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So, I went to Conneaut last week…

There were bugs, including this beetle and a flying ant that I inadvertently ate while celebrating my cousin’s birthday. Said ant landed on my chocolate ice cream which I inserted into my gaping maw. I felt a little pinch, which I guess was the ant’s way of saying, “WTF ARE YOU DOING?” I spit him out, but it was too late. He was dead. I mourned him by eating more chocolate ice cream.

There were also bug parts, like this wing that landed on my towel and captivated me so.

You recognize my kid, of course, but the short, drunk-looking guy in the foreground is my baby cousin. He is very cute and likes to cuddle, but he drools a lot. He is the youngest of seven (SEVEN) boys.

I’m kind of over babies at this point in my life, which isn’t to say that I don’t like them, but before I had one I would always go apeshit over them and want to hold them and change them and blah blah blah. Then I had a baby and let me tell you, the novelty of all of that wears off somewhere around 3 a.m. the first night. Now I hold a baby for about 30 seconds and I’m like, “Yeah, I’m good. Here, take this. Is there more beer?”

But this little guy had me quite captivated. It might have something to do with the huge (moist) hug that he gave me. My heart might have melted a little.

Ring Pops for lunch…because we were on vacation and I just couldn’t care.

I scored 100% on “My Name Is Jonas” on the medium level of Guitar Hero III. This may not be an astonishing accomplishment, but the husband and I have been trying to best each other at this song for awhile. I took a picture because he was not around when it happened and I knew he wouldn’t believe me. We have a healthy relationship.

My kid and another of the seven brothers (who will need seven brides at some point, I guess). They look all sweet and precious here, but they were actually in the middle of an epic whinefest that included the longest recitation of, “STOP IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT” ever.

Ain’t it quaint?

I don’t know this guy, but he sat on this bench for the longest time, just quietly taking everything in. I like to think that he stared at those clouds and watched the kids play and reflected deeply on his life.

Or maybe he was just taking note of how hot the lifeguard was.

On our last night we went to dinner at the Stable Pit and Pub, which is this Western-themed restaurant and bar smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania. It’s very corny and I love it. They have one cottage that they rent out and you can get a romantic getaway package that features champagne service, a Jacuzzi and a mirrored ceiling. I reminded the husband that we never went on a honeymoon, so maybe he’ll surprise me for my birthday. Because what better way is there to turn 30 than in the countryside of Pennsyltucky with cowboy paraphernalia a few feet away? Fingers crossed!

Anyway, they arrange their creamers in this little flower formation and I just thought that was the cutest thing ever.

As soon as we got home from Conneaut, the husband and I headed to Alto Lounge to hear our friend Tony play records. He was headed back to the Navy on Sunday and it was his birthday, so it was all kinds of bittersweet.

Yeah.

This French guy was there and told everyone that he had traveled to Pittsburgh, “in ze canoe,” and demonstrated his rowing technique through some interpretive dance. The sister-in-law found his antics hilarious, but then realized that she probably sounded exactly like that dude during her time in Argentina. “Me llamo Bolt. Yo me gusto Pittsburgh. N’at.”

After we left the club, we saw the French dude approaching random people sitting on their porches. The husband, who had heard all about ze canoe at length, hissed at us to cross the street. Luckily, Shadyside has plenty of alleys that one can sneak through when escaping odd French men. And I think Pittsburgh needs to promote that aspect of our fair city much more.

Earmark of a good Saturday: Your son calls from the bathroom, “Mum! I have diarrhea. Come wipe my butt.”

Oh, gee, can I?

Our 4th of July was alright. I spent most of the first part of the day rolling around and moaning. I had a horrible headache and allergies, but once I got my act together we went to a picnic/graduation party for a cousin of mine. The baby joined a game of wiffle ball and I got pretty happy about the fact that he felt comfortable just playing with some kids he didn’t know. I could never do that when I was a kid. Hell, I can’t do that now.

We stopped by the mother-in-law’s house and tried to figure out where to go to see fireworks. The sister-in-law got a text message from her friend, Maria, and we remembered that she lives on the South Side Slopes with an amazing view of downtown. We sped over there and when we stepped onto one of her THREE decks we saw:

Pretty, no?

The fireworks themselves were kind of meh. I kept trying to take pictures but my little digital camera really isn’t up for low-light and long exposures. I got a few alright shots, though:

When we got home, the husband and I watched Assassin of Youth. When Incredibly Strange Video was going out of business, I bought a bunch of campy old drive-in movies about young women with loose morals and a few movies about the devil reefers. They’re kind of entertaining, but they get tedious after awhile. Plus, it’s just downright infuriating that people still kind of think that way.

