Settle Down There, Tonto

I just had a conversation with my sister over the phone about why life sucks so hard. She's got her master's, can speak Japanese, has traveled all over the world (that bitch), and now she's a hostess at P.F. Chang's. WTF?? Obviously, Little Miss Magic is not a happy camper. 

She's got a friend who works for the CIA. That friend hates her job, says it's not worthwhile. Not exactly sure what she does at the CIA, since they're so secretive and all, but I'm pretty sure I'd jump at the chance to work for the CIA. It's like one big government-sanctioned gossip factory. You get all the goods on everybody from Elvis to Kim Jong Il. Sadly, my, um, background? makes me ineligible to work for them. Fuckers.

And Lord knows I hate my job. You may think working in TV is cool, even maybe the news part of it, just a little bit, but no. Really. No.

Anyway, I gots to thinking. (Dangerous pass-time, I know) Why is everybody so fucking miserable? And I think it's because it goes against our nature. I'm not sure happiness is human nature. We always want more, more, more. Never settle for anything but than the best.

My mom has an anecdote about settling; long story short, don't settle, because all you'll ever see is what you don't have, and it'll make you miserable. But maybe settling is a good thing. It has a really shitty connotation, you think of it as just giving up, giving in, but that's not what it means. It means to satisfy, to soothe, to make stable, to agree. As in: to settle down, to settle your nerves, to settle an argument. 

So you're unsettled? You want more? We all want more. But when does it stop? When does more become enough? I think to be truly happy, we have to learn to settle. To accept what we have right now. To look around at what we've got and say "ya know what, I'm doing aight". Maybe it's not what you thought it would be, maybe it's not where you saw yourself (working at P.F. Chang's), but it's real. It's life. It is. So just sit back and enjoy it. Learn to enjoy it. And stop fucking whining already. You're giving me a headache.

I need more aspirin. 

You Might Be a Redneck...

My brother-in-law snapped this picture with his cell phone near my home town. I tried really hard to come up with something witty to say about this, but, dude, I failed. There is absolutely nothing I can say about this that will make it any funnier. I can't top this. I really can't.

Home

This weekend I went "home" for my mom's birthday. I stopped calling it home after I got married, usually calling it "Mom's house" or just "Delaware". But this trip was different. For the first time in a long time, I thought of it as home. And I was miserable leaving it. I went with Bebe, and we had such a good time. There were two big meals in my sister's garage with the radio blaring and the tables covered in newspapers: blue crabs, steamed shrimp, hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled veggies and local sweet corn. Even though I didn't get to eat much (too close to Bebe's bedtime), it was fun. On Sunday afternoon we all jumped in the pool, Bebe's first swim. She had a blast. There really wasn't much to our visit, just time with my family. But I didn't miss home. Not even a little bit. In fact, I cried when it was time to come back. I really didn't want to.

Why is home so hard? Walking around in my old back yard, I wandered over to the huge apple tree that was a victim of violent storms a few weeks ago. It had been ripped right out of the ground, most of its roots exposed. I feel a little bit like that, my roots unable to keep me grounded, so close to what I once knew, but unable to return. Our neighbor, my 6th grade teacher, died several years ago. His name is still on the mailbox, but no one lives there anymore. His wife remarried and moved away. The bushes in his back yard that used to be waist-high are now well over 6 feet. The trees are overgrown, the grass dying underneath, choked by the perpetual shade. I know we all have to move on, to grow and adapt; otherwise we'll end up choked by the world as it grows around us, over us. But I think we turn to home, or the idea of it, in times of stress and loneliness, in moments of uncertainty. I realize that I don't miss home. Rather, I miss what home used to be; or the ideal I choose to remember. I want that tree to be a sapling again, and those bushes to be low enough to hurdle. But I think more than anything, I want my roots to find solid ground. I want to see the sun. And I want The Ghost to turn back into The Saint.

O! Canada, Part Deux

And now, as promised, Canada. The land of beavers and mounties. Niagara Falls. The first thing we did upon arriving in this strange new land was have lunch at Hooters. Yea, we're like that. Guess what was playing on the 7 flat-screen plasma TVs hanging from the ceiling?

