This week I walked in on the man again. And it wasn't a large thing, but my heart has been worrying me lately - in a meat and blood sort of way - as I've started having weakness and pain and palpitations in the days after these sorts of events. I was musing on it earlier this year when my long-missing father touched bases and mentioned his heart surgeries. That's the problem with wayward genetic histories. I suppose I need to go see a doctor about it instead of laying on the couch flexing my fingers and wondering what a minor heart attack might feel like. At the very least, I have decided that I can't keep walking in on things. Next time, I pack a bag. Next time. I know how that sounds. People say things like, "You're too sweet" and "You're a good woman", which I think are code words for "doormat" and "dumbass". It is better to mess up your life through action than inaction, I know this. But when do a string of small things amount to one big thing? When I go urk and fall over dead, I guess. Not the sort of romance I am looking for. I'll take tawdry or steamy - or even lost - over tragic.
Next time.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
New York pt 2
Day 4? 5? I don't even know anymore - We went to Trader Joes and bought absolutely fucking everything. I went all nostalgic over frozen enchiladas I ate as a sad single person in Bakersfield, as if that was a high point in my life or something. Bought another .99 grocery bag, since the one I have been using as a book tote for work every day for 4 years finally crapped out. I am classy. The boy won after chanting "Red Lobster Red Lobster Red Lobster" for a week straight, and we ended up in a booth with 7 children at lunch time. The waitress actually trembled. Gavin realized partway through his lobster tail that he actually preferred my crab legs, which was both annoying and a relief to my future vacation budget.
Day... Wednesday - we went to Target, because suddenly it was cold and blustery instead of hot and sweltering, and the kids had no proper clothes. Seasons are freaky and unnatural. I convinced my tiny sister-in-law to take us to Cornwall to visit the yarn store. Mike's sister's husband ran off with his mistress and took all his belongings with him (the dark haired lover!!). Mike's brother made a pie and screwed it up, so the caramel was all heaped in a mess on the top of the crust. He declared it unfit for human consumption and went home, so we ate it with a fork while telling their sister we'd be happy to put a brick through her husband's windshield.
THE WEDDING DAY FINALLY: We ditched the kids with Mike's brother and his tiny wife. Their large dog was doing backflips of excitement, flailing claws at my precious panty hose as we stepped inside, so Rob grabbed her by the collar and hauled her up off her feet to toss her out the back door. We gawked after him. "He won't do that to the kids, right?" Mike made an ambiguous Scottish noise.
We drove to the city and ended up getting stationed at the top of the hill guarding the flower arrangements for a few hours. We chased squirrels, heckled old ladies eating sandwiches, and I demonstrated my plans for the open bar by posing for a photo in my nice dress and pretending to throw up into a trash can.
Mike meandered off and disappeared, so I finally abandoned the flowers and ran down the hill, right into the mess of photographers and posing groomsmen.
Salvo was kicked out of the pictures for wearing a bow tie, so he and I stood to the side and talked smack about the photographer's mustache. I kept an eye out for Noah, the jerk from Binghamton who told me the book I was reading sucked back in 1999. "I am going to tip him down some stairs," I promised. [I ended up kissing the guy on the mouth and eating a cream-filled donut with his girlfriend. Close enough.]
The ceremony was beautiful. Salvo officiated in his fantastic bow tie. Lorenz wrote his vows a few minutes beforehand and read them off his iphone.
It was perfect anyway, and he had to stop for a full minute to cry. The audience did, too. After all the weeping and kissing and ring exchanging, we broke out mini maracas and everyone - including a few optimistic hobos - danced down to the reception, where we were greeted with Elderflower cocktails and TINY TACOS. In all-caps, because that is how I said it every time the servers came by with them.
The Korean ceremony that followed was very fun, with tossing of dates and chestnuts and a piggy-back-ride exit for the bride. Mike took a lot of pictures of Lorenz's mom, because her boobs looked fantastic.
There was a photo booth, and fancy miniature food, and dancing, and endless cocktails, and then all the kissing of hapless men, and I broke a potted plant.
