So when is it OFFICIALLY a problem?

Ah.  So I’m reviewing a huge document in like 5 pt. Arial Narrow or something about a topic I know nothing about. It’s time to multi-task with a little wireless and a little CSI.  Much better.

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Emerson and I took our near daily trip to Target this evening.  I have a question.  Is there anyone out there who can deny the gravitational pull of the $1 lots at the front of the store?  Because my empty wallet says I can’t.  Tin buckets! Fuzzy pens! Batteries!  Itty-bitty pads in candy colors!  Jelly shoes, fer cryin’ out loud. (OK, I didn’t buy the jellies. I didn’t even try to stuff my feet in them. Maybe.)

I went to Target to buy a headband to hide my horns. Seriously. Tiny little back story:  Got pregnant, got super-duper strong hair that never fell out. Am ecstatic. Birthed child, breastfed child, maintained anti-shedding Wonder Hair.  Took child off boob, all hair promptly fell out in protest, especially from around temples. Am less than thrilled, maybe even start saving hair. Eight months later I’m sporting these awesome four inch horns that refuse to be tamed by ponytail or bobby pin.  And all those tiny little headbands kept falling off my tiny little head. Or felt like they were squeezing my brain like some plastic, alien lifeform. Until I found this.

This isn’t nearly the right pattern, mine is more retro with purple and green, but it’s light and comfortable, and you can make it as wide or narrow as you want.  I don’t think it’s left my head in almost a week, a fact I’m not ashamed to admit, it’s so good. Horns be gone, plus!  I get to jump on the whole pirate-chic that seems to have appeared. Lucky me!
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For a while now Michael has been pushing to make some additions to the family.  I’ll tell you, I was hesitant.  Was I ready for that kind of commitment?  What would it mean to our daily life? Maybe I’d have too many eggs, what then?  And who was going to clean up all that shit?

Sometimes you have to realize that you’ll never be quite ready. Not for

Chickens.  That’s right, my friends.  Currently there are six 10 day old chickens living under a heat lamp on our dining room table.  I lost control of my senses at some point and now? Goddamn chickens, that’s what.  They are pretty cute, but they poop constantly and I think I went to unload the dishwasher yesterday and while I was gone they grew three inches. These suckers are going to be BIG.  I fully expect one of them to demand coffee, black with a paper next week.  I must be nuts.  It is entertaining though, if only for conversations like this.
Him:  Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this is front of them.
Me: Do what?
Him: Eating chicken.
Me: Do you think they know?
Him: I don’t know.  Somebody told me if you give them chicken skin they’ll eat it. They love it.  It just seems so wrong somehow. But so delicious.

If you could, I don’t know, step away from the collective computers for three hours so I can Get Shit Done, I’d be much obliged.  It’s hard enough trying to pretend it’s 40 degrees with gale force winds outside, instead of the bright, beautiful 85 degree bliss that is happening two feet from my head. I can smell fresh-cut grass and it’s killing me.  So, seriously. I mean it. Stop.

Thank ye.

I saw them in Famous Footwear* and had giant wave of nostalgia for the wooden ones my grandmother used to buy me every summer. The other thing I remember about them were the blisters I always got, but who cared?  It was the late 70s and I was clopping all over Reading, PA in my super-fine, super grown-up (in my mind) bright red sandals.

*Note: They were $34.99 at FF and they are $28.99 at shoes.com AND free shipping?  I am in serious trouble.

.....

Look at that gag reflex.
He hates it.
I guess it must taste like ass, too.
Yeah.  Serious ass.
You can give it to him tomorrow morning.
No way.

Those were the notes I put together for the post I was going to write last night.  But then Dr. 90210 had to go and air back to back episodes of post-gastric bypass tummy tucks.  And I couldn’t. Look. Away.  Seriously, have you seen the enormous chunks of fat they saw off?  And don’t get me started on the belly button reconstruction.  I have nightmares about them, little slippery hot dog ends.  *shivers* Damn you, Dr. Rey.

Yesterday I managed to wrangle a work-free day, which Emerson and I planned to spend at the Philadelphia zoo with this lovely woman and her delicious son.  We got ourselves together, lunches, diapers, 3,893 spare toys for the car ride, and I miraculously managed to shower and put on something that resembled a real outfit.  Then I caught the traffic report on the radio – PA turnpike completely closed. Huge crash. Annnnnnnd those plans went out the window.