And obviously the depiction of high school life in the late 30s, before the word “teenager” really existed to describe people of that age group, is somewhat exaggerated. But imagining a life where listening to 78s and doing the Charleston was the general idea of a wild Saturday night was kind of depressing.

Also, these movies were made purely for the propaganda/shock factor, so there wasn’t a whole lot of time to worry about the plot making sense.

In a similar vein, we watched most of Brazil on Thursday night. I really, really wish I could psychotically love that movie the way everyone else does. But it’s just SO weird. Everyone and everything in that movie makes me feel vaguely sick and it reminds of some long not-quite-terrifying nightmare I would have had as a kid. The soundtrack does kick ass, though.

Ahhhhh….tee-ball is over. And I finally got a shower for the first time in, uh, a few days. This day is shaping up to be a success, provided I can kick this writer’s block for the paying gig to the curb. And if the husband can rouse himself from this epic nap that he’s taking, we can go to see Wall-E.

Speaking of my husband (the charming guy making that interesting face in the picture above), he almost got into it with one of the moms this morning. We were watching the baby’s team practice, and the coach tossed the ball at a kid who held his glove out all weird and nearly got his block knocked off. The husband commented that it was a lousy throw, but that the kid needed to hold his glove up better. Just observations, not, “Oh my god! That kid needs to step it up or we’re going to lose the championship and then I’ll have to berate my kid to ease my insecurities about my failures in life.” Like, TOTALLY NOT being one of those parents. But apparently, the coach’s wife was sitting next to us and said, “Hey! That’s my husband and my kid out there! Thanks a lot! You know, everyone has a bad throw from time to time.” The husband and I just kind of stared at her. We all sat there uncomfortably for a few minutes until she finally huffed off.

Yeah. I’m really glad that tee-ball is over. Even if it means that I have to wait a whole year to see the baby in those huge helmets.

So, this morning, I was fixing some breakfast for the baby and while we were waiting for the toaster, I said, “Hey, come here!” He immediately jumped into my arms and we hugged and hugged and hugged. I gave him some kisses and he started giggling and peppering my face and neck with kisses. I laughed and tried to hide my neck and it was such a gag-worthy, cute moment.

Until the baby said, “You bastard!”

Sigh. I mean, obviously, he has no idea what that means. At least, I don’t think so. I just told him not to say it again and we moved on with our lives. I did NOT get super immature and snot, “Yeah, well, at least my parents were married when I was born.” Because that would be mean and stupid and a tad messed up.

First, the lulz:

And now, the baking hubris.

So, I was all impressed with myself (and the sister-in-law) after the success of our cupcakes and decided to tackle a baking project that I’ve had my eye on for awhile: homemade English Muffins. I’ve had the tab for that recipe open in my browser for like two months and last night I finally decided to go for it, since I actually had all of the ingredients and some time to mess around.

It’s probably obvious to many of you smart folks that baking yeasty products on a humid June night in Pittsburgh is a Dumb Idea, but I’ve always turned my nose up at conventional wisdom.

See, everything was pretty much fine until I got to the kneading part. I’m sure that I’ve bitched about my tiny kitchen on here before, but let me reiterate that I do NOT have counters. Like, there just aren’t any. I have a patch of space next to the sink that houses the dish rack (er, well, a towel that I rest pots and pans on to dry), an apartment dishwasher with a few feet of space on top, and the stove. That’s it. Those are my working surfaces. I’ve moved prep operations out to the dining room table before but it’s obviously kind of a pain. So last night I decided to just clean the six or seven inches of space between the burners of the stove and do the kneading there.

So, not only did the dough start touching the gross burners almost immediately, since it was hot, the dough just got stickier and stickier…and I could not extract my hands from it. I spent about 15 minutes going, “Oh my god. Oh my god. I don’t believe this shit. Oh, shit. Where’s my wedding ring?”

Sigh. I let the dough rise in the fridge overnight and haven’t had a chance to actually cook the suckers, so whether or not the whole project is a failure remains to be seen.

However, I am happy to report that the baby and I went to the dentist today and neither of us has cavities! Woohoo! I was pretty concerned about the state of my teeth since it’s been about a year since I had them cleaned and I had a very sensitive spot in between two of my bottom teeth. I braced myself for them to say things like “root canal” or “fuck this, you’re getting dentures,” but it turns out that one of my gums is receding a little and I just need to be a little more vigilant with my brushing and flossing.