My embarrassing advice to the groom: "You will meet other people. Several of them. And you could fall in love and marry them and be happy. When you meet these people, recognize them for who they are, and then never speak to them again." I may have shaken him a bit.
Because I asked about 6 different times and made absolutely no mental effort to retain the information, Sal finally wrote the cocktail recipe down for me:
Here it is:
1. St.-Germain (elderflower liqueur)
2. Earl Grey infused gin
3. Lemon juice
4. Simple syrup
xoxo
For the fancy bartender-invented Earl Grey infused stuff, I'm pretty sure a warm tea bag in a bottle of gin will do the trick. There will be some experimenting with this in coming weeks.
At about 1am, Mike tipped me into the car, spent a few minutes getting lost in the city after a detour that led to nowhere, and we got home to find the kids safely asleep on the couch-bed in tv-watching position. Giant win, all around.
Friday: oh god, elderflower cocktails. Why does grandma only have pre-formed meat products in her freezer? Let us lay around watching the F Word on BBC, and then lay in the grass by the lake, and nobody will speak to me of gin.
Mike's brother came over with another pie, and I ended up cooking chicken francais for 16 people. I waited until the aforementioned brother was carrying two of his sons, then hugged him from behind so he couldn't escape. It's been 14 years. I will force my affection on him until he learns to like me. I told him so, and he said, "Oh, huh."
Saturday: flew everywhere. Pressed face to plane window and watched gridwork of farmland turn to crumples of desert mountains turn to endless carpet of LA rooftops. Got home at midnight - exactly 24 hours after heading out from New Windsor - to find that the cats had completely hosed the house down with pee and shredded the memory foam mattress like raccoons. Considered using their pelts to mop up with.
Home again. Skin rehydrating and lungs re-inflating. Kissed my coffee pot and stood under the cascading shower head and talked to my mom on the computer. A big chunk of my love lives on the East Coast, but I'm happy to be in my own bed again. I hope it won't be too many years before we return.
Monday, September 05, 2011
New York pt 1
Day 1: sprinted through a maze of temporary construction walls in LAX while personel popped out of panels and yelled, "Run! Run!" and flapped their hands like characters in a really crap video game. Made it to Cincinnati, which surprised us by being as hot as balls, and finally arrived in Newark to collapse onto grandma and aunt Sue. Saw a squirrel while driving home, which I found more exciting than the missing bridges and flooded fields.
Day 2: Mike left for the bachelor weekend at Lake George. Leif discovered motorized kiddie-ATVs. Gavin got onto the internet with porn-curious pre-teen cousins. I had a series of small strokes.
Day 3: Head attempted to invert itself, dragging along bits of my lungs. Crawled into couch to die, slugging bottles of Robitussin and Benedryl without regard to drug interaction or dosage. Leif ran up to wipe his nose on me periodically. There was wii bowling, and family wrestling. I was drugged enough to roll around with the mess of cousins and in-laws with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
Night 3: Leif stopped breathing at 3am, barking out "help" and "medicine" while turning colors and going limp. Grandma called 911. We got to ride in an ambulance for the first time. I took pictures, since I would be paying for the novelty. The ER staff all stopped to sympathetically exclaim, "Oh! He's so beautiful!" as we rolled by (loved this, despite distress). He drank his steroids without complaining and we were chucked out by 7:30am. Went home and slept until noon.
Day 4: disoriented and couch-bound. Gavin did homework, Leif played with Legos, the family left to do errands. By evening we were going stircrazy, and walked across the street to the lake. There were worms and further ATV terrors and meatloaf for dinner. I had scotch.
Day 5: Went to Target, got very giddy. Went to Super Walmart, stared too much at comically appalling cross-section of humanity. Saw more squirrels. Mike got himself stranded in Suffern after the rehearsal dinner. Nobody was surprised.
This is all sort of un-vacationy for a vacation, but I have spent much less time staring moodily up the road and retracing old footsteps in the driveway this time. Also, there is family drama, which has turned into an unexpected opportunity for sisters-in-law to finally have something in common to bitch about. I am pushing for a car egging or run-by kick in the shins. (Next update from police station.)
