A Pirate Looks at 30

There is a box of summer clothes I just pulled down from the attic in the spare bedroom. Sitting on the floor, looking through it, I realized so much about me has changed. I found babydoll shirts bragging about my (fictional) membership in the mile-high club, proclaiming "I Need Supervision", and one with strategically placed shiny pink dice that I got from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas. That is my summer wardrobe. Or was. That isn't me anymore. I am someone new. I am someone old. I am 30. Today is my 30th birthday; and as I look back through the years, through the clothes in that box, I can see all the different colors, shapes, and sizes in my past. There are bright, colorful things...extra large, crazy things...dark, ugly things...and quite a few sarcastic "Fuck you"'s in there. So many of my favorites have gotten worn, others are threadbare and ragged. Some even have holes in them, those lost hours I can't remember. But sitting on the floor, pawing through the past, I find there is very little I can let go. Even that silly shirt with the leather lace-up front, and that cute bikini my mommy hips will never let me wear again. But maybe I don't want to let them go. Maybe I like remembering my good days and bad days, my fat days and skinny days. There's plenty of room in the attic. And I can always move some things around if I need the space. So that box will go right back up there, skinny shorts and all. Who knows, maybe someday my daughter will find a few things in there that fit her as well as they once fit me.

Shameless Self-Promotion

The New Jersey Moms Blog is up and running today. Stop by and say hi, if you have a chance. I'm a contributor (which totally weirds me out that anyone would actually seek out what I have to say, as opposed to running in the opposite direction and actually using the "block" option on their site), which is kind of exciting for me. But there are also a lot of other "legitimate" writers on there, too, like Gwendolyn Gross, so please drop by.

Screw you, Earth!

I am either a really bad blogger, or a poor time manager. I think probably a little of both. I just don't have enough time! Most of my time is spent with the Bebe. Then I work a couple days, and then there's a gazillion other things to do around my 80-year-old house, and then there's about 9 months worth of sleep to catch up on...where does the time go? 

Anyway, this is my Earth Day post. That was like, what, 4 days ago? Whatever. Know what I did for Earth Day? I single-handedly doubled my carbon footprint and was directly responsible for the suffocation of some cute fuzzy wildlife by carbon monoxide. Want to know how? I forgot my damn wallet. 

And I realized this after I had just dropped the car off at the garage. Fan-fuckin-tastic! I am now stranded in the city with no way to get into work (ID is in the wallet), eat, or bail my car out. I can get money from our Credit Union because they know me there, except it's across town, and I can't get across town since I'm cashless. I was actually very close to tears. So, I got a guest pass to get into the station, then texted the Hubs to let him know of my stupidity.

Flashback to several hours earlier, at the Y. My purse was inside my gym bag, which is the norm for me. However, on this particular day I had to pay for a card to use the tot drop, so I pulled out the wallet. And since I had the Bebe on my hip, I just threw the wallet back into the bag without paying much attention to where it landed. Needless to say, it ain't the purse!

My Hubs, who is really well on his way to Sainthood at this point, says he will bring it to me. He will drive 15 miles into New York City on a Tuesday afternoon that's waning dangerously close to rush hour, in an SUV, with the Bebe, for a transaction that will take less than 2 minutes.

And he did. I got my wallet, and he had the joy of crosstown traffic in NYC. So my contribution to Earth Day was to necessitate an extra trip in a gas-guzzling SUV, in traffic, thus ensuring the fumes could really accumulate and mingle with the exhaust of thousands of other vehicles belching toxic gases into the air over Central Park. All because of a wallet. It's great to be me.

  

The Damn Dog (or how I learned a new respect for time well spent)

The Dog ran away. He ran away on the day the Hubs and I were to meet my mother and her husband in the city for dinner. We had been planning this for months. This is the one time all year my mother will be in New York. And the damn Dog runs away. Before all this happened, I was outside pruning an out-of-control hydrangea bush. Checking the time, I realized I was going to miss my train into the city if I didn't move my ass. So I rushed inside to take a shower. I hear my MIL calling for The Dog. Apparently he had wandered off while I was otherwise disposed with the friggin bush. Idiot Dog, I thought, figuring he would come running, as he always does. I hopped into the shower, ransacked my closet looking for something to wear. It is 75 degrees outside, and I have nothing that will fit my post-pregnancy body (helloooooo hips!) since I haven't been shopping in more than 17 months. I actually went into the attic in an attempt to find something, anything that will fit. So now, I am cutting it really close. And I still have to dry my hair and at least make an attempt at makeup. As is the norm for me, I slam myself together, grab the keys, and run out the door. Get to the train station, get a ticket as the train is pulling up. I just make it. Yay!!

