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I call this postpourri. Get it? Potpourri but in blog post form? And, yes, Tyler Durden, being clever is working out for me just fine.

Anyway, I wrote on MamaPop yesterday about the Sundance Channel’s mini-documentary-series Brick City. Part 3 of 5 aired last night. I think I’m a little too cynical to be really inspired by the efforts of Mayor Cory Booker. I mean, good on him for giving a shit and all. I think I’ve just lost faith in politicians having any higher callings than their own professional ambitions to propel them to action. And even then their “actions” are lukewarm and tentative and serve bullshit. *coughcoughObamacough* But I’m really, really drawn in by Jayda and Creep. I guess it’s the parenting aspect. Seeing those two just in it and trying so hard to be good people and struggling with the fact that they’re bringing new people into this questionable world hits me pretty hard.

Onto the lighter stuff. If you’ve spent any time around me, you’ve probably heard me whine about my kitchen. It’s small, though that’s not the main problem. There are three doorways, plus two covered-up doorway things. One was the servants’ entrance and the other I think might have housed shelves at one point. Plus, there’s a covered-up fireplace. The result is the most inefficient use of space ever. The previous owner’s home improvement skills were lacking at best and so his solution when it came time to update the kitchen back in nineteen-seventy-hell or whenever this perversion of home improvement went down was this crap:

That little slab on the right is the extent of my counter space. I do nearly all prep work on the stove and it’s only by sheer luck that I haven’t cut off a finger while chopping on a rickety cutting board perched on one of the burners. If you stop by for dinner, it’s likely that you’ll hear, “Just gonna chop this carrot. *chopchopchop* AUUGHHH OH JESUS. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Okay. Whew, they’re all still there. EVERYTHING’S FINE!”

Obviously, redoing the kitchen into something resembling reasonable, much less the gourmet pr0n version that I now want after working in this hell hole for 3 years, will require a LOT of money. And if there’s a perfect antonym to our personal finances, “a lot” would be it.

So, since I’m usually trying to make dinner here after a long work/school day, I’m often flustered and pissy and saying many disrespectful things about the kitchen’s mother. This results in some odd placements of items on my part and some questionable uses of space. Some are benign (“Why is the fucking muffin pan in the microwave?”) and some are more serious. The top of my stove houses the tea kettle, a lunch box or two, and my cast iron skillet and grill pan. (I was keeping those last two in the oven but always, without fail, forgot that they were in there and would preheat the motherfucker and in case you didn’t know, cast iron cookware gets hellaciously hot and even oven mitts are barely a match.)

Sometimes, the cast iron skillet becomes a temporary storage space. Like, for instance, about a month ago I needed some place to set a tomato and a new bag of brown sugar and a mixing bowl. Into the skillet went the tomato and the brown sugar and on top of them went the mixing bowl. And there they remained, forgotten, until last night.

I’m not sure what made me look in there, but I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I was confronted with rotten tomato ooze that was causing weird reactions in the skillet and coating the bag of brown sugar. And a smell that was somewhere between garbage juice and the Allegheny River that one time that my dad, the dog, and I went for an ill-advised swim and my mom wouldn’t let us near the house for the better part of a day.

I recoiled and in doing so knocked over a cup of chocolate milk and a cup of vegetable juice (that’s what goes for balanced nutrition in our house) that the baby had left on the stove. I then spent the next hour transferring the brown sugar to a new bag and attempting to rid the skillet of the smell so that we don’t have Cornbread with Garbage Juice the next time that we have chili. FML.

At the bus stop the other day, the baby hit me with yet another of his non-sequitur questions: “Are people in Antartica upside down?” Certainly, this a pretty typical question for someone his age and appropriately adorable. However, we sort of got into it.

“No. Well, there are only a few people in Antartica. They’re scientists doing research. But they’re not in Antartica hanging from the ceiling. They’re standing up just like we are. The earth is round and gravity keeps everything on the ground. There’s no real up or down or left or right in space, you know?”

“Yes, there is.”