Day 2: Mike left for the bachelor weekend at Lake George. Leif discovered motorized kiddie-ATVs. Gavin got onto the internet with porn-curious pre-teen cousins. I had a series of small strokes.
Day 3: Head attempted to invert itself, dragging along bits of my lungs. Crawled into couch to die, slugging bottles of Robitussin and Benedryl without regard to drug interaction or dosage. Leif ran up to wipe his nose on me periodically. There was wii bowling, and family wrestling. I was drugged enough to roll around with the mess of cousins and in-laws with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
Night 3: Leif stopped breathing at 3am, barking out "help" and "medicine" while turning colors and going limp. Grandma called 911. We got to ride in an ambulance for the first time. I took pictures, since I would be paying for the novelty. The ER staff all stopped to sympathetically exclaim, "Oh! He's so beautiful!" as we rolled by (loved this, despite distress). He drank his steroids without complaining and we were chucked out by 7:30am. Went home and slept until noon.
Day 4: disoriented and couch-bound. Gavin did homework, Leif played with Legos, the family left to do errands. By evening we were going stircrazy, and walked across the street to the lake. There were worms and further ATV terrors and meatloaf for dinner. I had scotch.
Day 5: Went to Target, got very giddy. Went to Super Walmart, stared too much at comically appalling cross-section of humanity. Saw more squirrels. Mike got himself stranded in Suffern after the rehearsal dinner. Nobody was surprised.
This is all sort of un-vacationy for a vacation, but I have spent much less time staring moodily up the road and retracing old footsteps in the driveway this time. Also, there is family drama, which has turned into an unexpected opportunity for sisters-in-law to finally have something in common to bitch about. I am pushing for a car egging or run-by kick in the shins. (Next update from police station.)
Friday, August 26, 2011
one of those day in the life posts
Jiveturkey wants to know what we do all day. Here is what.
5:30am - sneak out of bunk bed, having fallen asleep while tucking the midnight-waker back in. Try to use toilet and make coffee without waking kids; fail. Leif calls from bed, where he is rubbing his eyes with all his hair frizzed up or dangling like a monkey from the bunk bed bars; he goes limp and pretends to be dead when I pick him up. I flop him onto the couch and he either says, "bread and nutella" or "banana" ("pwease"). Boy shuffles out in jammies, I assemble bread and cereal and coffee.
6:00 - 6:30am - breakfast and cartoons and email-checking. Wake man, shoo cats out of bathroom, take shower. Or skip shower in favor of second cup of coffee. Especially if the pilot blew out again and there isn't any hot water.
7:00 - 7:20am - Mike makes sandwiches while I put my face on and dress the infink. Gavin ambles around getting dressed, brushing hair, and playing Bey Blades. Brief flurry of shoe-finding and people-kissing, and out the door. Mike walks the little one to preschool, Gavin and I drive the 5 minutes to school.
7:30-9:45am - work; hobos, typewriter, fax machine, checkouts, sorting mail, storytime, endless cups of Lipton tea.
9:45am - BREAK TIME. A few minutes to knit a few rows, scarf down bananas, and read a chapter of whatever book is on my desk. Currently A Secret Rage, by Charlaine Harris and And Another Thing, by Eoin Colfer pretending to be Douglas Adams. Then back to work until lunch.
12:00pm - LUNCH TIME. Exactly the same as break, only longer, and with a meal bar or Lean Cuisine.
1:00pm - 4:30pm - work that usually involves budgets, numbers typed on tiny labels, someone yelling, someone refusing to pay .25, someone pooping on the floor, phone-in book renewals, and complaints about how slow the computers are/why I have to have a library card to use the computer/why I have to prove I live here to get a free resident's card/why I can't charge my phone/why I can't bathe in the urinal.
Gavin runs in after school, kisses me, and runs to catch the bus home. I stay and yell at teens for drawing cocks on our EXIT signs.