The hygienist lectured me on letting the baby brush his own teeth and I was starting to feel a little irritated since she kept saying stuff like, “And MOMMY is going to brush your teeth, right?” and “Yes, Dr. Dentist, and the baby’s mom agreed to pay more attention to his brushing habits.” God, lady, back off. She reminded me of the Wii balance board which, if you didn’t know, is a snarky little asshole. The last time I got on that thing it asked me if the baby had improved any and I said no because I’ve pretty much accepted that he’s going to be in the -15th percentile for weight until puberty. And you know what that thing said to me? It said, “Maybe you should pay more attention to the baby.” So I “accidentally” jumped on it during the ski jump game. I don’t like passive aggressive electronics.

Of course, it’s been like two weeks since I’ve done the Wii Fit and I can just imagine the earful I’m going to hear from that thing now.

Brace yourself, betches. I bring the mushiness with this post.

Left: first day of kindergarten. Right: last day of kindergarten.

I feel the need to explain that he is standing a few feet closer to the camera in the second picture, so his little growth spurt is exaggerated. He’s not that much taller, but he is shooting up faster than I can say “flood pants.”

These pictures make me think of the ending scenes in Juno. As Juno recovers with Bleeker, Vanessa peers into the nursery trying to peek at the new baby. The nurse steps out and asks Vanessa if she would like to meet her son. Vanessa, stunned, does not answer yes or no, but instead repeats, incredulously, “I have a son.”

The incredible thing about parenthood is how different it is for everyone, and how similar at the same time. Vanessa does not give birth to her child, but the moment she says the words, “I have a son,” for the first time, their bond is solidified. As incredible as it was to say, “I have a son,” on December 6, 2001, it’s even more amazing every time I say it. Today, saying, “I have a son. He is now a first-grader,” I feel the same thrill that I did when I declared that he was a member of this world, that he shall forever be known as a human being and a citizen of this planet, as my son.

Parenthood does not have a single origin or formula, but the results are always thrilling.

I have a son. He is a first-grader. He reads. He writes. He still wraps his arms and legs around me in the morning when I get him out of bed.

I have a son.

Ah, Monday. What a dick this day is.

Internets, I don’t mind telling you that I had a rather lovely and restful weekend. On Saturday morning, we took the baby to tee-ball and were happy to sit in some shaded bleachers. The moms in front of us provided the entertainment by talking in hushed tones about their psychic, who told one mom that she saw a flooded basement in the future. There was much gasping when that mom revealed that not six weeks later, there was some heavy rain (in Pittsburgh of all places!) and her brother’s girlfriend’s roommate’s dog’s basement flooded. Freaky, right?

After tee-ball, the husband went to work and the baby and I pretty much just relaxed the rest of the day. We put in some quality time with the Wii.

When the husband came home from work, we walked to the main boulevard. We passed some honeysuckle and the smell was intoxicating. The husband helped me to drink a drop of honeysuckle water and I finally believed that summer was here. We stopped into the state store so that I could gather the materials necessary to quench my craving for chilled white wine. Then we got some ice cream and practically skipped home, it was all so la-di-da.

Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and rustled the family together. We go to the tee-ball field and were dismayed to see that no one was there. Alas, it was Junior Pirates day at PNC Park. But we had no desire to sit at the ballpark on a 90+ degree day, so we just went home. We ate some breakfast on the porch and just sat out there for a few hours, reading and enjoying the lovely day. Later, we went over to my mother-in-law’s house where I spent at least 3 hours drifting around on a raft in the pool. And I didn’t even get sunburned.

I love summer.

The husband noted that over the weekend, we watched three movies, all of which were about someone(s) being held captive: Turistas, Black Snake Moan, and An American Crime.

Turistas was just rather stupid, I fell asleep halfway through Black Snake Moan but what I saw of it was pretty meh. It also made me want to take a shower really badly. An American Crime was complicated. I felt that the way the story was presented, with the victim as the first-person, posthumous, omniscient narrator was tacky. Of course, Ellen Page and Catherine Keener are amazing no matter what they do and it was a very blunt way of showing how abuse can turn even its victims into monsters, thus continuing the cycle, but that often the people who say nothing in a situation like that are almost as disgusting as the abusers themselves. Obviously, since it was based on a true story, it was really depressing and there were more than a few moments where I had to emotionally distance myself from what I was watching. Otherwise, I would have had some kind of breakdown.

Ahem. Anyway. On Wednesday, the baby will finish up kindergarten and I will officially be the mother of a first-grader. Oh my holy hell.

I am so tired. So, so tired. I will have more substantial posts tomorrow, but for now I want to tell you what sucks about coming home in the middle of the week from your vacation in Detroit that included the ER at Henry Ford Hospital, alcohol, roller skating, British guys, and Moby.