“No, not really. Directions like up and down and left and right are things that people made up so that they can make sense of the world. But in space, where earth is, everything is going in every direction. Kind of.”

“What?”

“Well, scientists are pretty sure that that universe began because of a big bang, that there was this, like, ball of energy and matter and one day it exploded sending stuff in every possible direction and those bits and pieces sometimes bumped into each other and blended and became new planets and galaxies and stuff.”

“Like how Saturn’s moon exploded and formed its rings?”

“Yeah, kind of like that.”

“Do you think you could ice skate on Saturn’s rings?”

“Well, no. I mean, besides the fact that it’s, you know, Saturn, remember how on that show we watched they explained that even though Saturn’s rings look solid, they’re actually lots of bits and pieces of rock and dust?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“It’s like…there was this artist, Monet. And his paintings, if you’re far away, look like water lillies and people relaxing in the park. But if you get up close you can see all of the little dots and strokes and when you look at his paintings really closely they don’t make sense. And like the cells that make up your body, too.”

“Not my skin, though.”

“Your skin, too! Your skin is made up of tiny cells that clump together and cover your body. It’s called perspective.”

“I know about perspective!”

“You do?”

“Yeah!”

“Good.”

I swear to god we had this conversation and only stopped because the school bus came. It was especially timely because I really, really need some perspective right now. Not the “there are billions of people who have it way worse than me” kind. I have that in spades. I need the “I’m looking at my 30-year-old self from a few years in the future and laughing at her because why didn’t she realize that everything was going to be just fine?” I would like that perspective in bulk, please.

I’m feeling rather…jazzed today. It’s kind of odd because it’s all grey and rainy today. But I think the gloomy weather reset something internally for me. It’s been sunny and nice pretty much every day for the last two weeks and that’s just not how we do it in Pittsburgh. Dashing through the rain from the bus stop, I thought, “Ahhh, yes. This feels right.”

I’m probably just excited about being off Thursday and Friday. Thursday my office is closed for G20 shizz and Friday I’m taking off because I imagine my commute will still be hellish. Plus, the baby has off of school and it’s the husband’s birthday. Getting to spend two days in a row at home with those dudes makes me happy, apparently. Ew.

The rain also gives that first real kiss of autumn. I’m so ready for that season to really get here. I’m getting that baking urge hardcore. I have 10,000 recipes starred in Google Reader that I want to try. I was thinking this morning that I might do some hybrid of NaBloPoMo and Tuesdays with Dorie, where I make myself bake one or two things every weekend and share the results with you. I’m not trying to become a food blogger or anything but fall baking is the awesome and since I’ve been having trouble finding inspiration/energy to post here, the combination seems natural.

Yes, I am in the weeds, to use a term from my waitressing days. Lots of stuff going on at work, I’m doing some after hours stuff for the project I’m working on for class (I will tell you more about that later, because it’s really interesting), three freelance writing things are due, and I’m still vomiting pop culture all over MamaPop and shiny baubles on WeCovet. Also, I have hazy memories of having a baby and marrying a guy at some point in the past few years, but I might just be delirious.

Also, the G20 will be here next week and I’m getting, like, secondhand stress from it. The baby has off of school and it looks like I will be off Thursday due to my work building being on super lockdown. I may also take off Friday just because I know the commute will be hellacious. And as much as I respect the freedom to assembly and whatnot and most likely agree with the stances of many of the protesters, I would much rather watch that unfold on TV and not, you know, 10 feet away from me. Tear gas makes my hair frizz n’at.

Because of all of this, my misanthropy gland has been pulsing overtime and I’m currently much more irritated with everyone ever and their dumb fucking thoughts and actions than I usually am. Which is to say, just fuck off already. But in a nice way.

So, first of all, regarding this post, thank you all so, so much for commenting and lending your support and understanding. I was literally overwhelmed by all of the people who came out to offer a comment, letting me know that, while crazy, I am not alone.