What to do with a free day?  The prospects were dizzying.  After careful consideration, what tender morsels of excitement did I choose?  Scrubbing vinyl siding.  Weeding flowerbeds.  It’s hard to keep up such a rock and roll lifestyle.  One thing I learned…if you simply can’t remember what underwear you’re wearing on a given day, just weed a flowerbed in the front yard and the truck drivers passing by are sure to provide a helpful reminder.  With a nice honk for emphasis. Pink. Thong. Yes.  Thanks ever so.

Speaking of pink, I love pink grapefruit.  So I buy it often.  The problem is, any grapefruit that enters this house is doomed to existence as a withered, yellow shotput in the fruitbowl. This aggravates Michael to no end.  If you’re not going to eat it, why do you buy it? My answer is essentially a lack of commitment.  The intentions are good, but the follow-through needs some work.  You see, there is only one proper way to eat a grapefruit.  It’s true. It must be peeled, meticulously manicured of white bits and stringy bits and gently broken in half. Each section must be separated by hand, lightly flayed by a delicate slice across the center, the delicate skins pulled back.  Only then may each section be enjoyed in all its pulpy goodness, the deflated epidermis of each section tossed aside like little grapefruit corpses. It is long and meticulous process.  Hannibal Lecter would be proud.  But full commitment is necessary, and the only thing I can dutifully commit to are new episodes of Heroes and weekly runs to Rita’s for Mistos. And I missed this week’s episode so…there you go (anyone see it?  What happened to Micah?  Do future and present Hiro duke it out and what’s with the soul patch, future man? Hello?)

Someone who has no issues with commitment.

Riddle me this, is there a correct any way to fold a bloody fitted sheet?  I’m thinking there’s some great housekeeping secret that is completely beyond me, or I’m missing that sheet-folding gene, but I’m about one origami crane anyway from going apeshit and setting them on fire in my driveway.  One FITTED SHEET SHOULD NOT TAKE UP AN ENTIRE SHELF, what the hell?  Screw the Rubik’s Cube and chess, I dare any card-carrying Mensa member to the challenge of the fitted sheet.  Solve THAT, genius.

When we moved into this house, we paid an absolute fortune to have all the trim sanded and painted in multiple Victorian colors.  The warranty on the paint job is up.  Predictably, the paint has started peeling off the windowsills.  So I’m thinking.  This stuff works wonders on my nails, makes a paint job last for ages.  Maybe I can cover the entire house in top coat?  Using that tiny brush? Hold on, I think my compulsive side just had an orgasm.

Dr. Phil.  I can’t remember what I really wanted to say about this.  Only that I was watching the program last night, I was being held hostage on the couch by the mice from the pantry, Lilliputian style, and couldn’t reach the remote, and just wonder why some of these people agree to go on the show.  I mean, the ones who are clearly assholes and yet somehow are comforted by demonstrating such assholic tendencies in front of a national audience.  And in syndication.  And how Dr. Phil doesn’t bitch-slap them back to the seamy cesspool they came from within the first 45 seconds.  I guess that would leave another 29 minutes and 15 second of show to fill. Wait, make that another 8 minutes, because the rest of the show is commercials.  He talks for one minute and goes to commercial.  Dr. Phil, I think you need to reprioritize how many times you think your audience needs to see Lysol and Hot Pocket adverts in the space of a half hour.  I’m going to do all I can get you the help you need to get better…will you take it?

Sometimes, a pink tiara is what it takes to get you through.

I’m now on my third round of antibiotics (heeellllloooo, yeast infection, my old friend.) because I was a dipshit and kept forgetting to take my medicine correctly the last go-round.  Kind of like how I keeping forgetting the correct way to wear underwear.  Every day this past week, I discover half-way through the day that I’m wearing it inside out. What the hell is that all about?

I also recently found two thongs stuck to the freshly laundered sweater I had been wearing.  Luckily I’d only been to, let’s see, three stores, before realizing there were bright teal and red underwear trying to escape through my neck-hole. Char. Ming.

It’s all the fault of one pint-sized germ factory.  Before him, I don’t believe I’d been this sick, or stupid, since…I’m thinking 1998?

