Just Don't Blame Me Later If They Don't Turn Out Like Mine

Several things on my to do list include:

Tell you about why I owe a certain pediatric dental hygenist 3 fingers and a fortune in medical bills...

Explain to you why my child will never recieve a formal education...

Get your opinion on why 1 minute I love my job and the next minute I would rather dismantle my limbs than spend 1 second at work...

But first! I have another Griffin tale of make-your-day goodness to share.

So, sorry about the tata shot but it's important for the story. See that necklace I may or may not have purchased for myself for my birthday as a little "to me, from me" gift? Yes? You do that too? Okay. So glad we're on the same page.

Anywho, I came upstairs this morning with it on and sat next to Grif at the breakfast table. He was engrossed in his morning coke habit - the Backyardigans, and barely noticed me. Finally, when he came up for air he looked at me, thought for a second and said, "Mama listen to me?" Which in translation means he thought my necklace was a stethoscope and he wanted me to listen to his heart and back. [Go ahead and die of cuteness now.]

So, not wanting to disappoint my little genius of medical knowledge, I grab my necklace, shove it into his shirt and pretend I'm listening. And I crap you not, he tilts his head to the side, smiles at me and says, "Boom-boom, boom-boom". People, the entire week of screaming unearthly banshee child is totally worth it for those few minutes in the morning. Go ahead and procreate with my blessing now. Your serious side totally needs it.

Hold On To Your Cowboys!

Updizzle: Apparently the reason I've been ten times sicker this pregnancy than with Grif is because we're having a GIRL! So that does not exactly bode well for her teen years, I fear. But the bambina is healthy and gorgeous and building her little bones and muscles just fine, which is amazing. She is kicking me right now for talking about her, so once again with the teen years...

Griffin has never been more hilarious and has added several phrases to his daily comedy stream such as, "Of course!" and "That would be great!" But only if you ask him if he'd like to watch another episode of Little Bear, or would he like some more milk and pretzels (the only things he eats now). I tried asking him if he'd like to move out into his own apartment where boys don't ever have to potty train and they can wear diapers until they're 60 and he did not say, "Of course!" It was worth a try. He also sings and makes up songs now. His favorite being the "Polar Bear" song. It goes like this, "Da. Dadada. Da. Polar bears are sleeping. Polar bears are sleeping" [pause for applause from all available audience members within earshot]. It is quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed in my life. Sometimes he ratchets up the showbusiness element with wide sweeping arm motions. (I think he definitely gets that from his daddy). And almost always he is up on some sort of a step, or "stage", or some random stranger's doorstoop.

Otherwise life is ticking along, work is cyclical, and the weather is awesome. We have a whole hellabuloo of traveling coming up, one trip of which is to visit my BFFTWD (till we die, obvi) in Dallas, TX, so if you need a new lasso or saddle, drop me a line before I go and tell me what size/color etc. I am so excited to see everything Dallas and especially to find out if "Everything's bigger in Texas" applies to my boobs because if so, we're all in for some inclement weather.

At Least I Didn't Mix Them All Together

I have officially graduated to a crazy city person who mumbles to themselves as they walk around aimlessly looking in trashcans.

Convincing evidence #1: Yesterday, I had to run to the grocery to get a few things and while I was there I happened upon several extra items that I could not pass up. Here they are in order of importance:
Half Sour Pickles
Watermelon
Ranch Dressing
Tuna salad
Tapioca pudding
Tomatoes
Cucumbers

So you know this is going directly downhill, right? I did not realize how heavy my stash was going to be to carry the 8 blocks to my apartment so while crossing over Broadway I spied the parkbench those nice city planners strategically placed directly in my path, and I decided to rest a bit. And while I was resting, I decided it would behoove me to have a little snack to keep up my energy on the long walk home. Two half sour pickles later I took stock of my situation as passerby after passerby stopped to stare at me and I couldn't stop laughing. Well, I was in this far, I might as well go the distance. So I ripped open the watermelon container and had roughly half of it. I would have moved directly onto the tomato and cucumber but I didn't have a knife or salt and pepper so I opted to save those for home.

I gathered up my loot and started the long walk only to stop several blocks later to readjust my grip. There I started hysterically laughing again as my inner brain whispered to itself, "I definitely didn't get enough half sour pickles for this".

Convincing evidence #2: Last week after work I had to run some errands and while doing so I remembered all I had for lunch was a giant plate of fries, and that I better have something a tad more on the nutritious side to even the score a bit. At the smoothie place I studied my choices to get the best possible bang for my beverage and picked the Protein Punch. Back outside I swigged a couple gulps of it and literally almost grabbed the nearest person walking past to force them into the smoothie place to buy a Protein Punch. It was the most spiritual experience I've had since Ocean's 11 came out. I was in awe.

It took every ounce of my energy to not stop the next 4,000 people I passed to do the exact same thing and I barely made it to Duane Reade and Planet Kids before I died.

Is this what self actualization is all about? Because holy hell.

Salty, Salty, Salty

Want to know what made me lose my mind just now? The delivery guy only gave me ONE salt packet for my fries. O-N-E. (And I've decided I really, really can't tell you how many fries I consume these days. Really.) On the topic of food, did I tell you about the Rome episode of No Reservations? Because you are depriving yourself of happiness by not watching it. And I'm no expert but I'm pretty sure that's against the commandments.

So this is probably weird*, but as people start figuring out I'm pregnant again I have this overwhelming urge to trick them into thinking I'm not and they just called me fat. So far, I've almost made 5 people faint/vomit/pee their pants by telling them I'm not pregnant I just eat too much. One of which was definitely more of a "boss", than "co-worker", but I literally lost control of my mouth when I started talking**. I mean, I eventually tell them I'm kidding so I'm not a total d-bag, right? And it's definitely better than saying, "Yes, my husband and I had sex and the egg was fertilized with sperm so now my boobs are getting huge and soon my vagina will shoot out a watermelon. You're so kind to notice". Come on, I have some semblance of decency. (Except for that one about engorgement...)