4:35pm - HOME FINALLY. Leif throws his toys down and tackle-hugs me, Gavin waves from over his homework, Mike waves from computer. I ask about everyone's day and pull things out of the fridge to start dinner. If work was more yelling than typing that day, I crack a beer while cooking (except not lately, because diet blah blah). We eat at the kitchen table and everyone tells about 3 good things that happened that day, then 3 bad things and what they did about it. If I have had a beer while making dinner, there are usually cookies or brownies in the toaster oven while we wait for Gavin the Slowest Eater Ever to finish spearing all the individual kernels of corn off his plate.
5:30 - 7:00pm - Commence wet blanket action. If I have been invited anywhere, I skip it. If we have hang-out plans on a Friday night, I pass. I am an introvert who works with the public all day, after which I just want to be left the hell alone for a while. The kids play on the rug, the man studies beer recipes or does chemistry in the kitchen, and I knit or help set up train tracks or go for a jog.
7:00 - 8:00pm - tag team bedtime. I give Leif a shower while Gavin gets some brother-free time playing computer games. The infink breakdances on the slippery shower floor for a few minutes, then I truss him up in a giant towel, carry him out and yell, "I HAVE THE CUTE!" to which brother and father squee dutifully. Then I drop him on the bed into kitten pee, and spend the next 10 minutes changing bedding while he runs naked after the kitten. By the time he is in his jammies, Gavin is showered, and we exchange goodnight kisses as we cross paths brushing teeth. I lay down with Leif in the boys' room to read Little Bear, and Mike reads a few chapters to Gavin in our room. In a few minutes the infink is asleep and I sneak out. Gavin sneaks in and up into his bed.
8:00 - 10:00pm - Mike pops a beer while I do a few pullups, and we settle onto the couch for an episode or two of whatever show we are currently obsessed with. If I'm lucky, I'll get to sleep in the grown-up bed for most of the night before lurching to the bunk bed for tuck-ins. If the rain is drumming down on the tin roof I will slip in next to my baby on my own, in case I can't hear him call. I don't mind either way; falling asleep next to my children is still top on my list of wonderful things. Being alone in a bed with Mike feels kind of weird after all this time.
It's a good, simple, comfortable life.
So there it is. If I had any intrigue, it is now gone. Are these posts stalker fodder, or what? Luckily, I have only 12 readers, and I'm pretty sure none of them want a coat out of my skin. Still, if you do, um... don't.
5:30am - sneak out of bunk bed, having fallen asleep while tucking the midnight-waker back in. Try to use toilet and make coffee without waking kids; fail. Leif calls from bed, where he is rubbing his eyes with all his hair frizzed up or dangling like a monkey from the bunk bed bars; he goes limp and pretends to be dead when I pick him up. I flop him onto the couch and he either says, "bread and nutella" or "banana" ("pwease"). Boy shuffles out in jammies, I assemble bread and cereal and coffee.
6:00 - 6:30am - breakfast and cartoons and email-checking. Wake man, shoo cats out of bathroom, take shower. Or skip shower in favor of second cup of coffee. Especially if the pilot blew out again and there isn't any hot water.
7:00 - 7:20am - Mike makes sandwiches while I put my face on and dress the infink. Gavin ambles around getting dressed, brushing hair, and playing Bey Blades. Brief flurry of shoe-finding and people-kissing, and out the door. Mike walks the little one to preschool, Gavin and I drive the 5 minutes to school.
7:30-9:45am - work; hobos, typewriter, fax machine, checkouts, sorting mail, storytime, endless cups of Lipton tea.
9:45am - BREAK TIME. A few minutes to knit a few rows, scarf down bananas, and read a chapter of whatever book is on my desk. Currently A Secret Rage, by Charlaine Harris and And Another Thing, by Eoin Colfer pretending to be Douglas Adams. Then back to work until lunch.
12:00pm - LUNCH TIME. Exactly the same as break, only longer, and with a meal bar or Lean Cuisine.
1:00pm - 4:30pm - work that usually involves budgets, numbers typed on tiny labels, someone yelling, someone refusing to pay .25, someone pooping on the floor, phone-in book renewals, and complaints about how slow the computers are/why I have to have a library card to use the computer/why I have to prove I live here to get a free resident's card/why I can't charge my phone/why I can't bathe in the urinal.
