Anything Said: November 2007

Friday, November 30, 2007

Wednesday was my birthday. Jealous?

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Back to business as usual

I'm not sure exactly what was the final straw. Maybe it was when the teacher turned on Amy Grant's "Baby Baby" and ordered us to "cuddle-boogie" with our children. Or maybe it was when another mom, having no doubt observed my hanging-on-by-a-thread display of parenting skills as I pried Cletus the Former Fetus' fingers from the unguarded shoes of about six other children, leaned over my head and in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice meant to Teach Me A Little Something cooed at my daughter: "Ohhh, sweetie, you did such a great job at finding your shoes!" Either way. I think today was Cletus' last day at her music class.

OH. And you guys aren't going to BELIEVE this shit:

You know my fucking apartment? The beautiful one, the one that's for sale? Well I got an email from our Shady McSketchypants landlord last week informing us that "the 2nd floor tenants have been complaining that they are cold." The husband and I read this and, of course, were all "um, do you want us to lend them a blanket?" And the landlord was all "no, I want you to turn up your thermostat." And we were all "what does that have to do with the 2nd floor tenants being cold?" And -- you see where this is going, right? -- the landlord was all "ummmm... didiforgettomentionthatyoucontroltheirheat?" And we were all "WHAT. THE. HELL?"

It gets worse, much worse. Not only do we suddenly control the 2nd floor's heat but, consequently, we are expected to PAY FOR their heat, as the landlord claims there is no physical way to split the bill. (The husband: "I'll show you a physical way you can split the bill.") This is not in our lease. This was never discussed when we looked at or moved into the apartment. Obviously it wasn't, or we would have never moved in. Who in their right mind would have? Now we have to figure out what to do, and how to do it.

I don't know. Somehow over the years our living situation has just spiralled out of control. And it occurs to me that I probably shouldn't even be writing about this particular egregious-bullshit-of-the-week, in the event that it turns into some kind of legal battle. But I am beside myself. And tired. And also? There was a dead mouse lying in our hallway when we got home from Thanksgiving. And mouse poo in our kitchen.

Sorry to be all negative, but: can I have a do-over?

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Thanks giving

Things are not all bad around here, I promise.

Cletus the Former Fetus is 14 months old yesterday. Having attained full upright mobility about a month ago thanks to the purchase of magic shoes that cost more than the entire contents of her closet combined, she now completes about 307 laps of the house each day before 9:00 AM. Generally on these laps, she is holding an object of some kind in each hand. Rarely are these objects actual toys expressly intended for her recreational use. Ink pens are a favorite. So are socks, freshly pulled from her feet. Also subscription cards that have fallen from magazines, tupperware containers of any shape or size, and dirty shirts pulled from the laundry hamper in the parental units' bedroom.

Cletus the Former Fetus is highly literate. She loves books, spends half her day paging through them, selecting favorite titles and bringing them to us to read aloud. She uses them as launching points for party tricks: at the end of her current fave, Eric Carle's "Polar Bear Polar Bear, What Do You Hear?", she scrunches her lips together and whistles along with the zookeeper in the story. She then looks expectantly at whoever is reading the book to her, waiting for a musical colleague to join in the whistling fun. If said reader is her father, the group whistling proceeds as planned and Cletus stomps her foot (her current version of dancing) in appreciation. If said reader is yours truly, the child looks on in pity and distaste as I blow enthusiastically but soundlessly, then she removes her book from my lap and toddles off.

Cletus is obsessed with her fellow baby. Pictures of babies, babies on tv, her baby friends at day care: all are unbelievably awesome. Each night after her bath, Cletus spends a good minute or two laughing hysterically at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, hair in clumps on top of her head. She giggles, coos, looks away, then snaps her face forward again, flirting with herself. Once last week she stood naked in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom, smiling and patting her belly with her open palms. Then she peed, the stream hitting the glass and splattering onto the floor. Her face -- first, surprise, then glee.

Which brings me to this: if you let Cletus the Former Fetus run around the house without a diaper in the hopes that it will help her nightmare of a yeast rash heal more quickly, eventually she will squat down and shit on the rug like a dog. Then, while you and your husband are busy laughing like crazy because, hey, poop is funny, she will step in it, and then one of you will have to restrain the child while the other wipes her down while simultaneously trying to keep the dog from consuming her weight in baby shit. Then you will laugh and laugh some more and realize that often the best memories are the ones that end with someone being hosed off from head to toe.