However, do not misunderstand this as complaining or taking for granted what we have been gifted with by having another baby. I am more than over the top excited for Bambino, Part Deux and I do thank God He forgave us for screwing up the first one and let us have another try. I simply think it's a tad weird to talk about internal organ formation with a person I have said 3 words to in 4 years, and I'm pretty sure two of them were calling them by the wrong name.

*Did I really have to preface the story with this admission? Would any of this blog be here if I thought like most people? I must redress.

**Again with stating the obvious.

The Visor Is Extra

Because you never seem to have the time to look through those hair magazines at the salon to pick out your ideal do, I've coined and patented the haircut term for you.

Observe and Appreciate: The Star Wars Helmet.

Don't thank me now, my birthday is in a few months...

In other news, last week Griffin told me he broke his head. I said, "What?" And he said, with exasperated efficiency, "I broke......my head". So, of course I told him, as any good parenting award recipient would, "Well, if you think it hurts now, wait till your first hangover".

In other other news, you should definitely watch Anthony Bourdain's Rome episode from Monday night. If you don't want to rip your tv down off the wall/stand and eat it during this episode I don't know what is wrong with your brain, but there are plenty of neurologists who would take your money to find out. Maybe they'll even ask you to donate your brain to science afterward. (Although, I had to work on those things in nursing school and let's just say body donation is not on my list of top ten things I have to do before I die and go to Bora Bora.) Just saying.

In unrelated other news, we had a family vaca to Salt Fork Lodge last weekend and it was awesome. Pics to come, when I decide that uploading photos is more important than ridding this city of fried foods one french fry at a time after work today. It's a dirty job...

The One & Only

What?

Like 61 ounces of Gazillion Bubbles aren't part of your daily make up routine?

Loser.

Get Out the Retractors!

It's not often that I issue retractions on statements I've made, written, or even those I've imagined making or writing (ask my husband if you doubt me). But today marks a day in history, my friend(s). I have eaten my words for lunch and they were f-ing delicious.

It's all about a jolly fellow named Mr. Softee, and how I once tarnished his good name with slanderous accusations regarding his product. I've discussed my feelings with several people over the years and in recent discussions had decided to give him one chance at redemption. (Either that or my ass has decided to take up a mind of its own and is in a breakneck race to overcome the size of NY state as fast as possible by way of dessert consumption. ((A very definite possibility))).

So. I planned the rendevous for several days and finally took the plunge earlier this afternoon with a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. People. If you ever see someone rolling around the streets of Washington Heights with no regard for public decency but completely overcome by her consumption of a chocolate dipped ice cream cone, it's me. Stop and say hi. Just don't take any pictures. My agent would totally crap.

I'm a much happier person right now than two hours ago, thanks to Senor Softee, and my entire workplace is much appreciative of his efforts. Especially since earlier I decided to go door to door down the hallway ranting about the men's toilet overflowing for the bazillionth time and why can't they fix it right and who is dumping in there and causing all the problems, I know it's you Construction Man, you're fooling NO ONE.

So, I retract my earlier insults and urge you to visit your neighborhood Mr. Softee as soon as you humanly can. Or you know, whenever.

Now I'm No Manolo Blahnik...

Just in case you have reconciled with the idea that I'm having another child, let me show you what you're dealing with. Evidently, I thought it was okay to leave the house like this on Monday to run my errands all over town. Please note: the picture hides the fact that the one on the left has a heel and the one on the right clearly does not.

Wanna know when I realized this had happened? 20 minutes after I left the house.

People. Please.

No Argument Here

To get right off to a "TMI" moment with you, I need to tell you about something serious.

You may have experienced this yourself, or know someone who frequently TMI's you and therefore you heard it from them, but there is a bit of humor in it so I feel the need to share. Sharing is caring anyway.

When you get pregnant one of the perpetual list of things that happens to you is an alien takeover of your (how can I put this delicately?) "poo-center". You know what I'm talking about. So all your life your poo-center has been fully functional and operating of its own accord without much involvement on your part and then WHAMO, poo-center meltdown. Which is difficult to handle because you don't even speak poo-language to begin a dialogue with your "center" about what the problem is. Maybe other people who have had malfunctioning poo-centers there whole life know this language, but you are not one of those people, you poo normally (usually).

Cut to Saturday night when Grant and I had a rare, very rare "date night" out. We're getting ready to go and all of a sudden I begin to feel not so hot so I decide this poo-center thing has gone on long enough. I send Grant out to buy as much prune juice as is legally allowed to be purchased at one time and laugh my insidious little laugh. I will not be defeated by my rogue poo-center! When Grant returns I eagerly fill my glass up to the rim with prune juice and begin the consumption. 10 ounces later and not even an inkling of progress. I go back to the refrigerator and much to his horror, fill the whole glass up again. As I'm gulping down the syrupy liquid I glanced over at him sitting at the kitchen table with the most frightened look I have ever seen on his face. It occurs to me then as my brain does a quick rewind memory montage of our entire relationship starting back in high school that this moment is special. It's as special as the anticipation of our very first date, or the moment before he asked me to marry him, or the day Griffin was born.

This is the moment I realize myself in the exact instant I am living knowing full well that I am sharing it with the person I love most in this world. And it is also one of the most stripped down and nakedly honest moments of our relationship, and how it has changed and is continuing to change every day. But that doesn't have to be a bad thing, I say to myself, change is perpetual and healthy. And after the shock of this new change in our lives subsided a little, I began to see a new perspective on our life with 2 children, and I let some of those old expectations go. We function now as a couple more fluidly than we ever have, we rarely disagree on important issues, and we sleep soundly in comfortable naivete every night. So I nod my head confidently, turn to him and say, "Well. This is definitely not the pre-game I'm used to".