Oh shit, The Dog. I called my MIL, at home watching the Bebe. Said devil Dog has not returned. Shit shit shit shit shit. I text the Hubs to let him know. He is already in the city, stuck in midtown, having left for the restaurant immediately after work. He begins to have a conniption/panic attack/freak out/bout of nausea. Shit shit shit. He is unable to return home, since it is rush hour and he is in Manhattan. I am on the train. Now, I am not going to dinner when the Husband is having a freak out. That just begs huge blowup in front of my Mom at a fancy restaurant. I tell him to go on without me, and I get off at the transfer station, and hop the first train back.

Home. Change clothes. Angry beyond belief, yet concerned for The Dog's well-being. Take The Other Dog with me on the great search. I get about 100 yards from the house, calling, and a boy yells, "Hey, you looking for a dog?". The Damn Dog has been camped on the neighbor's deck for hours. The neighbor's! They had been taking care of him. The daughter had even slapped a leash on him and paraded him around the neighborhood, looking for his owner. They were in love with him. They had even considered adopting The Dog if they didn't find his owner. At that point, having gotten over the immense relief at finding him, I would have been happy to comply.

My night was ruined. No fancy dinner in the city at my favorite Mexican restaurant. No spending time with my mom.

But, as I mused later, it was really my own fault. It took me just 5 fucking minutes to find him. If I hadn't been so rushed, if I had spent those 5 minutes before I left, I would have just been a little late to dinner, instead of missing it entirely.

Just 5 minutes, and my evening would have ended differently. And this is how I learned that every second counts.

Martini, anyone?

See, this is why I'm a Grey Goose girl.

Playdate Paranoia

If you've never had the joy of experiencing this, I can only liken it to stealing that first smoke behind your parents' garage, only with less of the thrill and more of the absolute terror of being caught. Suddenly it was my turn to host the play group, and the panic set in. See, I live in an "affluent" (rich) town, in an "affluent" (rich) county, and these BerCo moms have some high standards. No one in our group has the million-dollar palace, but each home has its own touch of money. One has an exquisite living room with glossy maple floors and a marble fireplace. Another has a gorgeous kitchen with a skylight showing off a vaulted ceiling, rich tile floors and granite tops. Then there's me. I live in an 80-year-old Tudor. The battens on the outside are peeling paint, copper trim is oozing green down the side of the chimney, the original pine floors are buckling in places, not to mention the creaking that's loud enough to wake the dead (and the Bebe). House envy is an ugly thing. Add to that lawn envy, (we seriously need a landscaper to re-do the entire front yard) and you've got at least a dozen new gray hairs.

The weekend before the dreaded day, as I was on my hands and knees wiping down the baseboards, it occurred to me -- dear God, I can't make coffee to save my life! This could be the straw the breaks the camel's back. At 10 in the morning harried moms must have coffee. I don't even drink that much coffee, and I always have 2 cups during the meeting. This, is a very bad thing indeed.

I made sure to have mini-muffins (store-bought of course, what do you take me for?) and strawberries on hand, and the husband, God love him, bought fresh bagels and cream cheese the morning before PG-Day. Here goes nothin'.

PG-Day. The Bebe is cooing in her crib, so I rush downstairs and vacuum (and not a cursory vacuum, I'm moving furniture around here), pull out cups and dishes, then run back upstairs to feed the Bebe. She goes back in the crib, I hop in the shower, get out, give the Bebe a bath, then dry my hair -- we've got 20 minutes to go. Run downstairs, carefully arrange strawberries and muffins and bagels cut into quarters, hit "On" on the coffeemaker. (The husband has once again come through and set the thing up for me ahead of time). Sit down to give the Bebe her oatmeal, and the frickin doorbell rings. One of the moms is way early. Fabu. So everyone arrives, remarks on how much "character" the house has, how they love the open floor plan, yada yada yada. So we eat bagels and mini-muffins, drink coffee, and chat about mommy stuff...2 hours flies by and suddenly I'm closing the door and the house is empty.

Remember when you lost your virginity? Hosting the play group for the first time was kinda like that. A whole lot of buildup and anxiety only to end up saying "That's it!?".

Hooray for kaka!