I am thankful. Really. really thankful. Sometimes it just takes me awhile to get there.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Respect the Hyundai

I don't think I could be friends with someone who drives a Hummer. Do you think that makes me a petty person?

I mean, someone who drives a Hummer has made a very conscious choice to be conspicuous and to take up lots of space, it seems. There's a defiance, a kind of statement that's not made by someone who chooses to drive, say, a Honda Civic. When I try to picture any of the people I count among the Awesome behind the wheel of a Hummer, it's laughable to me. Dori? Maven? God forbid, Madness? There's just something about the people I'm drawn to that doesn't allow for the presence of a Hummer. Don't prove me wrong on this. I want to keep liking you.

On my commute home today I was cut off by a car bearing a license plate that read "Foxy Mom 1". When I pulled into the other lane to pass a few minutes later, I realized that the car was driven by a dude, which struck me as hilarious for some reason. That mom was super foxy!

Also, twice this week I've seen cars with the following sentiment bumper-stickered onto their backsides: "Don't let the car fool you. My treasure is in Heaven." Both times, I wanted to drive up beside the car, roll down my window, and ask "What does that even mean?" Like, are they saying that God's going to buy them an even better car in the afterlife? Or that they're ACTUALLY totally humble and not materialistic at all and would much rather be riding a bike down the freeway than this here fancy car they were forced by circumstances beyond their control to purchase and drive?

I have a Hillary for Prez bumper sticker, but I don't rock it on the Hyundai. Mostly because I live in Obama's world, but in part because I don't want someone to road rage me the way I always want to road rage people with George W stickers on their cars. It's like, I see one and I'm filled with rage and for a moment I picture what it would feel like to jump out all gangster-style through my window and key "I HEART STEM CELL RESEARCH" into their driver's side door.

I feel like an old man today, all curmudgeonly, craving applesauce.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Country roads took me home

I've spent the last four days chillin' with the 'rents, which is pretty much my standard MO when the husband goes out of town. He goes away to conferences; I run away to mommy's house, hand her the baby, and shove whole fistfuls of sugar and starch into my mouth while reading my sister's stash of People Magazine back-issues. It's rad.

My parents live in northern Indiana, about a 2.5-hour drive from Chicago. Last June they bought a new house, their first after having spent 30+ years living in the same just-this-side-of-rundown 3-BR that I and my four siblings grew up in. From the outside, the new house is the sort of soulless subdivision fodder I would spend a lifetime avoiding, but on the inside it's warm and lovely and so full of activity that it makes me happy just to pull into the driveway. There's a strip of stores clustered at the entrance to the neighborhood -- a cleaners, a pizza place -- and a few weeks ago my aunt and uncle opened up a bakery there, a small, scrappy business with temporary signage and a "Help Wanted" sign in the window. My days at my parents' place are full of coffee runs and sweet rolls, donuts iced with maple frosting a half-inch high, long johns oozing with custard. At my parents' place, I am 10 pounds overweight and I do not care.

On Thursday my mom and I took Cletus the Former Fetus to the doctor's office to check for an ear infection. She didn't have one, of course, because that would've been too easy an explanation for the screaming and the ear-tugging and the buckets of snot, but that's not the point of this story. The point of this story is that the pediatrician's office where we took Cletus in my parents' town? Was incredible. I swear to you, I have never seen anything like this before in my life. First off, there were two waiting rooms: one for sick kids and one for well kids. I had read about this concept before in books but just figured it was something Dr. Sears made up to further his agenda of Finding My Parenting Lacking. But dudes: it totally exists! Plus, the well kids waiting room? Was a fucking playground with slides and shit, and in the middle of it: a straight-up movie theater, with rows of seats perched in front of a huge screen showing The Lion King.

And then -- get this -- we were ushered into an exam room FIVE MINUTES BEFORE OUR SCHEDULED APPOINTMENT, where we were handed a glossy headshot and credentials sheet for the doctor who was about to examine Cletus. Homeboy came to my parents' town straight out of Columbia, all smart and attractive and whatnot. And he showed up for the exam on time, and proceeded to spend a few minutes actually playing with my child before making with poke-and-prod routine. It was fully insane, and I wanted to move in and live in the office forever.