And You Better Believe I Left My Name, Address, and Phone Number

The other night whilst finally resting after a long day, Grant and I were drifting off to sleep when all of a sudden we heard what sounded like a barage of carbombs going off in our backyard. Needless to say, after we changed into dry pants, we were none to happy for the disturbance. I was convinced they were bombs, of course they were bombs, and if you even tried to suggest otherwise I was going to feed you to the bombs exploding just inches from our apartment. In case I haven't made my point, BOMBS.

Grant was not so convinced after the "bombs" continued for 5 or 10 or 85,000 minutes, so he wanted to go outside to investigate. Investigate the bombs? You are out of you everloving mind my friend. In case you haven't noticed, we have 1 child and another on the way and I'm pretty sure we're not set up with life insurance plans yet so like hell I'm going to let you go outside to investigate the bombs. Bomb investigation is no longer in your future, Dear One, move on.

However, that one tends not to listen to the hysterical rantings I've been prone to lately, so he went out back to see what was going on. He thought maybe it was fireworks, but we couldn't see anything so I was flying through every news channel waiting for the bomb destruction coverage on TV but not one thing was said about it. Finally, we both went all the way outside and could barely see the tops of fireworks over the tree line of central park. Turns out, the NY Philharmonic and the Shanghai Orchestra were having a concert and some ass-brain thought it would be a great idea to set off a thousand fireworks over a city of 9 million people living on top of each other at 10:30 at night, on a Wednesday.

Well. Did you ever see someone dial 311 faster than the speed of sound? Because I sure as hell did and when the friendly customer service representative asked me exactly what my complaint was, he may have heard something like this, "ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME WITH THESE FIREWORKS AT 10:30 AT NIGHT AND KID SLEEPING, BABY IN UTERO, WOMAN STRESS LEVELS IN PREGNANCY, NAUSEA, VOMITING, BOMBS, HUSBAND DEAD, NO MONEY, MASS DESTRUCTION, F-ING SYMPHONY IDIOTS, SHANGHAI REDICULOUSNESS, SUE THE MAYOR, DEATHSQUAD TO PARKS DEPARTMENT"!

It's been a few days and I'm still waiting for my complaint to be followed up on.

If I don't hear anything soon, I'm calling Chuck Norris. I swear I will.

And Then There Were Two

Just when you thought it would be safe for you to have me housesit for you, I wrecked the Cadillac again. Translation: We're expanding our little spiraling sphere by 1 more human and my obstetrician is contemplating early retirement.

Several blog worthy stories to include here:
At the ripe age of 23 months my firstborn has learned what it means to die*. (*Not really, it's a bad joke.) Because for all intents and purposes "The Wonder Pets" have d.i.e.d. Now I don't know if you know about these pets and how wonderful they are, but let me save you the agony. They Are Not One Bit Wonderful. If you've seen one extremely long and repetitive and annoying episode, you've seen all 4 million of them that air an obscene amount of times every day. And thank you to whoever brought them into my life, I may send some bedbugs your way.

Well, Griffin was so obsessed with "The Pets" that we watched multiple episodes a day for several weeks before vacation. Which coincided perfectly with the alien takeover of my nausea sensors which were permanently set into overdrive times a trillion. But I never made the connection until later... So after returning to our house after vacation, I decided we were exterminating the Wonder Pets from our lives entirely. And do you know what happened? Now whenever I'm unfortunate enough to hear a note of their opening song I immediately throw up. Isn't that beautiful? Also, can I send this phenomenon in to one of these TV marketing research surveys?

Comments: Your show literally makes me vomit. Please advise.

One more. I've given in to the fact that this is going to be a massive pregnancy, what with the fact that we now have 400 restaurants that deliver to my house. (Did you hear that? DELIVERY). But the interesting and perplexing thing is that the two biggest cravings I've had are for food from restaurants with 2 major problems: 1. They're both in Columbus. And 2. They've both been out of business for at least 10 years.

And my answer to these conundrums is this: Call Grant and explain the situation. If he cannot fix it, it is his fault.

And now you know my OB's pain.

Here we go again!

Wherein I Once Again Thank the Lord I Have Faith

Holy hell has it been that long? I kept thinking of you (my solo reader that may or may not be my mom) and hoping you hadn't forgotten me. It is I, and I am alive. For now.

Much to fill you in on in the meantime, starting with the fact that it's so f-ing hot right now I'm hanging out in my microwave for some relief. Also, we went on an amazing vacation to White Birch Lodge a few weeks ago and I cannot say enough about lake water swimming. Except that I'm a million miles away from it right now and that is undesirable.
Here's a pic:That's the whole fam-damly on the husband's side, plus the 3 absolutely edible babies that pretty much took control of the vacation and had there way with it from the beginning. Obviously. Griffin had more fun that you can throw a rock at, which he did, over and over and over. It was quite interesting one day how he threw a kicking and screaming fit on the beach because he couldn't pick up the 14 ton boulder that was parked in the sand so he could throw it in the water. He's his father's son, I'm telling you. Not at all like me.

Another funny story goes something like this:
3am: wake to get ready to go to airport
4am: car arrives
6am: flight to Chicago
8:30am: running up airport gate with pee* running down my arms, onto my pants, down my legs and into my sandals. *Not my pee.

There's something calming about the feel of your child's pee drenching your clothing in a public place that you're just going to have to take my word for until it happens to you. Or maybe it's the direct hand of God reaching down to pat you on the back and say, "Hey there, you're going to be alright. Some day."

Summer Lovin'

Well, here we are again. Sweating our bejesus' off in this city with about a jillion people also sweating their bejesus' off directly adjacent to ourselves. Awesome.

And no, I will not apologize for letting my child run around in his diaper with no clothes on at the park because if it were up to me, I'd be doing the exact same thing. Unfortunately, Park Police do not agree with me. They lack all sense of imagination. Poor people.

But seriously though, Griffin loves him some water works at the parks nowadays. He starts asking for it when he wakes up in the morning and it's the last thing on his mind at night. Kind of like me and Reeses Peanut Butter cups. Now you understand the obsession. Wait till you see the pics.

