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.