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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.

If you wanted to buy a Sam Cooke album, where would you go?

Anyway, have some smattering…

That, my friends, is our car. We went and got it last night. It’s a zippy little thing and it has all of those new-fangled things like airbags and air conditioning and seatbelts that aren’t completely twisted. It’s a gigantic upgrade for us.

Pardon the cloudy picture. I took it through the screen door this morning and I was still un-showered and in my pajamas.

I took this picture a few days ago to illustrate the pretty purplish-pink and spring green combo that was all over the place. Isn’t it yummy? I wish the colors could stay like that all summer.

This is the mourning dove that lives on our porch. She’s mad pregnant. The slut.

That’s the grass in our front yard. Yeah. We’re those people on your street who make it difficult to sell your house. I’m deliberately only showing you a small portion, because I think if I showed you what it really looks like you would wonder when I moved to the savanna. This is why I can’t live in the suburbs. I would already have been put on some kind of witch trial for letting it go like this. Although…two years ago one of our neighbors passive-aggressively cut our grass after it got to about this point and if you’re trying to make a snotty point, I don’t know why you would do that. How do you know I won’t just think, “Oh, sweet, the grass-cutting gnomes were here?” I think a better tactic is to shave “CUT ME” into the grass.

“Let me out! Must kill small wildlife!” Yesterday, this guy was practicing his pouncing with one of his toys, going over and over his moves from various angles, looking very serious about the whole thing. I realized that he reminds me of Uncle Rico in Napolean Dynamite and I’m waiting for him to start telling me about how he almost won the big game back in ’88.

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

L to R: Dude in a leopard unitard, beer #6, me, Bolt