kdiddy.org

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.

(Please do your best to ignore the frizz. It’s been humid for the past few days and I’m pretty powerless against my hair’s will.)

I had the brilliant idea to grab the last little bit of coffee from the pot and take my laptop out to the porch.

Dude, seriously, can June last forever?

Tomorrow is the baby’s last day of tee-ball. I’m not completely heartbroken over this fact, since Saturdays and Sundays will now be sleeping-in days again. Getting up early 7 days a week is NOT what’s up.

We went out to the Greek Food Festival in Oakmont last night and while there I bumped into a 65-year-old(ish) man who was not wearing a shirt and had both nipples pierced. So…yeah. My great-aunt, who is in her late 70s and is just deliciously crazy, was heading to the beer vendor and offered to buy me a Yeungling. She came back with these two huge plastic pilsner glasses that had flashing LEDs in the bottom. It’s the greatest thing ever. I call it my party glass.

We also stopped at a party that one of the MA students was having at her house which is pretty close to us. She has a couple of kids, including one who is right around the baby’s age. We only stayed for a little bit, but we had a really nice time and I foresee us hanging out with her and her family more in the future. A local mom-friend! Who’da thunk?

Alright. Even though I have a short mag article to write, I’m going to read a book. Not feeling quite ready to form coherent prose for a non-internet audience.

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.

I’m mostly recovered from yesterday’s nonsense, though my feet still resemble raw meat loaf and are therefore still tender. It helps that it is absolutely gorgeous outside today. I walked over to the little La Prima stand on campus to buy a latte as a Friday treat and took my time getting back to the office so that I could enjoy the morning a little.

Jive Turkey commented on one of my wedding photos on flickr, and I just noticed two years after the fact that my eyes appear to be looking in two different directions. I’m looking a little “touched.”

And actually that might explain why I watched not one, but TWO episodes of My Big Redneck Wedding on fucking Country Music Television last night. I’m not sure what came over me. I guess I was just so pissy that I needed to gawk at some people who are too stupid to realize when they’re being mocked and Tom Arnold is quite possibly the most useless human being ever, so it worked out pretty well.

However, I’m still traumatized from seeing the “kiss” that this couple exchanged in which I saw two tongues flapping wildly at each other before disappearing into a sucking motion that could give my Dyson a run for its money. Ah, to be 18 and terrible at kissing.

But the bride was truly a model for thrifty weddings, since she decorated the reception venue entirely with quilts and bought all of the wedding party’s clothes in the hunting section of Wal-Mart. Hey, whatever, so long as those two crazy kids are married and happy at the end of the day that’s all that matters.

Ahem. Anyway. The sister-in-law is having her graduation party tomorrow and she and I came up with the idea of having a cupcake potluck. Her friends are making somewhere in the neighborhood of four dozen cupcakes and she and I are going to make about four dozen, as well. That equals…an assload of cupcakes.

And because it’s Friday:

…because it’s been ONE OF THOSE DAYS OH MY EFFING HELL.

Here we have: party socks (complete with hole [KLASS]), gaucho pants from like five years ago (elastic waistband and not fashion is key here), and some hairy legs.

What you can’t see in this picture are the five or six blisters that I got this morning traipsing through downtown after an appointment that was meh.

I passed a bread line. I’m not even kidding. There were some broke people in line and they were getting bread from some volunteers. So that was distressing.

Almost as distressing was standing at the bus stop for an hour and some change and watching every 71 ever roll past me while I muttered, “Can I get a 61? Can I GET a 61? NO? NO? WHY CAN’T I GET A 61?”

I finally called the husband and PAT’s site was down, so I decided to try that “stand on the corner and scream obscenities” thing that’s all the rage with the crazies. It was cathartic, certainly, but it didn’t procure a 61.

The husband called me back with the awesome news that PAT had discontinued 61 service to my particular stop but had never noted that on the bus stop sign. NYYYAAARRRGGGHHH. The husband and I shouted at each other for a few minutes before he declared that he would just drive me to work since it was like 11:45 at that point. I continued to steam and decided to call PAT and let them know that, hi, I’m no doctor or anything, but indicating exactly which buses do or not stop at any given point is kind of important, especially when you’re eleventy billion hours late for work and wearing heels and your feet are leaking.

I called 411 and asked for the number for Port Authority Transit. They texted me the number for Sports Authority. Thanks.

But now there is Annie Hall and beer and talk of cupcakes.