Hockey. And guess what the waitress said when we walked in? "Bad weather out there, eh?" Canada proves its stereotypes are not stereotypes at all, but absolute truths. We ordered ourselves some wings and Molsen Canadians (Seriously, what is that all about? They actually call the beer 'Canadian' in Canada. Weirdos). 

Then, on to the big show. The Falls. They really are quiet beautiful, if you can elbow your way past the 4.7 million other tourists hanging over the fence to take pictures. There is something awe-inspiring about the sheer power there. That continuous, low rumble; the ever-present mist hanging overhead, the savage beauty of nature in the raw.

These are the American Falls. Nice, huh?

These are the Canadian Falls. They're much better. Like most things in Canada. Even the damn ketchup tastes

better! I was gonna sneak some Heinz home through customs. But they have guns. And something to prove.

At night they light up the Falls so you can see them. Very cool.

And there's a fireworks display over the water. Also well-received.

*Note the traffic at a complete stand-still on the bottom left. It must be awesome living there.

The Falls after a few drinks at the casino bar

The only thing that took away from the experience -- aside from the teeming masses with camcorders -- was the cheese. There was so much cheese, you couldn't walk 2 feet without stepping in it. I was totally afraid to have a Whopper.

I counted at least 3 haunted houses, 2 wax museums, an Olde Tyme picture place, and a Ripley's Believe it or Not. It made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I wish I had taken a picture of the wax museum. Louis Tussauds. Not to be confused with Madame Tussauds. Must be Louie's ex. She jumped ship and moved to the States, I guess.

That's my sexy new Mountie husband. How'd that get in here?

Those Canadians sure love their beavers.

To summarize Niagara Falls: savagery, awe, body odor, beauty, beavers, gambling, cheese, water, more savagery, Frankenstein, and hockey.

And I forgot my umbrella in Hooters.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

This is my "what the fuck do you want" face.

When was the last time you looked, really looked, at the blogs in your feed reader (and painfully outdated blog roll)? Not at the feeds, but at the bloggers themselves. The people. My reader is small, relatively speaking, just 33 feeds. 33 sites. 33 people whom I have never met, and most of whom I know only by their cyber moniker. The people behind those witty names are so incredibly diverse, often polar opposites of one another. And yet, they all appeal to me, speak to me in some way; and to each other as well.

I wonder, would I be friends with these people "in real life"? If the Girl with the purple hair was not just an avatar, but a neighbor, would we even speak? Or would we pass each other on the sidewalk without a second glance? If the single mom dropped her toddler off at daycare the same time I did, would we chat? Would we laugh over coffee? If I shared the same doctor with the British man and his wife trying so desperately to conceive, would I even know it? Obviously, I don't know the answers for sure. But I would guess, sadly, no.

It's not that whole 'books and their covers' thing, not really. It's not about judging someone's appearance; it's more about knowing, right off the bat, if there is something about that person that would interest you in the slightest. Like online dating. You can't tell much about a person by their picture; but the way they speak (write), and what they speak (write) about speaks volumes. When a person passes you on the street, all you see is their, well, picture. You don't know what's going on in that teeny little brain of theirs. It could be very similar to what's going on in your teeny little brain at that precise moment. Then again it could also be about the upcoming bar exam. And let's face it, nobody cares about another lawyer up in here. But you don't know, so you just keep on walking.

I would guess, like in online dating, the online friendships can sometimes turn out to be awkward in real life. But I haven't met any of the bloggers I've been stalking, so I can't attest to that.

What do you think? Would we be friends in "real life"? Or would you kick my dog and take my lunch money?

Just FYI: you could kick the dog. But the lunch money? Your ass would be grass.

Sick Sickety Sick Sick

I am so frickin sick. I took a nap today and dreamed I was crying. I woke up; turns out it was just snot running from my nose. I blame it on those of you that are sick whose blogs I frequent. You know who you are. Ugh. 

America's Worst TV Show in the History of TV Shows Going Back to When Coat Hangers Were Required Hardware for Watching Television

Disclaimer: I only watched the show because when you work for FOX, this show is the news, and you actually have to write about it as such. I know, it makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit, too.