I was reading a blog today, and I laughed out loud. Whose? It was mine. Now, as narcissistic as that sounds, it's actually one of the saddest things you've ever heard. I'll tell you why. I was actually surprised at how amusing it was. My mind has atrophied to the point that my own humor and observations surprise me. Damn I was funny. Now I'm a fact machine...well, sort of. I do work for FOX. Yes, I'm back. It's like a black hole you can't escape. I spend my days writing facts, breaking down boring AP wires into something the average American can understand and that won't make them gag over breakfast. And those are the days I'm working. I work 4 days a week at 2 different Fox stations. Yes, two, can you believe that shit? Both the NY affiliate WNYW, and the mother ship, FOX News Channel. I am so messed up in the head. The other days of the week, I'm pulling my 8 month old daughter out of the dog crate and changing poopie diapers. Sadly, I deal with less shit there than I do at work.

The point of all this senseless rambling is that, at one time, I had a voice. A unique voice, oddly amusing and a little too irreverent at times, but unique in its sad little way. I'm afraid that voice may be gone for good. My mind doesn't work in the way it once did. (And I can't remember shit, just ask my husband) Years of media madness have stripped my brain of all the creativity that once lived there. It just packed up and moved out. Tired of dead bodies and crooked politicians and the potentially deadly Christmas tree, I guess. So this resurgence of postings is a last-ditch effort to convince creativity to give me one more chance, baby, just one more chance. I can change, I really can. 

More importantly, I need this. I need a chance to be a writer, albeit a pretend one, even if it's in this vast, impersonal wonderland of binary kaka. Hooray for kaka!

Sweet dreams

"Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" How many times in your life have you heard that? It's practically a fundamental part of childhood, a cutesy way to say goodnight. Have you ever seen a bed bug? Do you know what they do? It's so not cutesy. It's the polar opposite of cutesy, you couldn't get farther from cutesy if you tried. Our exterminator told me (our garage has termites, not bedbugs, don't get excited) they've seen a serious jump in the number of people with bedbugs in the past two years. And in really nice, classy, million-dollar homes, too. Obviously not ours. I didn't realize bedbugs are that snobbish.

Or that conservative. Apparently, Fox News Channel ended up with a small infestation because somebody -- unbeknownst to them, I'm sure -- brought the nasty little creatures in, and they latched on to everybody in their pod. (It was Studio B's pod, if anyone asks) And nobody told me. I heard about it third-hand, as office gossip, from someone who read it on a TV

news gossip website. On a gossip site. And then, The frickin New York Times picked up the story! The NEW YORK TIMES. Writing about bed bugs at Fox News Channel. Talk about a slow news day. Anyway, all the carpeting and chairs had to be replaced, and get this: OSHA (yes, the OSHA) sent exterminators to the homes of 20 employees, and one person had the worst infestation the exterminator had seen in 25 years, he said. Ew, bro. Don't believe me? Here's the link

You have seriously got to read all of the posts. Especially the newest one -- apparently Hot Shot insecticides is offering its product to guests who have been in the studio. You can't make this shit up.

I have a small red bump on my ankle. It looks like a bite. Does anybody have any Calomine? I'm real itchy all of a sudden.

Conspiracy Theory

The Bebe and the dog are plotting against me.

I finished work at 10, was in bed by 11, and fell asleep somewhere around midnight. Begin Phase I. At 4:40am, I awaken to the sound of the dog retching right next to the bed, narrowly missing the pile of clothes I dropped there after undressing last night. Lucky for him. I would have ended up on that show "Animal Cops" otherwise. I guess he thought there would be a better chance I’d step in it if it were right there. Fortunately, I have a lamp on my nightstand. HA! Tiptoe past the Bebe’s room, down the stairs, get the paper towels, sneak back up the stairs past the Bebe’s room, wipe up said vomit. Go back to sleep. 

Begin Phase II. Almost exactly an hour later, I awaken to the sound of the Bebe crying. Frickin great. I get up, go in, put the bottle in the warmer, and pick her up. She’s got snot pouring down her face. She eats. I burp her, and she grins this huge grin, puts her arms around my neck and her head on my shoulder. Aww. I put her down, but she’s still awake. So I return to my room, listening to the baby monitor. All sounds stop in about 5 minutes. Of course, being the paranoid mom I am, I have to go in and check to be sure everything’s ok. So I get up, peek in, she’s konked out on her side. Close door, return to my bed. It’s now 6:30, and I can’t sleep.

Those two are out to get me, I just know it

It's fun to stay at the YMCA!