In the meantime, I’ve got a box of tissues and a mug of Tiramisu coffee at my elbow, and a heating pad on my neck.  And I’m going to occasionally moan pathetically to myself.  Carry on.

This is one of the sucky parts of freelancing...no sick days.

I’ll be here propped up with expandable folders and duct tape if anyone needs me.

Although I love gardening, I am pretty hopeless at it.  The joke around the house is usually as follows:
Me:  Hey, I’m headed to the garden center
Him: What, need more victims for sacrifice?

My ability to keep plants alive is directly proportional to my attention span.  Meaning, wait, what were we talking about?

I’d really like to take a serious shot at vegetable and herb gardening this year, but couldn’t see myself tearing up perfectly good lawn for what will most likely become a tomato cemetery. Also, with my track record, that prospect of losing hard-earned grass is enough to make Michael weep. I was originally thinking of Square Foot Gardening, which Mac seems to love.  She practically produces her own farmer’s market every year but, then again, she’s got some discipline. Guaranteed she’s not drawn away from her gardening by a new episode of Work Out. Have you seen that woman’s abs?  Delicious.

Then I saw this over at All and Sundry, and a tiny, energy-conserving bulb appeared in my head (casting a weird yellow light, flickering and then going out, as those bastard bulbs are wont to do).  Tub-gardening!  No rototilling! Portable!  Easy to hide the incriminating evidence if I kill it.  I already have one galvantized tub of mint off the back deck, which worked really well, because that stuff has a life of its own.  If you don’t contain it, mint will overrun the lawn, break into your house and try on your underwear while you sleep.  Be warned.

So I’m excited.  Which means a trip to Lowe’s that is sure to drain my bank account is in order this week. Maybe I should just create a little ornamental fire with that money instead.

I leave you with what is probably a typical Lancaster County conversation during the first few warm days of spring, after opening the windows.

Me:  Jesus H., what did you eat last night?
Him: What are you talking about?
Me:  Didn’t you fart?
Him: No!
Me: Seriously? Then what the hell…? Is that the kid’s room?
(much sniffing ensues)
Him: Is it the bathroom?  God that’s horrible.
(more sniffing)
Me:  Oh wait. (sniffs out window)
Him: It’s the farm.  They’re spreading manure.
Me.:  I’m glad it wasn’t your ass.  I was afraid I needed to take you to the ER.

I’ve officially been living in Lancaster County for four years now.

*clunk*

Sorry, I blacked out there for a minute.  Four years doesn’t seem possible. It’s getting frightfully close to the longest I’ve lived anywhere, except my hometown.  I’m not sure how I feel about this milestone.  Until about six months ago, I had really been yearning to get back to a place where people actually said fuck, rather than “oh my word!”, where Ann Taylor Loft is not considered the “that fancy shop”, my family isn’t the sole liberal in a five mile radius and I’m not quoted biblical scripture from mailboxes and front lawns around the county.  Also would be nice to have more than one Dunkin’ Donuts in the county and more than one wine store open on a Sunday.

Some people might consider that superficial but, you know what?  It is what it is.

Then there are those things to love about the place.  The open space (once you get past the outlets and Amishy tourist areas), the slighter slower place.  The people are a bit nicer here, even if it is seems impossible to make friends. Most of the natives have been here for countless generations and have all the friends they need, thank you very much.  Despite the fact that I eschew the conservative religiousness of this place, I appreciate that, as a result, you tend to be able to trust people just a little bit more.  People like the old Mennonite gentleman who will be doing some carpentry work on the house soon, with his black hat and black van with the “Christ in the Answer” bumper sticker. There is a work ethic here I have seen in few other places.  And damn fine pastries and pies, and reasonable real estate. And good schools.  And the Amish. And antiquing.

People around here say that Lancaster is a great place to raise a family.  And I didn’t realize exactly what they meant until Emerson was born.  Now I’m starting to understand what they mean.  I also understand why, once raised, the teenager also want to get the heck out of here.

Professionally, it’s still a struggle. Without the telecommuting option, it’s difficult to find a great job in my field around here.  With Philadelphia being 60-90 minute drive (depending on the level of moronic driving exhibited on the Schuylkill Expressway on a given day), it is still doable, but not the ideal family situation.  It would still mean 2+ hours of commuting, regular 40+ hour weeks, not including evening and weekend events, arranging child care for Emerson, much less family time, free time, etc.  All for money. No thanks.