Still doing Weight Watchers, though a sort of loose version. I adapt it as I need to. I’m slowly losing weight and things feel different this time. I attribute that mostly to my new-found fervor with regard to healthier food. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m pretty frightened by the food industry in the U.S. and all of the icky governmental circle jerks that contribute to it.

So, this time around, going the easy route by stuffing my freezer with Lean Cuisine wasn’t really an option. In fact, since giving up Diet Dr. Pepper, I’ve pretty much done away with all “light” foods. That is, I don’t really buy light versions of foods. I don’t buy diet bread or light or fat-free salad dressings or light butter or skim milk or fat-free cheese or freakish 100-calorie desserts. None of that. (However, I do buy low-fat organic yogurt. Full disclosure, n’at.) I want Food. This has taken some effort on my part because I could eat more if I bought such things, but I just no longer see the point of sustaining myself on edible food-like things, which will inevitably become tiresome.

I’m eating a little less during the day so that I can eat a regular dinner with the dudes. That’s the major change that I’ve made. And you know what? It’s working really well. Mentally, I’m in a much better space. I’ve noticed that I feel satisfied/full much easier. On days when I indulge a little, I feel uncomfortably full and I think for awhile that became my normal “full” feeling. There were a lot of emotions involved, ya know? I would eat past that point for any number of reasons, stress being the main one.

I still genuinely love cooking and baking and, most of all, eating. I’m amassing an insane collection of favorite recipes and even more recipes that I want to try. I just today signed up at Evernote to work on a system of organizing recipes from all of the food blogs that I read because I want to try all of them. (Evernote, by the way, is pretty cool. I don’t know, for my purposes, if it’s a huge departure from the organizing/tagging features on Google Reader, but it’s still very nice.)

I also wanted to touch on a few points that were raised in the post mentioned above. I do not hate my body or the way it is shaped. I used to and believe me the way that I feel about myself now is so much healthier than the way I felt about it for a long, long time. And I kind of feel like I do accept my body and that my desire to lose weight, while certainly tied up in the bullshit that I’ve been dealing with for nearly all of my life, actually comes from a good place, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I think there’s like…stuff going on in the world besides my ass vigilance. But here’s a (dark, crappy, phone) picture of my cat being forced to wear a babushka.

As of this morning, I am the mother of a second-grader. Excuse me while I gather my internal organs. They seem to have exited my body.

Part of this morning’s first day of school activities included the annual picture. Every year for the past four years, we’ve taken a picture of the baby on the front porch. And every year I screw up the perspective entirely so that it’s hard to look at the pictures from year to year and get a good sense of his growth. Case in point:

Top row: pre-K, kindergarten
Bottom row: 1st grade, 2nd grade

You have to adjust and notice that his legs are about 500 feet longer than they were last year. Other things of note are the brand new Chuck Taylors and the flat-brimmed hat. These were both very specific choices of his. The Chucks are low-tops because the high-tops were the shoes for first grade. The flat-brimmed hat indicates assimilation into the fashions of mainstream hip-hop. Whatever.

I, of course, had an annual first day of school picture growing up. My mom would cart me to my grandmother’s house and they would take my picture in front of this tree in my grandmother’s front yard. Nearly every picture has me squinting fiercely because those pro photographers had to have their backs to the sun. I think the last one would have been 10th grade because after that year I started my ballet program that had me at ballet class first thing and not going to school until later in the morning. Also, by that time I was far too sullen to bother with such nonsense.

And I’m pretty sure that tree is dead now.

We stopped by the baby’s school Tuesday night for their welcome-back event and got to check out his classroom and meet his teacher. I need to take a moment and gush about his school. It’s just wonderful and we’re so lucky to live some place where a progressive and outstanding public school exists. And the building itself is amazing. It is always spotless and it’s decorated so warmly, you can’t help but cheer up a little bit when walking through the halls.

The husband and I both went to struggling Catholic schools for elementary school and we both recall them as being very drab, which is weird since Catholic churches are always so campy and over-the-top with their decor. You would think that the decorating bug would carry over to the schools. But I guess the priests and nuns who didn’t have the gift of knowing which gold chalices would go best with stained glass window depicting some anguish and naked people are assigned to education detail.