3 to the Izz-0 And Still Got It

*Griffin Story Alert*

So his new thing is, how can I put this delicately? Farting. And then sheepishly in a very quiet voice announcing to everyone in earshot, "Toot".

The other day he was raving on about something or other to me for a full 14 minutes of uninterrupted toddler-babble when he passed a little gas. He didn't even take a breath and stop before he goes, "toot", and kept right on talking.

Which sets you up for yesterday's event when Grant and Griffin were playing in the living room while I did some work on the computer in the next room. I hear random bumps and yells scattered with a few musical toy interludes and finally someone rips a huge one which jarred the very bones in my spinal column. I wait for it, and Griffin yells, "DADA TOOT! DADA TOOOOOOT!"

Happy Birthday, Babe. We love you.

Now Auditioning for Deadliest Catch, Season 6

I cannot quite explain my excitement for this week and this weekend's events. Grant is graduating! Holy hell in a tuition basket, these last 2 years flew by. And this whole week leading up to Sunday's graduation is full of celebrations and parties that we can actually participate in because we have the most valuable comodity to new parents anywhere - babysitters! S. to the c.o.r.e. my friends, yes. My most favorite of the events being a dinner cruise around Manhattan, which I've wanted to do since we moved here 4 some odd long years ago, but never have. And alas. It is this week.

However.

Friday forecast:

And I was surprised, why?

To All the Mom's I've Loved Before...

Mothers Rock*.

*Disclaimer: At this time I must disclose that I, myself, am a said "mother" and thereby hold certain financial ties to being a "mother" and therefore so what.

My mother and my relationship has run the gamut of emotions in my lifetime, as do most maternal-daughter relationships I would contend. We bonded early or so I was told, since it began at birth and lasted for several years of which I have no memory, but the fact that I survived and was a pretty happy and extremely intelligent child is proof enough for me. Then we went through our headbutting stage, which I might pinpoint to start when I was 4 years old (meaning the first formable memories I do have of my life) and ending at about 24, so that was brief. But around the time that I had Griffin, and you may have heard this before, my entire perspective of mothers completely went out the window and crashed on the pavement 4 stories below, injuring hundreds of people. There's just something about pushing a gigantic human baby out of your you-who that says, "Gee, my mom's a pretty f-ing terrific and classy lady. I better make her a really special construction paper card right now". Trust me, if you don't understand exactly what I mean now, you surely will someday soon.

Over the course of the last 2 years my suspicion of her awesomeness has only grown. If I thought pregnancy was challenging, raising a 1.5 year old absolutely blew my mind. And it's not even the disciplining that gets me, it's the teaching. Over and over again with the teaching. This is a spoon, this is an apple, this is your bathtub, that is your peepee now leave it alone for the love of the lord. Don't blatantly hit the kid that stole your truck, just make it look like an accident. Say please and thank you but only to grownups or if a grownup is watching, otherwise kids your age will think you're a dork. I mean, was there a course on this in college because I'm pretty sure I would have remembered it and possibly had a plan and budget in mind to outsource my childrearing responsibilities when this time came. J/k! Ha. Haha. Okay, well maybe just a few hours a week at most.

But I think I do an okay job of it, and that is because of my mom. As these situations of being a mom crop up here and there with Griffin, I find myself remembering that I know what to do. As if I read this book somewhere along the line that told me all the answers but then I totally forgot I read it so when it comes back to me, I'm totally surprised and thankful for that book. Only the book was my mom and I'm still reading it every day, every time I talk to her. And the scariest part about the whole thing is now I've realized I need to read ahead, because at some point I won't have the book to consult anymore. And yes, I'm sorry I just went there on a Friday morning when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping there little heads off but the reality is I have never been more aware of my parents mortality than I am as a parent myself. So hug your mom today and tomorrow and your dad to because 1 or 2 days a year is not enough to thank them for being everything to you as a child, and more importantly as an adult.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

It'll Keep You Busy, But it Ain't Getting You Anywhere

The things my child says these days absolutely throw me for a loop. Case in point, we met some of our friends for a picnic lunch yesterday at the Turtle Pond. Grant took Griffin over to the water to take a look and there were tons of turtles and ducks milling around. Grif takes one long look at the activity and goes, "TURTLES! Mama turtles and baby turtles and Dada turtles". Shut up, he really truly did.

Not to scare those of you who may not have children yet, but to give you a heads up as to what you may or may not experience as a first time mom, I'd like to wax you some philosophy right now. You may have heard the term, "mommy issues" or seen an episode of Dr. Phil wherein mothers spout off about everything that they think is wrong with their perfect life. And if these people drive you absolutely insane, you are not alone. However, there is some truth to the stress that new parents experience that is usually completely foreign to them, ie me.

When Griffin was first born I felt a lot of anxiety about nothing in particular, but mostly that I was doing it wrong. I come from a big family that has a million people in it, half of which are under the age of 11 with new nieces and nephews popping up here and there, which has blessed me with the knowledge and confidence to lovingly raise children of my own. However, that does not mean I've been spared the feelings that I could be doing it better, which I believe is probably something many parents deal with on a regular basis.

Unexpectedly, the baby is the one who has solved this problem for me. He's not even 2 yet and he has mastered so many things. I mean, he started from nothing and learned how to communicate, learn new skills, have a sense of humor, show patience (sort of), and share affection. Oh the affection. Last week he was playing at the park with a little boy we'd never seen before and when the boy had to leave Griffin stood up, opened both his arms wide and said, "Come here", motioning the boy to bring it in for a big boy hug. I mean, come one, that would melt even Kim Jong Il's cold dead heart.

So to sum it all up, the kid - he's fine. We all need family and friends to help support us and remind us that we're doing a good job. And worry is a rocking chair I don't even want in my house.