What sucks is that I had to just drop back into life and, like, parent and shit. This morning, I pried my eyes open after a grand total of 3 hours of sleep and when I got downstairs and started packing the baby’s lunch, I realized that the bread was moldy. Of course it was; it’s got to be two weeks old at this point. For the past few weeks, the baby has been whining that he wants peanut butter crackers for lunch and I would argue that that isn’t a substantial lunch and blah blah blah I want you to thrive or some shit. So, this morning, I’m sure you can imagine me standing at the counter (read: the stove…we don’t have any counters and FUCK), eyes half-closed, hair all askew, toaster oven ticking away, and moldy bread poised to incite hallucinations to those brave enough to eat it, realizing that oh my god, I am going to have to send my child to school with peanut butter crackers for lunch.

I played it off pretty well, though. I went into the living room where the baby was and said, “Hey! Guess what’s for lunch today? PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS HOLY SHIT YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST KID ALIVE!” The baby was, in fact, pretty excited. However, he didn’t see me flailing at the heavens when I realized that the box of Saltines that I never pay attention to was two years old. But since I am Mom Bot 5000, I had a back-up box in the pantry. That box only expired in March so I declare myself officially On Top of Shit.

I sent him off with his peanut butter crackers, some applesauce, and a small bag of pumpernickel-and-onion pretzel sticks that I bought at a rest stop in Ohio yesterday. I think he had shoes on, but I can’t be sure.

I went back inside and realized that my brilliant idea to get started on the laundry last night was maybe not so brilliant since all of my bras were soaking in the wash tub, gleefully sopping wet. Also, did I mention that I put the baby on the bus sans brasserie? And the bus driver was blasting “Summertime” by Will Smith and I had to resist the urge to go, “Awwwwwwwwww shit, son!” I tossed the bras in the dryer and reveled in the fact that I had such a great excuse for showing up to work late.

The more I write down the details of my life, the more I find myself struggling to complete sentences.

Tee-ball started yesterday and that means that I no longer get to sleep in on weekends. The fact that I then sit and watch the baby be all cute for two hours mostly makes up for it, though. I forgot my camera, but trust me when I tell you that tee-ball is adorable. The baby, being a veteran at this point with one season of tee-ball already under his belt, got to swing at some live pitches and actually connected with the ball twice. That means that his hitting skills have already surpassed mine by 3,000%.

Youth baseball is so fun in our neighborhood if for no other reason than the people-watching. The yinzer population is high and yesterday a woman walked past us and, in a pristine Pittsburgh accent, said to her unhappy child, “Stawp cryin’. I bawt yew some Cawmbows.” You plain-tongued folks would pronounce it, “Stop crying. I bought you some Combos.” Awesome on multiple levels.

After tee-ball, I had to go to a “ladies’ lunch.” My grandmother invites all of my hammy-armed aunts (and me!) to lunch at her country club twice a year. Well, “invites” is a strong word. In my case, anyway. Usually my invitation comes in the form of a phone call in which my mom or grandmother tells me, “The ladies’ lunch is on x date. You have to go.” And it’s remarkable because the lunches are always smack dab in the middle of my busiest times. I’ve bowed out of the last few, but even though I told those wannabe matriarchs that I have, like, four projects due for school plus other shit I need to do, they still insisted. My mom told me that my absence would be disrespectful, which…you know fucking whatever. I’m not going to get into it, but that brand of manipulation really doesn’t sit well with me.

Me: “Dude, I don’t have time for this shit. Those lunches always take four hours.”

Mom: “It will not take four hours. We’ll stay for lunch and that’s it.”

So I went. And FIVE hours later I finally got home. The husband and the baby and I went to the Waterfront to try to buy shoes since we’re all sporting some stinky, disintegrating kicks. DSW was, of course, closed at that point so we just zipped over to the movie theater to catch Iron Man.

Dudes. That movie is kind of the shit. It’s all about redefining the American Hero. And also the CGI is rad and Robert Downey, Jr. is amazing and also BOOM SMASH RAHHHH FLYING!

They showed the preview for the new Indiana Jones movie and I don’t know if I can get more impatient for a movie to come out. I am so geeked for some Nazis and for some offensively generic tribal people.

Classes are over, betches. I’m pleased.

That’s all I wanted to say. Also, the baby is, I guess, entering that phase where he tries to touch everything with his penis. That’s a phase, right? Like, I’m not raising a flasher, right?

*Wooderson in Dazed and Confused