Other highlights of my visit included a shopping trip to Kohl's during which I spent the first fifteen minutes hiding out in Men's Wear because I saw a girl I knew from high school in the women's section and I wasn't in the proper headspace to make with the nice. And this was a girl I was friends with, if that tells you how much I enjoy taking trips in the wayback machine.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Things I've done today that I'm not proud of, and it's only 1:30 in the afternoon

1. Greeted the baby's first temper tantrum of the day (immediately post-bottle at about 6:45 AM) not with hugs and comfort but with an even "Really? That's how it's going to be today?" And then I laid her on the rug to writhe.

2. Informed the baby that "apparently, Daddy is too awesome to hang up his own bath towel." One of these days that child's going to know exactly what I'm saying, and then I'm going to have to explain to my husband why I trash-talked him to his progeny. Which I am, by the way, fully prepared to explain, because the towel rack is right. the fuck. there.

3. Sat in silent judgment of the angel baby perched next to me at Cletus' music class. That baby cooed and giggled and danced and clapped and did long division and all I did was sit there and think "well at least he's not that cute." Then I gathered my very cute, very grouchy, very non-participatory baby onto my lap and tried to force her to pat-a-cake.

4. Refused to refer to the music class teacher as "Miss Deb" even though all the other moms were doing it. It was all "Thank you, Miss Deb" and "See you next week, Miss Deb" and I just couldn't in good conscience advocate that propaganda. Unless I'm misunderstanding the situation completely and the woman's last name is actually Deb.

5. Flipped off a guy who honked his horn at me, only to realize when he passed my car that he was a very, very, VERY old man. I mean, he was still an ass for honking, but there's something about making obscene gestures towards a wee shriveled Someone's Grandpa that makes you feel significantly less than classy.

6. Drank milk straight from the jug in front of my curtainless kitchen window, through which two construction workers watched me and openly recoiled in disgust.

7. Watched a tivo'd episode of Dancing With The Stars in front of my fully awake, fully slack-jawed child.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Butterfingers for lunch

So trick-or-treating only lasted for about one block. The Cletus chicken was cold, and her interest focused solely on throwing each individual piece of candy onto the sidewalk for her father and I to retrieve. We said a quick "no thanks" to that, retreated back inside, filled a Tupperware bowl with little packets of Skittles and left it out on our front porch. About 3.5 seconds later a bunch of 19-year-olds -- dressed, I presume, as Man's Inhumanity To Man or one of those other esoteric "costumes" we used to rock when we still wanted to beg for candy even though we already had our driver's licenses -- took all the candy, threw the empty bowl onto our lawn, rang our doorbell, and split. Happy Halloween.

We did encounter one bad-ass phenomenon during our brief hop around the block, though: the old woman who gives out quarters to trick-or-treaters. Seriously! I didn't think she still existed, but she does! She came to the door when we rang her bell, and she was like 109 years old, just barely standing upright, and she pressed a shiny contraband coin into my 1-year-old's hand. The husband and I smiled and thanked her, then retreated in awe and wonder. "Wow," the husband said when we were a few steps away from the house. "I know," I answered. "That woman's fighting The Man so hard, she doesn't even know she's doing it."

Today I am still munching on Cletus' milk duds while she fights to nap in the other room. The child has this ridiculous virus that's apparently all over my neighborhood. It's got, like, five layers of grossness, is centered around a delightful barky cough and runny nose, and lasts around 3 weeks. We are on week two. Have I even written a post in the last two months that hasn't in some way mentioned a Disease O' The Day?

Also, this morning my dog puked up her undigested kibble about two inches from Cletus' face, as I was changing her diaper on the floor. I had been wrestling with this particular diaper change for about five minutes and was fully prepared to let the baby eat the vomit if it meant she would hold still long enough for me to get the diaper on her.

I really hope someone finds my blog with a Google search for "baby eat the vomit."

I'm having one of those days where you feel like everyone, including all of the inanimate objects surrounding you, are conspiring to make things suck. Like, you know, the baby is whining for her lunch, the dog is whining for the scraps from the baby's lunch, all I want in the world is to prepare that fucking lunch, so WHY would the avocado I'm slicing into choose that moment to be rotten?

Why, I ask you?