Dapper Little Island That He Is

I apologize for the neglectful neglectfulness I have been rightly accused of committing lately. Turns out upending your whole existence to move less than 5 miles away is much more involved than you would think. But alas, we are in Manhattan now, and life is good.

I want to make one quick point here before I go on and that is to apologize for hating Manhattan for so many years of living in New York. I think it was that Brooklyn was my one first love of the boroughs and will always be on my drunkdial speeddial list forever and always, and that my perception of Manhattan was my first experience with it - which was Chinatown from 7pm to 7am 3-4 days a week, sprinkled with a subway strike, and kind of getting fired*... (Which lets be frank, I wouldn't wish on my most gorgeous and successful worst enemy, even on a bad day). Follow that up with our move to the Bronx which was one of the worst decisions we have made in our lives (yep, seriously) though necessary at the time, and constantly wishing and hoping and dreaming of living in Manhattan for the last two years, and you can see why I taped a sketch of Manhattan on my dartboard and you know that's never good.

Enter Manhattan. With it's debonair little bowler hat, pencil thin necktie, complete with perfect vodka martini to completely sweep all 3 of us off of our feet. {Insert huge sigh and deep yoga cleansing breath.} (Only not so much with the baby and the vodka you know, I mean what would the neighbors think?)

Stay tuned for Act II, I haven't even begun to tell you about Magnolia and it's proximity to my front door. Scary.

*(slash) resigning.

Stace - This One's For You

Just a quick question...

Anyone else appreciate the irony in our new Super's name?

Mario.

When I mentioned it to Grant he had never realized it. Why was this the first thing I thought of when they told me his name? Now it's going to be entirely impossible to resist calling him Super Mario. Just one more reason to anticipate this move.

And No, I Will Not Reveal Their Identity, Find Your Own Gay Furniture Hookup

One of the things I dislike most in the world is the responsibility of knowing that Craigslist exists. Stay with me on this one. Any time in the past 6 years that I've needed to make a big purchase, locate an apartment, buy a car, sell a car, or complete any other grueling task, I've had this little devil on my shoulder whispering, "Check Craigslist". "Do you think there's one for sale on Craigslist?" "You would never pay that much on Craiglist". "Craigslist, craigslist, craigslist!" Things have gotten out of control. I'm crippled by the existence of Craig and his damn list. Which wouldn't be so terrible, if not for the fact that 96.8% of the material on the list weren't complete garbage that you have to spend hours sifting through to find one worthwhile deal. I recently compared it to spending 3 days going door to door through 27 discount furniture stores piece by piece to find one $15 lamp that you really don't even like, but for the fact that it's under $20 and you can stop looking at damn lamps if you just buy it on the spot. {Deep Breath.}

So.

Finally, after years of figurative perpetual finger slamming in drawer Craigslist surfing, I have redeemed myself with the mecca of all deal finding, a gay couple cleaning out their warehouse of furniture from Pottery Barn, West Elm, and Crate & Barrel. Quick, pick yourself up off the floor where you just passed out from sheer amazement, it's true! And whilst we dragged our son all over Manhattan yesterday running errands, I successfully transacted 15 times with said gay couple to secure the following: a dining table from Pottery Barn, 6 chairs, and a 6 foot stand up mirror without ever having to see it or move a muscle, because do you know what else? THEY DELIVERED IT TO MY HOUSE. Now I'm just bragging.

My point is, don't give up on Craigslist just yet. There may be a gem out there for you too.

Short Story Shorter...

WE FOUND AN APARTMENT. And since I am so good to you, I will spare you the disgusting and heartwrenching details of all the many mishaps we made along the way. Because the greatest outcome of all was achieved, I did not kill a real estate agent. S.c.o.r.e.

I will fill you in photographically soon, but first another "quote of the century" to add to your collection. After 53 days of the most awkward and personally offensive professional relationship 3 people could try to screw up, our real estate agent and ourselves have reached a successful end. Bless the god that I continually insult. Amen.

So I no-shit got a text from her earlier asking, "Do you guys drink wine? If so, what color?". Just reading it made my cold, dead heart of a New York Real Estate Casualty begin to melt. So I texted her back, completely honestly, "Definitely! Both, we're not picky".

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL. Out loud.

Who was I trying to kid? I will respect her less if I see her tomorrow and her cell phone is still in working order after she saw that message from me and resisted hurling it into the nearest concrete surface she could find, as hard as she possibly could.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's update.

But at least: we're moving! Y to the hell E.S.

19 Incredible Months

Here are a few glimpses into the many accomplishments of Griffin "Jack of All Trades". First up, we have Engineer Griffin...
Not to be outdone by Cold Weather Student Griffin...

Here we see Professor Griffin, and lest you think I masterminded this little ditty myself, rest assured he lined up every one of those animals and went and got a book to read to them. Who is this kid? I'm pretty sure the Engineering Department at the Human Genome Project wants him back.And because it's a national holiday, I wanted to get you something special... No, your eyes are not playing tricks on you. He has his baby in his baby sling which he carried around all.day.long.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Next Up: Harvard Law

One more story that will make you laugh*.

(*Or if not you better get a cardiologist because your heart is missing.)

Yesterday, Griffin asked Grant for a cookie right after breakfast. But apparently Grant didn't think he needed a cookie so he said "no". So that sweet little genius of mine thought about that for a moment, paused, and said "potty, potty", ran right to his room, plopped down on his little plastic potty, looked up at his dad and said with a clear look of success in his eyes, "Potty. Cookie."

Well played, my darling, well played indeed.

Are you kidding me with this? No. I'm not.

News In The Breeze

Several updates on our apartment search.

1. Never ever ever ever use "Sahar Ziv" as your real estate broker in New York. Ever. Nevernevernevernevernever. He's a total liar and would cheat and steal to line his own pockets. It actually took me a month to even get to the point where I could type his name. That's how much I loathe him. Nuf said. EVEREVEREVER.