I was at the Y the other day -- yes, I have been known to visit the gym -- and it was packed. Apparently 4:30 is when all the little rugrats have their swim lessons and soccer practices and spelling bees and thingies. So the parking lot was jammed. Mind you, there were spaces to be found, just not right next to the building. People were driving around in circles to find a spot close to the door. At.the.gym. Because they didn't want to walk far. At.the.gym. Where they will likely spend 30 minutes running (or walking) in place once inside. The.gym.

What the hell?!

Random Thought of the Day #3

I was in the bathroom the other day -- and never you mind about the details. Ahem. Anyway, I was in the bathroom, and I noticed that the cheap ass toilet paper brand my mother-in-law bought was actually called "bath tissue". Um, bath tissue? It's toilet paper, for God's sake. I can understand "toilet tissue", but "bath tissue"? You don't use it in the bath! You use it on your ass! It goes in the toilet! Facial tissue goes on your face, toilet tissue goes in the toilet. Makes me want to stick somebody's face in the toilet, call them "bath face".

Juvenile and Lovin' It!

I know it's been a while since my last post, but you try getting up at 4am and driving 45 minutes to work at a network nobody watches, with Dan Abrams for a boss. It takes everything I've got not to slip into a coma. I'm drooling all over my keyboard as it is. Besides, no one reads my blog anyway, so what the fuck do you care? Anywho... today I've included some fun photos of various food items that, well, amuse the hell out of me. It's so cool to be immature.

OK, so I've actually heard of this before, but I didn't know it was microwaveable. Ooh, kinky!

I don't even know where to begin on this one. I think I'll just let the picture speak for itself.

Driveby

Ever see one of these signs while you're driving? You see a lot of them in New Jersey. Apparently they've got a lot of accidents. Hmmm. Could it be the condition of the roads maybe? Again, hmmmmmm. Really makes you think, huh? But, I digress. That's another post. Anyway, I can't help but wonder, does this sign give you license to drive like a lunatic? I find it to be the most ridiculous thing in the world. Something like "End Dangerous Highway Corridor" would be much more appropriate, don't you think? That makes you go, 'Whew, I made it through there without a scratch! I'm an awesome driver!' But "End Safety Corridor"? It's like telling every asshole driver out there, 'Hey! there's no need to be safe any more, just drive like a lunatic and everything will be a-okay'. Christ, people are stupid.

Playing Catch-up

I was eating a turkey club with french fries the other day at a tiny diner outside of Jersey City, waiting for my ketchup to come out of the frickin bottle, when I realized I haven't seen a ketchup commercial in a long time. I mean, a really long time. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw a commercial for any type of condiment, with the exception of A1 sauce. What's up? Not that I need to be subliminally persuaded by a $35 million commercial to go out and buy something to accompany my burger. But, I mean, is the condiment industry in such dire straits they need to save money by yanking all their commercials? Is there some sort of mustard shortage I'm not aware of? Is relish going the way of the dodo? And when was the last time you saw a pickle commercial? There are some new pickles out there that are seriously awesome -- like the tobasco kind. Ever had one? I highly recommend them. My theory is that the condiment executives are just biding their time, waiting for the right moment to suddenly saturate the market with hundreds of ketchup commercials -- like the calm before the storm, or the way the ocean draws back before a tidal wave -- Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial beginning of summer, and grilling season. Hold on to your wallets, people. You may suddenly feel the urge to go ketchup crazy. Consider yourself warned.

Jesus Takes the Train

OK, don't want to wierd you out, but Jesus apparently likes the Washington Nationals. And rides the Blue line. Remember that Joan Osborne song, "What if God Was One of Us"? Dude, Jesus is totally a slob like one of us. Except he prefers the train to the bus. I was walking to the Metro after a Nats baseball game the other day, minding my own business, when I suddenly found myself next to our Lord and Savior on the escalator. I shit you not. I immediately whipped out my phone and tried to take a picture -- which is damn near impossible to do on the DL, especially since he is all-knowing -- but he ducked away, even though I never even looked at him. OK, maybe I did, but we never made eye contact. I think doing that means instant death. Or maybe it's hearing him speak that brings instant death. Either way, I didn't get the picture. When we reached the platform, I lost Jesus in the crowd, so I figured God just didn't want me to photograph his beloved Son. And I can't really blame him. It must be really fucking annoying when people try to take your picture, and you're all like, "Man, I'm just trying to ride the Blue line, ok? Why you gotta be all up in my glorified grill? I'm just trying to make my way home, back up to Heaven all alone" See...that's the... song...what if... ok nevermind. So I sit my ass down in one of the handicapped seats near the front (cause I'm an asshole like that), and who should be sitting in the handicapped seat on the other side of the train, but Jesus! (Apparently Jesus is an asshole, too) He was busy talking to his disciples at that point, so I once again whipped out my phone, and this time I was able to get the shot, because it's a rotating camera, so I can hold the phone facing downward like I'm playing a game or something, and rotate the camera up to take a picture in front of me. I wasn't sure the pic would come out; you know, like if you try to photograph a ghost, it's just a white flash .. plus the lighting in the metro isn't exactly conducive to polite conversation, yet alone photography, but there he is, in the flesh.

