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!

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Hope It's a "Big" Plane

In preparation of going back to Columbus next week, I need to do a few things:

1. Freak out about packing, because there is never a good time to start, we never have enough space, and yet we always take too much stuff.

2. Notify everyone within a 25 mile radius of home that we'll be in town in case they want to get together.

3. Pre-plan every breakfast, lunch, and dinner so as to accomplish #2 without leaving anyone out or spending too much time with any one person, group, or organization thereby offending other persons, groups, and organizations, thereby removing us from wills and/ or Christmas lists in the future - not an option.

4. Pack all necessary items including many unnecessary items for two adults, one baby and one high maintenance dog to permit us to be away from our apartment for 4 very short days - not to mention it's daylight savings time and we lose a whole 60 minutes to nothingness (completely unfair and litigious).

5. Freak out for approximately 24-72 hours about our plane going down en route.

6. Streamline books to take for pleasure reading: HA. That's a good one!

7. Coordinate pick up and drop off of earlier mentioned high maintenance dog, then over analyze the effects of leaving him for 4 days on his non-existent psyche.

8. Consume any perishable food items from frig and cabinets - check.

9. Water plants - shit I always forget to do that on a regular basis - thereby making me feel really guilty about leaving them for several days without the option of having me water them.

10. Make lots of lists.

Though every trip home is always much anticipated and way too short, I will not have nostalgia for these packing, unpacking, and repacking trips once we are permanently relocated in O to the izz-O.

Witness: The Family (Insert Jaws theme here).

Doing My Part

Things are happening. At an alarmingly fast pace. No time to sit, think, pee, blog. The baby - he is insatiable these days. Apparently, I no longer think in complete sentences. Just realized this. Crap.

But seriously, it's important that we, you and I, don't lose our "alone time" just because I had a baby. I mean, we need to spend time on this relationship to make it work. So, I've put the baby down, he's amusing himself at the moment (which - sidebar - now includes him playing with himself "down there" - which is scary to me because I thought maybe we had a year or 11 to wait before that happened, apparently not. Something else that would have been useful to read in "What to expect..." - thanks for that), and I can devote my full attention to you and your needs.

Enough about you, let's talk about me.

What is it about this economy crisis that just gets me spend-happy? Take for instance last Friday. My friend Meghan and I decided to jump in the car and head to the Woodbury Commons outlets up here in no man's land, aka the Bronx, (and why do people say "the" Bronx instead of "Bronx"? I mean, you don't say, "I live in The Manhattan or The Brooklyn" do you? Case in point, number 435 reason why I "dislike" THE Bronx). I then proceed to flip the f--- out and buy over $200 worth of baby clothes for the Incredible Growing Baby, because have you seen the pictures? He's already 4 feet tall. Apparently someone's been slipping Miracle Grow into his food. (Just kidding you sicko - that would be extremely harmful albeit it makes a good joke).

So here I am without a job, married to a husband without a job, living with a baby without a job, taking care of a dog without a job - who I might add is dangerously close to being without a home if he keeps taking up residence between my feet as I walk around the house, in an economy that is in the shitter. Please, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Q. Public, take a lesson from me, everything's absolutely fine! Go out and spend money you don't have! It's great fun.

[Death gasp.]