And then there is family.  Michael’s family is old school Lancaster County, everyone is here, has always been here, probably always will.  My grandparents and uncles live within a 40 minute drive.  My folks are still in New Jersey, and think we’re just too far away.  And the hard part is, they are my constant support system with Emerson.  They would help out in any way they could, as often as they could.  And it’s hard having their own folks out here, especially now that the grands are getting up there, and they also need help.

But I just don’t see them moving out here. Not because they wouldn’t do it, but because I truly don’t think it would make them happy, outside of being able to see their grandchildren.  My dada tends to romanticize things, and Mom just isn’t that adaptable to change, and this would be a doozy.  It’s just not a lifestyle I think they would adapt to. I understand, I struggle with it too.

And a large part of me would like to go back, another part is starting to settle in.  I know Michael would prefer to stay, to him it makes the most sense, family, the lifestyle, his job, it’s a no-brainer for him.  I’m not so sure.  Luckily, we have a few years to decide. I just don’t see myself becoming a Lancasterian.  Or, as I sometimes think, Lanc-hyterical. Despite the wide open spaces here, I’m left feeling stifled by the religion and the morality of this place.  And I don’t know if I have the fortitude to make a lifestyle of it.

Me?  Oh, I’ve been alright, I’ve been kind of…what’s that?  Ha, yeah I guess it’s been a little while, but I…oh, four months? Really?  No, that can’t be right. It’s probably only been something like….ooooohhhh.  Four months.  Yikes.

What have I been up to?  That’s an excellent question.  I’ve been wondering that myself, since it seems like I was just meticulously rehanging all of my Christmas ornaments two feet higher on the tree like, what two days ago?

Once we hit the one-year mark with Emerson, we wake up every day to find a different child sitting in my baby’s crib.  One with teeth exploding in his face, who gives body-hurling hugs and sweet kisses, who eats curry and lasagna and chocolate milk and spicy turkey burgers.  A kid who refuses to perform on command, saving his bye-bye’s for 15 minutes after the grandparents leave, but who has fallen in love with clocks and bellows “COCK? COCK! ” repeatedly at every blessed time-keeping device (and thermostats, and produce scales and church steeples) within a five-mile radius.  We’re pretty sure he’s willfully leaving out that one important consonant. 

This new kid walks, runs, laughs like crazy, climbs the furniture, is weirdly obsessed with putting bras on his head and has summarily rejiggered every electronic device in the house with his incessant button-pushing.  He dances to REM, Rufus Wainwright, the South Pacific soundtrack and opera.  He’s a pint-sized, 25 pound sponge sucking every bit of life and learning into himself every waking moment.  It’s exhilarating, heartwrenching, joyous and exhausting, by all accounts your average, run-of-the-mill toddler experience.

For me? I’m not sure I can say I’ve got a lot to show for myself. I’m enjoying the work at home gigs, doing marketing work for a consulting firm and as a project manager for a Web design company.  I’m finding it harder to be disciplined than I thought, there is always something shiny to distract myself with.  I’m also remembering how lonely it can be, even with constant email, telephone and IM contact with colleagues.  There is something to be said for a daily am shower, a sharp outfit, a fresh coat of face paint and hurling oneself out into the cold morning to go to an office.  Luckily, there are just enough client meeting and association powwows to recall what a staggering pair of heels and the absence of a ponytail feels like.

Despite working less and having more family time, my stress level has racheted up a few notches.  This is what happens with parenthood, it seems, all worries and anxieties draw into laserlike focus on one chubby, drooling target, and there is no off switch.  Not even after a healthy gin and tonic.  Or three.  The result has been the development of an outrageous case of hypochrondria. Absolutely ridiculous, completely irrational, impossible to deny.  At one point my eye-twitch mutated to such as extent that the entire side of my face seized up…which of course led me to believe I had Bell’s Palsy (oh, Dr. Google, I curl my obsessively searching fingers into a fist and shake in your direction).  Luckily, once you smack some sense into yourself, you realize that your face doesn’t hurt so much as it goes quite pleasantly numb.