And I am ashamed to admit, when Hack Seacrest said "David Cook" instead of "Punky Brewster", I jumped out of my chair, both fists raised triumphantly over my head, with a huge "whoo!!". In the middle of the newsroom. Even worse, I was not the only one. The executive producer joined me in applause. I shit you not.

Aside: Then I immediately sat my happy ass down and cut a 1:45 NATVO so one of our two reporters in Hollywood could use it in the newscast. I'm sorry, news? What's that?

Meanwhile, back on the ranch: Never, in the show's 7 years of destroying the souls of young girls, have I actually cared who won. Until last night. Because the boy's actually got talent. And I don't think he was the more popular of the two, at least with the demographic. All the teeny-boppers were swooning over Punky Brewster over there. Or as Mr. Lady so eloquently and succinctly called him, founding father of Gay Christian Pop Rockers Kidz Bop. (I have such a crush on Mr. Lady -- how could you not?!)

Doesn't Archuleta look a little like Punky Brewster?!? Oh and David, I wouldn't mind being Mrs. American Idol, if you wanna give me a call. I'm sure it would be cool with My Husband The Saint. He is, after all, a Saint.

Seriously. Dave. Holla.

O! My God

So I just got back from Canada. Niagara Falls, to be exact. Bwahahahahahaha!! It was craptacular. Actually, I shouldn't say that. The Falls really are quite impressive. And beautiful. Especially at night. But all that was overshadowed by the 2 wax museums, 4 haunted houses, ferris wheel, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Believe it or not. I could not believe how commercial it was! I took pictures. You've got to see it.

Just to be fair, I am not disparaging Niagara Falls or Canada (much). I had a wonderful time; it was a surprise trip from My Husband the Saint for our anniversary. Even included a B&B and a couple's day at the spa! But you have got to see the pictures. I'll get to it. I swear. Back off, bitches, I'll get to it!!

Seriously, this weekend I'll get a post together. It'll so be worth the wait. Or not. Whatever. Get off my back!! I can't work under these conditions!!

I Suck at This

I've come to the realization, I'm a bad blogger. (Late to the party, I know) I have no clue how you people post every day, every other day, hell, even twice a week! And by you people I mean you, you parent. I know you're a parent, you can't deny it, because I only roll with the Mommy & Daddy blogsters, so I got your number, aight? Back on point; I do not know how you do it. I can't seem to find the time, although somehow I can sneak time to read feeds. But not to write. I also have a motivation problem. And maybe writer's block. But I think it's really that I'm a lazy ass. Exhibit A:

But honestly, when you write for a living, and when you write horrible, depressing, terrifying things for a living, well, it's really taken all of the joy out of writing. I have seen things that no person should see; the horrible, gory, bloody reality of some peoples' lives in places other than America. The video you see on TV of bombing aftermath has been carefully screened so you don't see the blood on the sidewalks, and charred bodies in burned-out cars. Reuters and AP photogs have no qualms about shooting everything, death and all. A reporter in Jerusalem I was working with one day emailed me aftermath pictures from that seminary bombing in Israel she wanted to use in her shot -- but she wanted me to screen them and pick out usable photographs. It was horrifying. Of the 8 or so photos she sent, only 1 was usable. One. It was a close-up of a bullet hole in a window. Everything else was bloody and full of death. When I worked in Washington, we sent our chopper to check out a report of a body found in a bank parking lot. There was. I saw the guy's brain splattered all over the pavement. Now write about that. And write it so people don't gag over their breakfast. It takes the joy out of writing, it really does. So yea, I have a motivation problem.

But...I am also a lazy ass. I only have 1 child, and I still don't have time to post. She took a 2 hour nap yesterday. So what did I do? Sleep. (In my defense, I am an insomniac. A true insomniac) Then in the afternoon we went outside and I weeded for 10 minutes until she got bored and started eating the grass     

 

so that was that. And that was my day, people. 

So how do people like Iowa Mom do it? Seriously! How do you raise your children and work and blog? All in one day. I'd love to know.

