thrown around such as: selling the dog, hacking him up and selling him part for part, and finally, something seriously gross and extremely unfortunate: me going back to work. I know. President Vom-town USA.

Here is the dichotomy, I would love to get out of the house 2.5 days a week and contribute to our non-existent income, truly I would. However, my fear of the nanny from hell situation and my slightly overboard obsession with anyone who sets foot near Griffin are major negatives to the whole situation. I can't even tell you the madness that selecting a nanny involves. And I'm just talking the things I'm saying out loud, not even the catastrophe going on in my brain that I can't even lend words to. Except imagine "Psycho" only to the 10th power. I'm presently interviewing potential candidates and we're 0 for 4, including two "hell no's" and two "you have got to be on crack, hell no's". Alas, it is a work in progress, more to come later on that topic.

So, I know I need to nut up and go to work already like millions and billions of mom's are doing all over the world every day, but as long as I live, breathe, and blog, I will voice my discontent. Malcontent? Whatever, you know what I mean.

Oh, and sidebar, I just got a whif of myself and yes, that's Eau De Curdled Milk/Baby Vomit #5. I am so ready for the workplace.

Reading Between the Lines

In light of my commitment of full disclosure here, I must update you on the "progress" of Grant and my's "Biggest Loser" weight loss challenge. Currently, and unfairly, Grant has lost 19.5 pounds in 9 weeks. However, I wish to preface my success by stating that it has been shockingly overshadowed by the gigantic numbers he's been throwing on the board. Undoubtedly, the most important result of this challenge is that we eat better and exercise more regularly. The true number count* is not important. Thank you.

What? Like using the child to distract you isn't ethical. Jeez.

*I've lost 2.5 pounds.

Miscommunication

[Backseat of car.]
Me to Griffin: Rrrrrrazzzzz!

Grant: [Frontseat.] Haha.

Me: What's funny?

Grant: You. What were you saying to him?

Me: What did you say? "Humphrey"?

Grant: What are you talking about?

Me: If we ever get a camel, we should name it Humphrey, anyway.

Today In My Life, Part 7

I realized for two straight days I've chosen a second cup of coffee over showering.

It's all about prioritizing, ladies.

Toddlers, Tiaras, and Me

If I can just go on record here, (by the way what the hell does that expression mean anyway - since when did people record themselves on records?) and lose my shit for a second on this concept of a show revolving around in-f'ing-sane mothers who enter their tiny, impressionable baby girls in beauty pageants, dragging them all over God's green earth and subjecting them to ridiculous treatments to enhance their natural appearance all for the sake of some measly amount of money? I can? Great. Because holy shit and then some, my friends. Everything about this show makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a dull spork. I can't even link to the show for you because I refuse to be a part of the degradation of these girls especially in a society that already smashes them over the head with false and unsafe images of what a woman is supposed to look like from the time they are pre-teens basically until we all die*.

However, I can't fault the show entirely because the true He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named Evil resides with the parents of these girls, and perhaps the show is only trying to enlighten the rest of the nation into what kind of heinous treatment goes on in some households to these poor girls. Still. Are the producers of this show and others like it making a profit off of these children? If so, then there are layers of you-know-where for people like them and plenty of very warm space to accommodate them.

And now you know why I need a vacation. And for putting up with my rant on a Monday morning, here's a present for you:* I'm not judging the idiots who would do this to their daughters, really. I just feel sorry and scared for the girls of this generation, that this is what they have to grow up around. Can't we just go back to My Little Pony and chubby Cabbage Patch kids?

I Mean Seriously With Her Circus Costumes?

My weird dreaming habits have returned in full force this week starting with the marathon dream of my return to high school as a 28 year old adult only to find I was elected to homecoming court but did not arrive to school with my ballgown on so my elected male counterpart - who coincidentally was my 4th grade boyfriend - was very upset with me. I scrambled around trying to make it right when finally I had my "aha!" moment and decided I would fix all of these snooty high school kids - I'd wear my wedding dress. Beat that Miss 4-time Homecoming Queen. Luckily, I woke up as I was leaving the parking lot to go home and get my dress out of storage - could have quickly become a nightmare.

Second weird dream of the week involved me accidentally giving birth to a baby that I didn't know I was pregnant with. Nothing like a little newborn popping out of your vijay-jay to say, "Hey you, pay attention!". Slightly horrifying but even more so to the mother of a 7 month old.

Sadly, I am at a loss for celebrities in my dreams this week. I guess my internal "In Touch Weekly" has gone on hiatus due to economic downtimes. Perhaps it will return now that Brit-Brit's back on tour. We can only hope.

Fairy Godmother

This shot was taken on our vacation to Naples with our friends and their baby. Griffin's Godmother took it while I was off ruining my skin with sundamage. I can't get over it. He didn't see her coming and all of the sudden she stepped into his line of sight and snapped just as he was reacting.
I wish I felt like this every morning when I woke up. Incidentally, I do not, most days.