Gavin runs in after school, kisses me, and runs to catch the bus home. I stay and yell at teens for drawing cocks on our EXIT signs.
4:35pm - HOME FINALLY. Leif throws his toys down and tackle-hugs me, Gavin waves from over his homework, Mike waves from computer. I ask about everyone's day and pull things out of the fridge to start dinner. If work was more yelling than typing that day, I crack a beer while cooking (except not lately, because diet blah blah). We eat at the kitchen table and everyone tells about 3 good things that happened that day, then 3 bad things and what they did about it. If I have had a beer while making dinner, there are usually cookies or brownies in the toaster oven while we wait for Gavin the Slowest Eater Ever to finish spearing all the individual kernels of corn off his plate.
5:30 - 7:00pm - Commence wet blanket action. If I have been invited anywhere, I skip it. If we have hang-out plans on a Friday night, I pass. I am an introvert who works with the public all day, after which I just want to be left the hell alone for a while. The kids play on the rug, the man studies beer recipes or does chemistry in the kitchen, and I knit or help set up train tracks or go for a jog.
7:00 - 8:00pm - tag team bedtime. I give Leif a shower while Gavin gets some brother-free time playing computer games. The infink breakdances on the slippery shower floor for a few minutes, then I truss him up in a giant towel, carry him out and yell, "I HAVE THE CUTE!" to which brother and father squee dutifully. Then I drop him on the bed into kitten pee, and spend the next 10 minutes changing bedding while he runs naked after the kitten. By the time he is in his jammies, Gavin is showered, and we exchange goodnight kisses as we cross paths brushing teeth. I lay down with Leif in the boys' room to read Little Bear, and Mike reads a few chapters to Gavin in our room. In a few minutes the infink is asleep and I sneak out. Gavin sneaks in and up into his bed.
8:00 - 10:00pm - Mike pops a beer while I do a few pullups, and we settle onto the couch for an episode or two of whatever show we are currently obsessed with. If I'm lucky, I'll get to sleep in the grown-up bed for most of the night before lurching to the bunk bed for tuck-ins. If the rain is drumming down on the tin roof I will slip in next to my baby on my own, in case I can't hear him call. I don't mind either way; falling asleep next to my children is still top on my list of wonderful things. Being alone in a bed with Mike feels kind of weird after all this time.
It's a good, simple, comfortable life.
So there it is. If I had any intrigue, it is now gone. Are these posts stalker fodder, or what? Luckily, I have only 12 readers, and I'm pretty sure none of them want a coat out of my skin. Still, if you do, um... don't.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Kitten
The kitten has no name. We didn't intend to keep it, but nobody wants a stray kitten and I am too soft-hearted to put it out in a box, so a name is in order.
So far it identifies to a mangled string of exclamations - tearing across the back of the couch and savaging our heads as we all yell out names. "Astrid!" "Ass-turd!" "Nargles!" "Ripper!" "SHNORF!" Whatever random words the chorus contains, it doesn't end until Mike yells, "SHNORF," so that will probably be the thing that sticks. Nice.
This kitten has weird hand-paws with long knuckles, and claws up between the window and screen like a bat thing. The man absentmindedly plucked her up and dropped her off the edge of the couch, and she managed to land on her head instead of her feet. Clearly not entirely cat.
So far it identifies to a mangled string of exclamations - tearing across the back of the couch and savaging our heads as we all yell out names. "Astrid!" "Ass-turd!" "Nargles!" "Ripper!" "SHNORF!" Whatever random words the chorus contains, it doesn't end until Mike yells, "SHNORF," so that will probably be the thing that sticks. Nice.
This kitten has weird hand-paws with long knuckles, and claws up between the window and screen like a bat thing. The man absentmindedly plucked her up and dropped her off the edge of the couch, and she managed to land on her head instead of her feet. Clearly not entirely cat.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
more hats
This is getting ridiculous. Finishing nearly one a day. I have been carrying half-knit hats under my arm, worrying at them - during lunch break, waiting for the kettle to boil, watching Being Human on BBC, driving to the general store.
So, this week:
So, this week:
Infant size, for new nephew. Still needs tassels.
Improvised from Snowtracks hat.