Mama Said There'd be Days Like This

Actually, no, she didn't. And if she had, I would have laughed, because it's so ridiculous. It's like one of those slapstick comedies that you really have to be in the mood to watch, otherwise it's just painfully uncomfortable. Welcome to My Day!

We had a new refrigerator delivered this morning. Yay!! A beautiful stainless steel GE, french doors, bottom freezer, ice maker and internal water dispenser. Muah, love you! (Trust me, you're jealous) Delivery men arrive, right on time, and I'm ready. I've got all the coolers in the kitchen, and I've already taken out sodas and water bottles. Bring it on. I start shoveling things into the coolers. Meanwhile, the delivery guys are taking off my kitchen door, because the thing won't fit. They ease the fridge to the top step, and one of the guys actually says, "Aye carumba" under his breath. (A portent of things to come?) They wiggle the fridge back and forth in the frame, and miracle of miracles, it comes through. Woo hoo! At this point, I almost have the fridge emptied, although the coolers are full and I've resorted to scattering near-empty mustard bottles and ew, what is this, moldy olive tapenade? all over my counters. Suddenly I realize that I have a 9-month-old daughter, and she hasn't been crawling up my leg for a while. I look over, and she is sitting in a puddle of water. My darling has just tipped the dogs' water dish over. The guys are ready to put the fridge in. I have a soaked baby and floor. I grab some towels to mop up the mess, then charge upstairs to change the Bebe into dry clothes.

The new fridge is installed, running, and gorgeous. (Trust me, you're jealous) I put Bebe into her car, and begin putting the frozen items back into the freezer. I open the fridge door, and notice a cable sitting on the shelf. It's the water hookup that we had to buy because GE told us if we didn't, they couldn't be held responsible if "anything happened". Like what, like a leak? Well shit. I call my husband at work to get GE's number, then frantically call GE and ask what the hell this cable is doing in my hand and not in my fridge. I'm informed that they cannot attach the plastic cable to our existing copper water pipe. Oh ok. The copper pipe looks new enough to me, so that's good. And we can return the unused pipe to Home Depot for a refund. Cool.

Return to restocking the refrigerator. The Bebe is restless. I throw cereal puffs on her tray to buy some time. Making progress when suddenly HOLY SHIT IS THAT A LEAK IN THE WATER DISPENSER?!?!? Did I mention we got the new fridge because the old one was leaking? Motherf*#%&*..... This has gone from amusing me, to really pissing me off. I call our plumber. Yes, the plumber. (The girls at their office had the same response) I rationalize that if our old fridge was leaking, and my brand-friggin-new fridge is leaking, there's a problem with said copper pipe. How convenient that GE will have no liability in this, as they made clear that the aforementioned copper pipe ain't their problem. I try to calmly explain this to the woman on the phone, who keeps telling me I need appliance repair, not a plumber. After a few minutes of back and forth, she finally agrees to send a guy out.

I am seething. Bebe is fussing. Great combo. Really. I still have an entire kitchen full of perishable items to stuff into my brand-new-piece-of-shit refrigerator. The fussing turns into full-out crying. The cereal puffs are no longer working. I pick her up to keep her quiet. So now I'm down to one hand, as I have to balance Bebe on my hip. I slam a Chinese take-out container on one of the shelves, and manage to scrape skin off my hand on the upper shelf. Son of a %t(*$! So now I'm bleeding. I'm already doing this shit with one hand, and now that one hand is bleeding. Beyond pissed at this point.

So, with a fussy Bebe balanced on my right hip, and a bloody left hand, I try to put one of the drawers in. Well apparently, in my haste to remove my injured hand earlier, I inadvertently slid the container of Chinese food precariously close to the edge of the shelf. All that banging I'm doing while trying to fit the damn drawer in invites gravity to the party, and an entire container of spicy shrimp and fried rice falls off the shelf and into the drawer I am trying to install. And on the floor. Wow. I have run out of curses.