Thanks for all of the happy anniversary wishes yesterday. We didn’t do anything “special.” Just went home, ate dinner, and watched Ocean’s 13. Before going to bed, I convinced the husband to dance in the dining room with me to our song. About halfway through, full of glowiness and mush and la-di-da, I sweetly whispered in his ear, “Is this hurting your back?”

“Ugh, yes. It is.”

“Here, I’ll get on my tip toes.”

“Why do you have to be so short?”

Very romantic.

Anyway, I’m not sure how much love this space is going to get from me in the next few days. I have some important crap coming up and I will certainly be having nervous breakdowns in addition to my already existing nervous breakdowns. What can I say? I’m a busy woman and am feeling the head-in-the-sand urge.

We watched Funny Games last night, which turned out to be a really interesting choice as the clock ticked past midnight and it became Father’s Day. Funny Games is a shot-for-shot remake of the Austrian original from 1997.

Another interesting thing about Funny Games is that it is quite possibly the must fucked up movie ever. I felt completely disturbed when it was over and am contemplating never leaving the city ever again.

What made our viewing even weirder was that the husband happened to look out the window and notice that this intense fog had descended on our neighborhood. But not like nice misty fog, dense soggy fog. Like The Fog. I tried to take some pictures of it but my camera isn’t really made for taking very low light pictures. You can kind of get the idea, though.

The husband ran his fingers up and down the screen to show that it was completely soaked.

I did not take this picture through the screen. Those are droplets of fog all around me. Check out the glow from the streetlight.

Dark and creepy street view.

Anyway, Happy Father’s Day to those of who are of the paternal persuasion. The baby and I gave the husband some fancy facial scrub and lotion hoping to remedy his dry, flaky skin situation. I’ll make a metrosexual out of him yet!

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.

On Friday, the husband and the baby and I headed to the gigantic multiplex to see the new Indiana Jones movie. We squeezed our way through horrendous traffic and past the mobs of Sex and the City fans to the back corner of the theater, where movie-goers who see the blockbusters a week after they premiere are sequestered.

At least 6 of the main theaters were dedicated to Sex and the City. I loved that show the same way that I like Fiery Habanero Doritos and Kraft Mac n Cheese and candy and alcohol. They’re both bad for me, make me fat and/or drunk and/or orange-stained, but I am not ashamed of our relationship. And I fully intend to see the movie at some point.

However, the premiere activities surrounding the movie can only be described as a tea party with stilettos. Women were all dressed up and giddily discussing the movie and the show while standing in line and I swear I half expected them to bust out their baby dolls.

Frankly, I find this behavior strange. I had to wonder: is Sex and the City the new Star Wars?

Anyway, we watched Indiana Jones and were enjoying it enough (nutshell review: it’s okay, though not awesome). The husband left the theater about 20 minutes from the end to take a phone call, which was really strange.

He returned after the movie was over and informed me that his father had a heart attack.

After racing home and and a flurry of phone calls, we found out that he had been driving his truck through Ohio and suffering chest pains. He finally pulled into a terminal and went to the hospital. He’s going to be okay, but good lord was that scary.

The husband, the sister-in-law, and I have been on the cases of all of our parents to improve their lifestyles. The combined smoking habits of my mother and father and my in-laws totals to something like 170 years and they’re a mostly sedentary bunch. Until now they’ve mostly waved away our demands that they quit smoking and exercise and eat better. I don’t know when they thought that crap would catch up with them, but now they know.

The husband is currently on his way to Ohio to pick up his dad and bring him home to recuperate. First day of the rest of his life and all of that.

Sigh. We may be adults, but we still need our parents. Hopefully, they’ll really realize that now.

To lighten the weekend, we went to the graduation party for the sister-in-law’s friend, Stacey, yesterday. The husband asked Stacey what nationality her family was since everyone was pretty sedate and quiet. “I’m only ever at Irish or Italian family functions. I guess I never noticed how loud we are.”

But the quiet mood allowed us to focus on the unexpected entertainment. Stacey’s sister’s little poodle-ish dog was desperately trying to hump Stacey’s huge chocolate Labrador, despite the fact that both dogs are boys and besides that the chocolate Lab was not interested. I have to give the poodle credit, since he approached from every angle, even humping the dog’s head at one point. However, I am now a big advocate of neutering pets because after the…things that I saw…well, let’s just say that I’m really glad that I didn’t have a hot dog to eat. I might have barfed.