Habitat. Love this pattern so, so much.
First time trying the fabled and fawned-over Malabrigo, and I was skeptical at first.
Felt like regular yarn to me. Knits up into marshmallows. MAGIC.
Tearing through stash ottoman for the odd balls of good stuff I've hidden. Haven't gone for baggies down the back of the toilet yet, but it won't be long.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
I made some hats. And I am wearing them. Shh.
Two more x-mess presents finished. The man's family doesn't read my blog (or care about hats), so I can put them on and ponce around for pictures.
The Vorderrhein hat (or "The Hat I Can't Pronounce"). Ran out of yarn on this one, three rows from finish. I wanted to rip it up, but the man rescued it and made me order more yarn because he liked the cables. MADE ME, I say. That ball of Malabrigo that arrived in the box was just a consolation.
After Kittiwake kicked my ass, I went for something zenlike and knit up a Little Things hat in the car yesterday. It's a long drive to the grocery store.
I really dig the decreases and dumb little loop at the top.
Next on the needles: MORE HATS. I am making an industry of ennui.
The Vorderrhein hat (or "The Hat I Can't Pronounce"). Ran out of yarn on this one, three rows from finish. I wanted to rip it up, but the man rescued it and made me order more yarn because he liked the cables. MADE ME, I say. That ball of Malabrigo that arrived in the box was just a consolation.
All the hat models I've seen wear them ridiculously far back on their head like this.
After Kittiwake kicked my ass, I went for something zenlike and knit up a Little Things hat in the car yesterday. It's a long drive to the grocery store.
I really dig the decreases and dumb little loop at the top.
Next on the needles: MORE HATS. I am making an industry of ennui.
Friday, August 12, 2011
mystery cupboards reveal shocking lack of mysteries
My friend operates on stealth, sneaking to our front step to leave pineapples, avocados the size of small heads, bunches of bananas, whole fish, and bags of smoked wild pig. Nature's ninja. In the mail, postcards accumulate and tumble into my hands when I check the box, still warm from Bakersfield (more on these later).
People have a lot of love. It's pretty wonderful.
So to be a sport, I slapped myself up a bit, dumped a few cups of coffee down my throat, climbed up onto the counters in the back office, and used our janitor's mini broom to open up all the ridiculous cupboards built 15 feet up the wall. My spotter (workplace safety first!) tilted his head and watched with a smile that made me tuck my shirt into my jeans self-consciously. No dead bodies hidden in the mystery cupboards. I tap-danced across the desk and jete'd down [tottered onto a swivel chair and half fell across my janitor's head], then tore open the cupboards in the break room, where I found all the items that had been hidden from me because I am too clumsy to be trusted with them (we have a crystal punch bowl!). Threw up my hands because there still weren't any cryptic artifacts to propel us into mystery-novel antics. I did find some very old carbon paper, though. And I threw it away. Like a boss.
It felt wrong just leaving all that disappointment and dust up there, so I got into the ancient first-aid kit and put a sling-in-a-box up there for the next intrepid investigator.
Because really, if anyone breaks their ribs or collar bones at the library, I will be calling an ambulance, not throwing them a boxed sling from the 1970s. And watching it bounce off of them, because they can't catch it - broken bones and all. Odds are it will probably be me, anyway, since I'm the idiot who climbs up into cupboards while wearing wedge sandals.
And that was my week.
People have a lot of love. It's pretty wonderful.
So to be a sport, I slapped myself up a bit, dumped a few cups of coffee down my throat, climbed up onto the counters in the back office, and used our janitor's mini broom to open up all the ridiculous cupboards built 15 feet up the wall. My spotter (workplace safety first!) tilted his head and watched with a smile that made me tuck my shirt into my jeans self-consciously. No dead bodies hidden in the mystery cupboards. I tap-danced across the desk and jete'd down [tottered onto a swivel chair and half fell across my janitor's head], then tore open the cupboards in the break room, where I found all the items that had been hidden from me because I am too clumsy to be trusted with them (we have a crystal punch bowl!). Threw up my hands because there still weren't any cryptic artifacts to propel us into mystery-novel antics. I did find some very old carbon paper, though. And I threw it away. Like a boss.
