kdiddy.org

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.

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.

I love when friends of ours wordlessly post pictures like this on their flickr with no explanation. Just them, their neck brace, and their morphine drip. Like, what the hell happened to you, dude?

As you may have noticed, I am on the internet even though I need to be packing because we’re heading to Detroit on Thursday. Tomorrow night we’re going to see Eddie Izzard (eee!) so I need to have my clothes mostly ready to go plus clothes for the baby. However, we had to go to the mall to get me some jeans and a Penguins tshirt (I have to represent) so we popped over to Popeye’s for dinner. Ugh. I feel like I ate some softballs or something. Plus, I have a headache. So, I can’t really move. I can just sit here and burp.

Anyway, why are we going to Detroit? Well, see, we’re dorks. And we’re going to the big electronic music festival that they have every year. This is my fifth year!

Ugh, god, I am seriously breaking up with Popeye’s forever, even if their biscuits are made with crack and rainbows.

But check it out: I got some sunglasses.

I haven’t had sunglasses in two years! My old ones were tragically bent the day of my bachelorette party and that was BEFORE the drinking commenced. But now I shall sashay my way through Detroit with my big honkin’ glasses and my Penguins shirt. Hopefully, I don’t get beat up by a Red Wings fan.

Big Work Thing went…okay. There were a couple of snags that could have been prevented if I had been a little more vigilant during the planning process. Nothing life-ending, but embarrassing nonetheless. Yet another good thing about me cutting back to one class per semester in the fall. My brain is obviously revolting against me and trying to make me look foolish.

Anyway, I got home from the Big Work Thing and changed out of my dress clothes…and immediately got my period. It was rad. So I’m totally relaxed now, except for my uterus. That old girl is just cramping away. The bitch.