Anyway, another awesome thing about the public schools here is that they do an excellent job of providing everyone with school supplies. The only downside to this is that it eliminates the need for the annual school supply shopping.

We decided to hit up Target that night anyway to get the baby a new backpack and a big thing of pencils for our house. While we were there I decided to poke around the bedding section to check out their duvet selection.

We have these comforters from Ikea that are about four years old. They’re still in good shape, but are rather dingy at the top where our greasy hands and faces come in regular contact with them. Despite my best bleaching efforts, the faint yellow remains as evidence of many good nights of sleep and drool.

All of the duvets that they had in stock were at least $70 so I decided to wait and order a cheapie version online and grabbed some new sheets while I was at it. I went with these two:

I’m going with the chocolate/blue combo because I totally have my finger on the pulse of the color scheme trends of 2003.

ANYWAY, all of this duvet talk kept making me think about Fight Club and how silly it is that I am even concerned about such things. And then I also started wondering if duvets were also mentioned in Raising Arizona when H.I. and Ed are giving Nathan Jr. the tour. But that was a divan.

With that sorted out, I think I can move on with life now.

By the time you read this, it will be August 31st. I’m writing it on the 24th and on the 24th, it is a very stressful day at work for me. And I miss my kid and my husband terribly. On the 24th, they are at the beach for five more days.

On a day like the 24th, what would keep me going is the thought of coming home and hugging my kid and then curling up next to my man at night. On the 24th, I can’t do that and due to poor cell reception I might not even be able to hear their voices.

On the 24th, I realize this and burst into tears at my desk.

What makes it even tougher is that I can’t make this post public and reach out to the people who help to hold me up. “I’m alone in my house and emotionally vulnerable and therefore probably drunk!” doesn’t seem like the best thing to post to the internet.

This week has really worn me out. Busy at work, busy at school. Plus, my cat started harassing me at 5:30 this morning, flopping butt-first onto my face, knocking my glasses off of the nightstand, and pawing at my hands and head when I buried myself in the covers. It’s a dreary day here and combined with the early morning, I’m really ready to curl up at home.

I’ve been taking the bus to work and listening to Pandora on my phone. This morning it selected a few Beatles tracks for me. I haven’t actively listened to the Beatles since perhaps high school. But this song came on this morning and it made me feel very serene. Thanks, randomized internet radio, for knowing what I needed to hear. Have a good weekend, kids.

I’ve been taking the bus to and from work. The driver that I’ve had in the morning likes to get on the PA as we cross the Smithfield Street Bridge into town and say, “Good mornin’ ladies and gentlemen. We’re abaht ta enter bee-YOO-tee-full dahntahn Pittsburgh.”

It never fails to make me smile.

I am super busy this week at work and my class (last one EVER!) starts today. However, I’ve recruited a few fabulous people to provide some content. Look for that over the next few days.

Love yinz. And have a bee-YOO-tee-full day.

Mandatory annual trip to Kennywood: completed Friday, August 14th (just under the self-imposed deadline)

High temperature on date of trip: 92 F

Humidity: 6 bajillion %

People in attendance: seemingly the entire population of the tri-state area. Apparently, there was a picnic happening that day for employees of Giant Eagle. This was funny to us because our last few trips to Idlewild have always coincided with Italian Day, during which you cannot spit without hitting five guys named Tony and the tarantella will haunt your dreams for weeks afterward. We managed to avoid that crappy timing this year, but were at Kennywood while Italian Day was going on at Idlewild. We’re subconsciously drawn to crowds, which is funny because we hate people. But I guess we need stuff to bitch about.

Hours at Kennywood: 9

Rides enjoyed: only 10 (see also: People in attendance)

Vomit puddles spotted and narrowly avoided: 2

Buckets sweated: At least 35

Potato Patch fries consumed: about 10, personally. Chewing and digesting made me sweat more.