2. Because I don't have enough balls mid-air currently, 1 of our top choices of apartments is currently a shell of a place with no walls, no floors, no doors, and no kitchen. Because coordinating renovations was my second major, did you know that? (!)

3. A major factor in our desire to "win" #2 above is because while we were standing outside it haggling with the broker, a quite conspicuous neighbor happened to be walking her dog down the street... Are you ready for it? Catherine.Zeta.Jones. As in Catherine Zeta Jones-Douglas? As in Catherine Zeta Jones-T Mobile Spokeswoman of America? As in Catherine Zeta Jones of the Fabulously Beautiful Club? Yes, she walked her fluffy little dog right past Griffin and I as we oogled and giggled like school girls over her. And now you see why I have latched onto this apartment with every shred of my strength and will only let it go to the next bidder if they pry it from my cold dead grip. (But seriously, I'm serious).

4. The amount of patience I currently have with real estate brokers in general would not even fill up a thimble. And that's being generous. I often like to harass/fire them right off the bat, just to test the waters. (This has yet to prove useful, but still makes me feel good).

5. Saturday night after dining with Caitlin and Dave at Gus & Gabriel's Gastropub on 79th street, we walked right past another conspicuous gentleman in a trendy little bowler hat. If you thought I pulled out the big guns with Catherine, watch this: DETECTIVE ELLIOT STABLER. No, I am not pulling your leg. These are the kinds of neighbors one acquires when one leaves her home of perpetual exile in the Bronx and travels to the promised land of the Upper West Side. I seriously almost screamed when I saw him. Forget Catherine, this man is 40% of my entertainment television ladies and gentleman, something akin to a weekly prayer service.

Shoot, that's all for now. Eek, there's no time!

PS. Funny sidebar from this morning: I bought these black tights a few weeks back and my friend Erin said they'd be too big but I didn't believe her so I got them anyway. And then this morning I was hoofing it to work because every garage in the g-forsaken Washington Heights area was packed so I had to park 14 miles away. Long, coldbutt story short, by the time I made it to my office my tights were around my knees. Which makes me laugh.

Happy Friday!

Like That New Show on NBC About the Celebs Being Related to Other Dead Famous People

The snow.

It falls.

Thus I have summed up the last 72 hours of uninterrupted news stories on television, in print, and online for the tri-state area. Consider yourself up to speed.

Now I don't know what it is about the news around here but if I were a foreigner visiting this country for the first time and tuned in to the tv for 5 minutes I'd be all, "Are you serious? (With Indonesian accent, of course)". And then my American friend would say, "Ummm, yeah. The weather is kind of a big deal here. I don't know if you've heard of Al Roker, but he's kind of a god". And then me as an Indonesian tourist would go, "Ahhh-haaaa! Bring me to this Al Roker. He must have the answers which I seek". And you see where this is going. You don't? Well, either do I, don't look at me.

Anywhothere, we're all off to see more apartments today, which is right up there with wanting to jab my longest metal utensil into an electric socket while standing in a puddle of water holding a live grenade, but it is necessary. And necessity is the mother of invention. So that makes me... Related to Albert Einstien I'm pretty sure. Need to check the facts on that one, but I'll get back to you.

Have a great Saturday!

In The Criminal Justice System...

I totally forgot to tell you this weird factoid of the day from Monday. Now, with our current living situation, aka living in bfing Egypt*, I rarely have an urge to take public transit. And considering I have always had a hate-hate relationship with the MTA, remember that totally fun transit strike of 2005?, add to that my 2+ hours of subway ride from our old place in Brooklyn to my job in Washington Heights (read: corner of 168th Street and oh-my-gosh-are-you-serious-with-this-commute?), equals I would rather exercise in a bikini in front of my strictly Hasidic rabbi neighbor than take the bus and subway anywhere not medical-emergency necessary. Enough said.

So! When I do actually partake of ye ol' subway, I have the pleasure of treating it like some sort of mass commune with the people of New York City. Cut to this past Monday when I had to jump the 1/B/C trains from W 72nd St. to 42nd and 8th Ave to pickup my cell phone from my friend Carly (whose house we spent the Super Bowl at and I was totally awesome to leave my cell phone there and in no way willing to turn our car around on the way home to go get it, thus requiring me to retrieve it on Monday {holy run-on sentence}) and I'm somewhat in a hurry. As I swipe my metrocard and begin to walk through the turnstile, this "WOMAN" comes barreling, much like a stampeding hippopotamus, through my turnstile. Oh hell no.

And because all I need at this point in my life is a good subway knifing, I push her backwards through the turnstile. Did you hear that?

I.push.a.completely.strange.crazy.person.backwards.through.the.turnstile.

Yeah. I thought that deserved repeating. And, weirdly enough, she lets me, giving little resistance. But once I'm through, she grabs me, drags me off to the side of the entrance and keeps repeating, "Pull over, pull over!" And then, "I'm a cop. What were you doing?" Yeah. Seriously. And then the ex-barreling hippo turned SVU cop says, "Thanks to you someone just got away. I was following someone. If anyone ever pushes you like that, they're a cop, and get out of their way". And she just walks off as I mumble some sort of apologetic trailed off sentence.

Now, you tell me, was she for real? Because that sounds pretty f-ing made up. And I consider myself somewhat of an expert in the area.

*Wow, two references to Egypt in 1 week. Did a buzzer go off somewhere or something?

Notes to Samantha Brown

(Excerpt from my drunken email to Samantha Brown last night.)

Congratulations on 10 years of amazing travels on the travel channel!...Letmegetstraighttothepoint,Iamnotoneforverbosityorbeatingaroundthebush.Iwouldlovetoanchoranewprojecthighlightingtravelaroundtheglobewithatoddler.MyhusbandandIarecurrentlyNewYorkers,originallyhighschoolsweetheartsfromColumbus,Ohio,onthebrinkofconcuringourgreatestambitions,withourmostimportantaudienceintow,our18montholdson,Griffin.Callmeanytime,IhaveincredibledreamsofhoppingthemetroinCairo,andhikingtheapalachiantrail.