It felt wrong just leaving all that disappointment and dust up there, so I got into the ancient first-aid kit and put a sling-in-a-box up there for the next intrepid investigator.
Because really, if anyone breaks their ribs or collar bones at the library, I will be calling an ambulance, not throwing them a boxed sling from the 1970s. And watching it bounce off of them, because they can't catch it - broken bones and all. Odds are it will probably be me, anyway, since I'm the idiot who climbs up into cupboards while wearing wedge sandals.
And that was my week.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Turning 3
I am fond of traditions. Gavin's birthday was easy; I went into labor over take-out Thai food, so every year we go on a hunt for panang curry and eat off the coffee table on the night before his birthday. Leif's birth did not present an inspired moment for reenactment, unless I want to pick a fight with an OB, tell off some nurses, or wear disposable underpants. There was, at least, the small matter of unhooking myself from the monitors and making a run for it down the L&D hallway, backless gown a-flapping, to stand in the waiting room with my family and scarf down a plate of rice, scrambled eggs, and bacon before the ghoul-nurses could find me and chase me back to the bed. It is a symptom of cultural dysfunction that laboring women are forbidden from eating while performing a marathon of physical activity. We have rice and eggs and bacon every August 6th now, although I don't make them eat it standing up and pantless. And while that's fine and all, it seems like a meager tradition, so we baked brownies the night before and speculated that every year we could bake a different kind of brownie. Which I think we decided last year would be varieties of banana bread. It looks as if the annual tradition will be the scrabble for an annual tradition. You're welcome, Leif!
Anyway, Gavin wasn't home for any of this tradition business, having spent the night with friends, so we ate his bacon and I set to work making chocolate butter cream. I was aiming for something like this:
And ended up with this:
Well, who cares, when there are toys jammed into it? The child made his wish, and it probably wasn't for more evenly layered lilikoi buttercream.
I had to drive with two cats loose in the car once. That is kind of what kiddie parties are like. We supplied a piñata, pizza, prizes, and waterplay - just trying to stand out of the way and hide in our novelty cups of prohibited park beverages.
After an initial period of "I'm bored" and "I don't waaaant any cake", the short people began heated bartering with piñata loot, broke the sprinkler, fought over Spongebob's dismembered limbs, and in general had a wonderful time.
savages
The moms had all stayed home to bask in their childless houses, so I regaled the men with Leif's birth story instead. "It isn't a party until you talk about your filthy vagina*," said Mike.
Suddenly there was a thunderous mooing and a bunch of cows came stampeding over the neighboring hillside. We decided that was a good note to end on.
The infink was so happy with the party and the presents that I had to run him down with a wet wipe while he was launching rubber Angry Birds to get him clean enough to chuck in bed. He threw himself onto the pillows, snuggled up against me, and was snoring before I finished singing the first song. My boy is 3; going to school, talking conversationally, running fearlessly into the ocean, and still baby enough to call for me at night and throw a fit when his cereal is poured incorrectly. He's smart and funny and just a bit mean; three things I really love together in a person.
Happy Birthday, Leif!
*actual words used by OB. Why yes, I'm still mad at him.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
I am not a jogger
I have given up booze (*cough*). I have cut back on salt. I have logged in my points. I have not lost an effing pound in 2 months.
So now I have to exercise more. This is a post about exercise.
This afternoon I went for a jog. You should warm up when going for a jog. And wear shoes.
I came back 15 minutes later. Jogging is hard.
After that first one, though, it's back to jumping/flailing.
Then you can lay on the floor and watch TV. Ta daa, that is how to exercise.
So now I have to exercise more. This is a post about exercise.
This afternoon I went for a jog. You should warm up when going for a jog. And wear shoes.
I came back 15 minutes later. Jogging is hard.
Pull-ups are easier. You just hang from the bar, jump, and lift/flail until one day you burst out the armpits of your blouse and you discover you don't have to jump anymore.
After that first one, though, it's back to jumping/flailing.
Then you can lay on the floor and watch TV. Ta daa, that is how to exercise.
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