Other fried goods consumed: sadly, none

Children whose lives I changed (probably for the worst) by shoving him onto the Phantom’s Revenge with me: 1 (mine)

How I accomplished that: we told him we were in line for the Turnpike. (This charade didn’t last that long, but I did have to convince him that we would come out the other side alive and days later I’m not sure that he believes me yet.)

Number of times I saw that lady that I always see at Kuhn’s who kind of looks like the Cryptkeeper: 1

Minutes I blatantly stared at her: too many

Number of stars for that night’s post-Kennywood shower and slumber: Five. With a bullet.

I’m overweight.

Writing that out is really weird and honestly I think I have an easier time saying it than typing the words.

My BMI puts me firmly in the overweight category, though I don’t put much stock in the BMI. We can look around and see that these categories are very questionable and they really don’t say much, if anything, about a person’s actual health. I am actually leaning toward the obese category and while I will admit to some bad habits that have led to weight gain, I just don’t consider myself obese. I think.

Herein kind of lies the problem.

I was a ballet dancer and, not surprisingly, that really messed with how I ate, how I viewed myself, and how I viewed others. Much of my worth as a dancer (and, therefore, myself) was tied up in whether or not my instructors thought that I was thin enough.

Ultimately, I was fired from my first dancing job for being too fat. At the time, I believed them, but looking back at pictures of me from that time, and knowing that I was maybe 105 lbs. (I’m 5’4″) makes me realize that maybe they were a little…insane. What was especially upsetting about that firing was that they had told me at the beginning of my time there that I needed to lose a lot of weight. And I worked really really hard to get down to their standards. My body just couldn’t do it, though. I’m really just not cut out to be 95 lbs. (which is where I needed to be for them) and be able to, like, dance or sit upright or whatever.

But it wasn’t just that instance that gave me trouble. Because I started dancing when I was very young, I’ve been concerned about my weight and/or actively dieting since I was six or seven years old. Yes, I’m serious.

After I was fired from that dancing job, I decided that ballet wasn’t for me, after all. I wasn’t looking forward to having to move every year and always worrying about having a job. And I realized that my weight would always be an issue and, frankly, I was hungry. After I quit, I kind of just reveled in being able to eat whatever I wanted. I had many happy reunions with hot fudge sundaes that I hadn’t seen in years.

But that lifelong deferral to what someone else determines “thin enough” has stayed with me. I KNOW that it’s all about what you feel comfortable with and what is right for you, but for the most part, my brain believes that there is an objective standard. I’ve been working really hard to shake that belief off, but it’s really hard shutting up a voice that’s been in your brain since you were a kid.

I’ve gone back and forth between wanting desperately to meet this standard that I’m so sure exists and just doing whatever I want. Obviously, what I need to do is find some middle ground where I look out for my health but celebrate my body for what it is.

Lately, I’ve been doing whatever I want. Part of the reason for this is because I have too much going on in life and I know that I don’t have time or energy to obsess over my diet and weight the way that I know I will. As of two weeks ago, I was very, very close to my 9-months-pregnant weight. Granted, I had my son in my early 20s and I’m 30 now, so some extra pounds are to be expected. But I’ve been blatantly ignoring what I eat and how much simply because it is comforting to not think or worry about it.

The thing is, I’ve gone through this cycle many times before. Most recently, in late 2007. After I did Weight Watchers for a few months and lost about 15 pounds, other stuff got in the way and I abandoned the diet. I told myself that if I ever worked on losing the weight again, I wouldn’t publicly declare it because going back and reading several series of posts that go through that predictable process of, “I just started Weight Watchers (again) and I feel great! -> I’m still on WW and I’ve lost this much! I love being healthy! -> I know I haven’t mentioned it in awhile but I’m still kind of doing WW and it’s alright. -> What diet?” is kind of embarrassing.

But here it is: I started Weight Watchers again last week and I’ve lost a few pounds. Whoopee. I’m not setting any expectations for myself and I’m not going to beat myself up if, in the middle of the semester, I realize that I just can’t deal with this right now and I need a pie.

So why am I mentioning it? I don’t know. Because I guess I hope that someone understands.