And no, I am not kidding. You may notice a little something off from my regular literary prose, which may or may not be related to the fact that Griffin ripped off my space bar yesterday and in my haste to tell Samantha my ingenious and highly profitable idea, I had no time to fix it. Also? Why I chose riding the Metro in Egypt and hiking the misspelled "Apalachian" Trail as exciting travels to entice Samantha with, I cannot explain at this point in time. Only to say that those would in fact be badass, or children-services-call, things to do with an 18 month old.

Part of me thinks I should leave it as is before sending it to the Travel Channel. And if they aren't open-minded enough to think I am television-worthy, then I don't want to work for them anyway. I mean, if they hired that fat guy to eat the world's most disgusting food, I've got to at least have a shot, right?

If not, I'll just start my own show with Anthony Bourdain... Now there's a guy who would love my show. I'm positive it would make his Tivo.

Don't Tell Me This Means I've Finally Grown Up

Another chapter from our trip home was not-so-fantastic and involved the one where you tell your family that you were just kidding about moving home this summer after 4+ years in a far, far away land called New York City, and that in reality you were going to stay in the far, far away land for another 2-ish years, only nobody likes that kind of story so turns out they are not going to give you the Caldecott Medal for that one...

Unfortunately, thus is the story of Grant, Griffin, and my situation as of late and it's been a roller coaster of emotional breakdowns, awkward silences, and several pig latin cuss words (which incidentally detracts a bit from the point of cuss words). All I can say in a nutshell is that life is not linear, and when curves come you have to either be ready to take the turn or end up lieing in a ditch somewhere bitching about your bad luck while everyone else passes you by.

Though many would see this as a story of compromise, I see it as a story of trust. Trust that your spouse is truly your partner in life, whose goal it is to see to it that you accomplish the most you possibly can in your life, both spiritually and concretely, regardless of his/her personal ambitions, and trusting that you will do the same for him/her, thereby ensuring each of your happiness and fulfillment will always be at the forefront of your relationship together. It's also a story of trust from your family. That the person you chose to spend the rest of your life in partnership with will always do what's best for you, so that they can rest assured you are being loved as much as is humanly possible.

And somehow, this little algorithm of mine makes life's speedbumps seem a bit more manageable.

Here's One for Ortho Tri Cyclen

Call me crazy, but I think my OB is trying to send me subliminal messages. I mean, it's not that crazy considering those people who think they were abducted by ufo's, but you know... If I constantly compared myself to those people I'd end up digging for unicorn caves in the Indian Ocean. (I'm just saying.)

So anyway, I saw my doc this week and she asked tons of questions per usual including the ever-popular "What are you using for birth control?" To which I replied, "Condoms". To which she replied with a blank stare and nervous little cough. Now, maybe I'm being oversensitive, or maybe it's the fact that she delivers, oh maybe 236 babies a day for her living, but I definitely picked up on some negative vibes after this exchange.

Yada, yada, yada and just as she was getting ready to leave she quickly asked, "And what method of birth control are you using?"

....

Now, I have an intensely invigorating and quasi-intellectual position for my hospital and consider myself somewhat medically educated. But all that aside, I think she's debating between telling me that my choice of contraception is not actually considered birth control or if she should just go ahead and schedule my next visit in a month to see how far along I am.

Lady. Understand this. I have an 18 month old cross between the Tasmanian Devil and a fire hose who still routinely wakes up screaming for me at 4:30am. That's the best birth control there is.

This One's Going in the Baby Book

From time to time I hear things from my Grant like, "Do not blog about this" or "I don't want this to end up on your blog" and "This is not to go on your website". Which, of course you know translates to "ABSOLUTELY BLOGWORTHY" in my brain of brains, or lack thereof. Hereafter lies the latest addition to this group... (Faint of Heart Disclaimer: If you have problems reading, talking, hearing, or otherwise being part of certain feminine matters regarding the "special time of the month", you may want to sit this one out).

[Curtain up, my mother's house over the holidays which is a venerable 3 ring circus of adults, children, babies, cats, Santa, neighbors, solicitors etc etc.] The house is somewhat empty, magically, and I run to the loo to quickly pee all whilst leaving the door open so I can hear Grif getting into some kind of trouble all the way across the house, knowing I can't actually stop him, and imagining the horror I will find upon exiting said restroom.

Only this time he pops his head in for a visit just as I grab my Kotex from the drawer. He immediately begins screaming something at the top of his lungs. Now, this little 18 month-old fireball of mine is quite verbal at this age but there are still many, many, many things he says that I scratch my head at and move on because there is no possible way he is saying something intelligible to my brain (much like 90% of the things my husband says as well, but I digress). I initially do the same to this exclamatory outburst but as he keeps it up for 2 minutes I realize he is saying something. And when the realization of what it is smacks me full in the face I have to hold on to the wall to keep from falling off my "seat", both in comedic appreciation and also in fear of what he will blog about me someday...

Let me digress again for a second to give you some back story. There are several things in this world that can make my son absolutely lose his mind in excitement for. Lest anyone question his paternity or maternity, one of them is food. (Obviously). Trucks, trains, airplanes, babies, slides, dogs, and balls also rank pretty high up there on the scale of unimaginable bliss. And, within the food category also exists a hierarchy of favoritism. Starting out with chicken or meatballs, advancing to bananas and peas, then up to blueberries, and at the utmost top remain the unseated champions yogurt (or "gogurt") and cheese.

Back to my restroom experience...

After seeing me begin to unwrap my Kotex, Griffin begins circling the bathroom yelling at the top of his lungs, as if his very life depended on me understanding what he is saying, "Cheese? CHEESE! Cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese. C.H.E.E.S.E!"

I'm so proud of that kid.

Damn, Damn, Damn

I've strategically cleared my entire lunch hour (read: 10 minutes) for writing today's post and I left the damn magazine article at home. (!)