Crying or not, Bebe got her ass plopped right back into her little car while Mommy wished for a cigarette and began cleaning Chinese food slime out of the brand new crisper. Still bleeding, by the way. Bebe is now actually flailing her arms up and down in addition to wailing, which I am trying desperately to ignore because I have ice cream melting down the cabinets. I cannot, and I, (being a horrible, horrible mother) yell, "Would you stop!?". I immediately feel like a shit, she startles, winces, and screams. I pick her up and apologize profusely, cuddling her and stroking her hair. Now I feel really bad for yelling. I cradle my Bebe in my arms and whisper to her. She was asleep before I reached her room. I put the poor thing down and went back to my accursed kitchen.

I'm still bleeding, by the way. I finish putting things away, and the plumber shows up. I explain the problem, he checks out that wretched copper pipe that I am convinced is the bane of my existence -- turns out that's not it. He very kindly -- and patiently -- explains there's probably just air in the line. He fills a few cups with water, and whaddya know, no leak! It was only air. Air!!

I finally stopped bleeding.

Aw, Hell

I got tagged to do a meme. That's right, me. By my new friend Mary Kate over at BTB. It's my first one of these things, so I gotta admit I'm honored. But I hope it never happens again, because it took me like a week to figure out what to write. And this particular meme only requires 6 random things. Can you imagine if was 10!?

First, The Rules:

a. Link to the person who tagged you. b. Post the rules on your blog. c. Write six random things about yourself. d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs. e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog. f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

And now...6 Random Things About Me. Gawd. Read this to your child if he/she won't go to sleep. Droolville in no time.

1. I don't really like margaritas. Seriously. I'm not a fan of lime, so I'd rather have straight tequila than a margarita. I'll drink them, sure. But that whole, "Hey, let's hang out on the back deck and drink margaritas!" rally cry of working women everywhere kinda makes me go, "eh, what do you have on tap?"

2. I hate clowns. They totally creep me out. And I really only include this for MK, who actually admits! to being a clown in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.

3. I collect coins. Or, I did, until I just got too busy to pay attention anymore. My prized coin is an 1889 silver dollar. Think about it. That piece of silver (back then a silver dollar was actually made of silver) has been around for 220 years. How many hands has it seen? How many lives was it a part of, what did it ultimately bring to the people who traded it? So cool! (I'm a loser, I know)

4. Running out of things already. I was once asked to pose nude. The artist takes polaroids and spreads out the emulsion to make interesting visual effects. I agreed, but ultimately chickened out. That's because he asked me to dinner, and a few days after I declined, casually said he had 2 tickets to the U.S. Open tomorrow, did I want to go? As much as women say they'd love to have a Sugar Daddy, when it comes down to it...no. Really, no.

5. I'm a home improvement junkie. Don't let me get started on a project. I'll never stop. I'll start another one -- or want to start another one -- until we run out of money. Or time. I have a gazillion half-finished projects, mostly outside, because it won't stop raining on the weekends. And my darling Bebe really doesn't like it when I try to do anything without including her. And there's not a whole lot a 9-month-old can help you with unless you need something soaked in drool. And mashed into a gooey pulp. She helped me deal with a piece of bark when I wasn't looking. So no more mommy and me projects until she's, I don't know, 3?

6. I love gardening. Not just flowers, but things you'd put on salads (if you eat salads). I have peppers, radishes, and about 60 tomato seedlings that need to be replanted. But that requires me completing the weeding of the side garden. Which has been impossible. Because nature sucks. See above.

So there you have it. Six random things about me. 5 and a half, really. I consider 5 & 6 to be variants of the same thing. But my husband has the TV on and I seriously can't concentrate when Steve Carell is screaming "Kelly Clarkson!". That's some funny shit.

So....who to annoy by tagging?

Cablegirl. She's a cool chic. And she's got tons of character.

Erica at Plain Jane Mom. She's anything but.

Cheryl at Red Pens and Diapers. Because she has a lovely way of looking at the world.

Amy and her Brat Pack. Because she calls her kids brats.

Kate at her Spot. Because we share the same name. And we're both NJMBloggers.

Shelli is also a NJMB. She also appreciates a good bag -- and honey, you can never have enough bags. Or shoes to match!

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