I think one of the reasons I stopped writing was that I was finding it difficult to maintain a running monologue on daily life.  There is so much about Emerson I want to keep to myself, as if sharing it somehow diluted the purity of each new experience.  How exquisite the sound of “apple” is to me, when he points it out for the first time, makes my heart explode. Outside of our little family, it is a hot steaming cup of banal commentary.  And that’s OK.  I just need to redirect a bit and I’ve been thinking about how to do that.  I purchased a new domain recently, and have been working on getting a new design. I’ve gone back to the gym and started working out again, even going back for another round of punishment with Mistress Kate, the personal trainer.  I’m trying to get out more, be a little less cynical in general, a little kinder to my husband, a bit dialed down on the neuroses…but let’s not get crazy here.

Life is good, even when I’m convinced I have some weird glandular disorder and am going into renal failure. But I won’t deny it, there are days when I have thoughts of packing a bag and fleeing to London for some other imagined lifestyle. But every morning, 7 am, I am reminded.  Life is good, it’s here and it is right this second.

The sheer amount of awesomeness here is too much. 

Seriously. Watch the whole thing.

And I’ll be back soon.  Working on starting another blog.  I think Karmatown has had its run and I’m committed to the perspective that, like the right lip gloss, all I need is a new domain and the world will be aligned again.

Shh...don’t rain on my bubble quite yet, k?

BACON?

Are the stars somehow aligned to motivate otherwise normal folks to obsess about crispy, scrumptious breakfast meat?

Damn, bacon sounds like a belly full of awesomeness right now. I may have to do some rummaging in the icebox.

And this brief post brings the total to five. Definitely something in the air.

More intelligent content to come. Really.

I’ve tried to get Emerson involved in the holiday, although how much of it he gets beyond the enticement of empty boxes and tangled ribbon scattered throughout the house, dangling pine branches and glut of delicious pies and sweets fed by willing grandmothers on the sly, I don’t know. We’ve done the holiday photos. We visited Santa (note to new parents…you’re golden until the kid actually eyeballs the Jolly One up close and personal, then it’s scream city.) We sing the Muppets Christmas and we look at the lights.  We’re learning to rip open gifts and are finding we are a quick study.  I wanted this first Christmas to be something special for him, even though in reality he won’t remember it and pretty much anything you do for him on a daily basis is a wonder.

But I just can’t seem to get it together this year.  We’re the only house on the block not festooned with enough twinkle lights to be seen from space.  The mantle is bare, the stockings are still wrapped in paper (with care) in dusty boxes in the attic.  Along with the rest of the Christmas decorations.  The tree is up, yes, we did that.  But the energy to wrestle it into submission with lights and spangles is missing.  The problem is trying to find time for all the holidays makings days already overloaded with work, child care, housework and the most elusive gift of all…sleep. The job stress hasn’t helped, although I am seeing some light at the end of the tunnel.  I’m also loaded down with crocheting projects, seems like everyone decided to give birth this month, and my right hand is becoming permanently curled from holding a hook.

Enough of this bah humbug.  Instead, let me give you a brief look into the Mars and Venus of vacation time.  Michael has the entire week off and, over the weekend, we shared our views on how that week would be spent.

Me:  What are you planning to do this week?
Him: Oh, I’ve got a long list of hard projects.
(Me, thinking:  Oh, good. So do I.)
Him: Nail my wife, for starters.
(Me: Speaking of nailing, that plank in the living room could use some help)
Him:  Then there are some surfaces in the kitchen that could use some attention. PERSONAL attention.
(Me: Yeah, like the ceiling that needs replastering)
Him: Oh, and we can’t forget about the washing machine.
(Me:  Apparently, you can. When’s the last time you did your laundry…October?)
Him: And you know what we could do to the couch?
(Me: Uh, replace the godawful thing?)
Him: I sure hope that towel bar in the shower can handle the action.
(Me: Christ, have you seen the condition of the grout in there?)
Him: So much to do. How are we going to get all of this done?
(Me:  I’ve got an idea. It’s so easy, you can do it one-handed.)
Me: So, are you going to have time to plaster my ceiling this week?
Him: Hon, if that’s what you’re calling it, I’ll plaster your ceiling REAL GOOD.
Me:  …

It’s going to be an interesting week. Four more days of work to go.