Well, there's no use crying over spilled milk, unless it's red wine and then break out the kleenex this is going to make history. So I'll try to use my memory to recall what I wanted to tell you (I know right? Scar-ey).

So I don't know if you get the magazine Parents but I do somehow and occasionally I get the chance to read it and often find some useful crap in there. Crap I wish I'd known before I did it the wrong way 18 times, but useful none the less. This month's useful crap was an article on Sleep Habits of babies and toddlers. I found the first two pages hugely vindicating sprinkled with a tip or two* I am currently trying out on the baby (or the one who runs our household now). How-to-the-ev-er. Smack dab in the center of this useful article was a quote from a doctor somewhere where it must be opposite day every F-ing day or something because this is what he said, paraphrased, "If your baby falls asleep while nursing, wake him up to a full alert state before laying him down so he will learn to put himself back to sleep".

.........................What In The Sam Hell Are You Talking About?

Let me put it this way, Doc, if you actually think any woman in her right mind would wake that sleeping baby up only to lay it down again, I want some of whatever drug you are on. Pronto. Also? What is your address because I need to know where to drop my kid off tonight so you can babysit him overnight, for the next 400 nights. And can I have your wife's cell number because I need to apologize to her for all of those nights she was up taking care of your children by herself. Poor woman (for several reasons).

Note to Parent's Senior Editor: No more Crazy Doctor consults. We're all set filling up on our own crazy for the year, thank you very much.

*The first thing I'm trying is to put him to bed as early as possible in the evenings, like 6:15pm last night, in an effort to get him more "good sleep" under the assumption that he will sleep later in the mornings** and not get up in the middle of the night screaming for his binky (or 'dinkdee!!!' as he calls it).

**Hmmmm. Would 5:15am constitute "later in the mornings"? Me thinks NO.

*2 The second thing I'm trying is a nightly massage before bed. The first night he looked at me like I had lost my mind and was trying to kill him via skin removal. The second night he went straight to OH MY GOD WOMAN I'M ABOUT TO DIE.

Beginning to think of retracting my earlier statement re: useful tips.

First Ever: Video-eo-eo-e-o

Witness: Griffin 17 month montage.

(If I get my act together, and we both know that will never happen, I'll try to do this once a month. Wowsers.)

Which is Practically Scientific Research

We went to Park City with an amazing couple friend of ours, Brad and Nicole, or Bricole for future reference. The weather was amazing, the skiing was awesome, and I only had 2-3 emotional breakdowns about missing G to the izzo. Note to mom's: if you're on vacation 800 miles from your 17 month old, do not, I repeat do not try to talk to him on the phone. Disastrous. There I am, balling in the bathroom at the bottom of the ski lift as women stop to stare at the mumbling marshmallow sobbing into her cell phone. But needless to say, he was perfectly fine without us, or so we hear from the grandmom's (Who incidentally probably wouldn't tell us if he was a basketcase because they knew we would have been on the first plane back if they told us he so much as sneezed. And since it behooved them to have us gone, so they could hog him to themselves, they refrained from mentioning anything like that. Thank you, Grandmommies).

So there we are, our first night in Park City and after a 5am flight, an hour bus ride, and 4 hours of skiing, we all decide to hit the local grocery store for some provisions and also food etc. I'm cruising the cereal isle, almost comatose from exhaustion when Nicole runs over to tell me, "I think Katherine Heigl is here!"

To prove how out if it I was, I go, "The girl in Grant's class who runs the marathons? Who gives a flying rats a**, she's too skinny anyway". (Again, I was barely conscious and that is why my initial reaction was not to run up and down the isles screaming, "K-K! It's me! Your long lost, BFF! Do you want to come to my house to play?")

Nicole stares at me for a second and takes off to get another item on our list. As I near the milk and eggs isle I glance to my left and OH MY GOD, THERE'S KATHERINE HEIGL. Wait for it... Ohhhhhhhhh, Katherine Heigl, now I get it. (Brain attempting to connect neurons now.)

And friends, let me make your day. She. Doesn't. Really. Look. Like. That. Now, let me go off for a second here and I'll be back to where we started in a second. The thing, or one of the many many things about show business that pisses me off is that women are portrayed and expected to look unbelievably gorgeous at all times which is a feat not even Jesus could pull off, so that's one thing. Jesus doesn't want us to kill ourselves and airbrush virtual people out of thin air so that small children can grow up thinking the world is made up of 10 foot Barbie and Ken dolls. In fact, I believe there may be some underground footage of satan himself creating Barbie and Ken, but it's strictly on the DL so I can't show you.

Getting back to Katherine, I think she's unbelievably cute, I sincerely do. But - she has flaws, and zits, and greasy hair too. And I only stared at her for about 5 minutes, but I'm pretty sure nothing she was wearing was name brand or even new for that matter. As if I needed any more reason to stalk her, now I really want to because she's normal! Or so my assessment was after 5 minutes of staring...

Remind Me To Tell You the One About "Cheese!"

Boy oh geez it's been a while. Insert several apologetic comments here... And on to the news!

Let's take stock, shall we?

3 weeks in Ohio for Christmas vacation - Check.

1 week stint in Park City having a marvelous time skiing - Check.

2 cases of near-death gastrointestinal virus, not marvelous - Yep, check.

1 Katherine Heigl siting - Check.

423 new toddler toys I don't have anywhere to put - Check.

7 days of delaying taking down Christmas decorations - Check.

200 new words in Griffin's vocabulary - Check, check, check, CHEESE!

22 days past rent due date - Whoops and check. (Well, actually there's no check, that's the problem. See, my checkbook was among the casualties in trying to pack up way-too-much-f'ing-crap in about 15 minutes to come back to New York after my near-death viral experience last weekend. RIP checkbook, sorry Landlord.)

And most importantly, at least 37 good stories I have to tell you, just as soon as I get around to it. (Read: So if you're lucky before next Christmas...)

Ciao!