I apologize for the crappy quality, but what can you expect from a piece of shit LG cameraphone from 2003? I can't get a new one until October, OK? That's when I get my $100-off certificate, and you're crazy if you think I'm going to pay full price for a new phone. Shee-it.

This will probably be my last post, because I'm sure God will strike me down as I walk to my car, but you have to admit, it really does look like Jesus. Seriously, right? Right?!?

Random Thought of the Day #2

Does anyone know how to do the Loco-motion? I mean, seriously. You know the song. We all know the song. You would've had to have been living under a rock with your head up your ass not to know the song. But the song is about a dance. Do you know how to do the dance? The instructions are right there in the damn song.

You gotta swing your hips now/Come on baby, jump up, jump back/

Well I think you got the knack/Woah, woah

Um, no. I don't have the knack, and I bet my right tit that you don't either. Seriously now, tell me, have you ever been to a dance party/club/rave where someone was doing the Loco-motion? Christ, Kylie Minogue did a cover of the damn thing. Does she know how to do the Loco-motion? If history has shown us anything, songs about dances are stupid. The Loco-motion, The Twist, The Hokey-Pokey, Electric Slide, Humpty Dance, Macarena... I think I've made my point.

Can't Hold a Job

I'm leaving the Pentagon Channel. After like 2 and a half months. I could chalk it up to the nature of the business, you know, you move where the jobs are, market size is everything, blah blah blah. But I think it's actually that my mother was right, and I'm drifting along with my head up my ass. Not that that's a bad thing, really. Ignorance is awesome. You can let doors slam in people's faces, cut people off in traffic, knock over tourists without even looking back, unless it's to say "Watch where you're walking, asswipe!". I think I'll commit my life to living ignorantly. It seems to work for so many people; usually the ones that don't hold doors, cut me off, and oh yea, crowd in front of elevator doors so people already on the elevator can't get off. Love that! Oh, the new gig is at MSNBC. So I guess that brings their total viewership to what, like, 6?

Random Thought of the Day #1

This just popped into my head one day, as I was cleaning my dog's puke out of the car. Can't imagine why, just showed up. So, do police dogs get carsick? And who cleans that shit up if they do?

1984

I know it's been a while since my last post, but to be honest, I'm a little nervous about it. Government computers are monitored very closely, you know...as well as the phones. It's a little unnerving, to tell you the truth. I'm being watched...and therefore, so are you. Today I got my Pentagon badge. I swear there is a government conspiracy to make you look as disgusting as they possibly can in official photos. Seriously. It's a federal government thing, not a local government thing. My driver's license photo is awesome. I look happy and relaxed, smiling, and you can see the background, as well as my shoulders. In the federal IDs, they do an extreme close-up under a refridgerator lightbulb. No exaggeration here. In this photo, you can't even see my ears! It's that close. I have this horrible grimace, although I could have sworn I was smiling when they snapped the picture. It is the absolute worst representation of me ever taken. The only thing that rivals its hideousness, is my Capitol Hill pass. Again, a federal ID. And again, extreme closeup. Maybe it's because they don't want you flashing that thing around in public, to draw attention to yourself and your connection to the federal government. Well guys, in the words of our illustrious commander-in-chief: mission accomplished!

DoD

There is an air force sergeant sitting to my right, a marine corporal to my left, and a former Air Force sergeant directly in front of me. This is my day. It's somewhat surreal. Ever heard of The Pentagon Channel? Probably not, unless you're in the military. It's a network that provides news and other programming for military personnel around the world. And for regular shmoes with Comcast or Verizon cable. That's my latest gig, as I bounce around the bleak and terrible world of broadcast media. I'm a contract employee for the Department of Defense, and help produce the two newscasts that air on the network. Sadly, it's not a far cry from what I did at Fox. But now I'm getting paid to be an official mouthpiece for the propaganda machine, instead of a closet voice hidden behind the transparent curtain of "Fair and balanced". At least the equipment is state-of-the-art.