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.