kdiddy.org

I fear that I am perhaps the last-ish person from the MamaPop crew to post about our Vegas Vacation (a movie which the husband tells me we watched several nights ago but I have no recollection of this whatsoever which caused the husband to rest his weary head in his hands but whatever because like I was telling him last night while I was “reading” for class, I can read paragraphs of stuff and realize that I’ve absorbed none of it and it’s like my mind has two tracks: one that is sieve-like and does what it should be doing in the most begrudging manner and the other that thinks about more important things like cupcakes and bunnies…just like you’re doing right now). So you might be over the whole thing by now, but that’s too bad.

As I’ve mentioned before, this was my biggest trip ever (I don’t get out much) and the fact that I was going alone had me extra paranoid. My flight out of Pittsburgh was supposed to depart at 8:20 a.m., so I estimated that I should be at the airport at 6:20 a.m. and, using kdiddy math where 2(x+y) = casserole, I determined that I should order a cab for 5:30 a.m. “Worst-case scenario, the cab is an hour late and I’m still there in plenty of time because there won’t be traffic. Best-case scenario, the cab comes on time and I can just press my nose on the glass of the airport until they let me in,” I reasoned.

It was kind of a long day. Pittsburgh to Chicago, 2 hour layover, then Chicago to Vegas, then shuttle from the airport, surrounded by members of the Sigma Alpha Douche fraternity who had big plans to PARTY AND FUCKIN’ PARTY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW HARD I’M GONNA PARTY, DUDE, to the hotel where I met up with Tracey and blinked and said, “I don’t understand when this is.” Because the time zones were totally fucking with me. It was like that scene in Spaceballs where they’re like, “This is now now. Everything that’s happening now, is happening now.”

When most of the rest of our crew got there, we went to the Bellagio for The Buffet where I was still too tired to eat and I nearly wept when I saw the desserts that I passed up AND sipped on quite possibly the worst wine ever.

But the weekend wasn’t about the food or the wine or the cost of everything (because, really, I’d rather not get into it), but about hanging out with the people who, up until this weekend, were all 1s and 0s. We sat at the Bellagio and gaped at the cover band’s track selection (“Ants Marching,” then “Smooth,” then “Fire and Rain?!?!?” Seriously?!?!). We trekked a billion miles to a karaoke night that was discontinued just a few weeks before we arrived. We Twittered and Twittered and Twittered.

The driver of the cab that Jason, Tracey, Sarah, and I took back from Failaoke added insult to injury by subjecting us to Nickelback. I will never forgive him.

Black Hockey Jesus and his wife welcomed us into their home for brunch on Saturday, which was quite possibly my favorite part of the trip. I mostly sat and listened to everyone and thought about how it was cool to hear them all laugh.

Sarah and I went shopping after brunch to get pretty dresses for dinner that night. I blushed a little at how much I spent on my two dresses (one for dinner and one I just couldn’t live without), but when I got dressed that night and rushed through the lobby to meet Sarah, who looked lovely in her dress, I felt a few glances in my direction and I let myself feel snazzy.

The Venetian is indeed a gorgeous place. Bouchon was impressive, though not mind-blowing. I did get to eat the best creme brulee I’ve ever had and laughed until I thought my ribs might break, mostly at the expense of our misguided waiter who I think was in Vegas trying to break out as a stand up comedian. Good luck with that, dude. My trout still had its head, which didn’t phase me, but apparently freaked everyone else out. I am a bad ass, no?

Tracey went back to the room feeling ill while the rest of us wandered around the Venetian’s casino and wondered how anyone could get addicted to gambling, since it is SO BORING. We had an impromptu karaoke session outside one club where the band was playing “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

Schmutzie and Palinode retired for the evening so we bid them farewell and lamented the fact that our time together was so short. Sarah, Amber, Danielle, and I went to the Bellagio to watch the fountain show, set to that obnoxious, “I’m Proud to Be An American/God Bless the U.S.A.” song.

Back at the Flamingo we watched the waitresses shuffle about in their blazer/dress things, their eyes heavy with Vegas life and presumably landing there after they turned 30. Finally, we bid each other goodnight and farewell.

Tracey and I got room service in the morning and lounged in bed eating eggs and drinking coffee, talking about life and shit. Vegas is a tad bleaker during the day, without the darkness and flashing lights to cover up a multitude of crap. But it is constantly appealing to your senses, with mixed results. The flap-flap of the people handing out trading cards of prostitutes all along the strip, the constant ding-ding-ding of the machines, the occasional cheer of that elusive pay-out, the can’t-put-your-finger-on-it scents pumped in to the hotels, the smoke, the booze, the snippets of conversation, the palpable sense that you’re getting away with something just by being there.

I joked later that we were all ramping up for a crazed weekend, especially in contrast to the many bloggers at the wholesome Blissdom conference. But we were all in bed by 12:30, no one got especially drunk, and I even got some homework done.

You might say that we did Vegas all wrong and you might be right. But I sat at the bar in the Flamingo on Sunday, sipping on my gin and tonic lunch and chatting with bartender Lil Joe about the Steelers, killing time, the last one to leave, and felt my chest tighten. I just had such a good time. I missed my husband and my son. I couldn’t wait to get home to them.

But I really missed my friends, too.

I took these with my phone on our way into work today.

And this is a rendering of Sunday’s game in Lego as imagined by the baby.

Today is supposedly the most depressing day of the year, but I have to say…I’m not feeling it.

I worked and had class today, so it was easy to momentarily forget about all that was going on. Today is, of course, Martin Luther King Jr. Day. The baby asked us the other day if we celebrate MLK and it took me a minute to know how to respond. I mean, we don’t celebrate it like we do other holidays. There isn’t a feast or decorations associated with it, but it is one of those days that we pause to acknowledge that there isn’t just one day for compassion and understanding and battling ignorance, but that we must continue to do so every moment. The husband and I explained this to the baby and told him about other people who have spoken out in the face of injustice, whose words and actions, even their most controversial, we must continue to wear as armor in the war against hate and oppression…Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass.

Tomorrow, of course, we inaugurate Barack Obama. As the hours of George W. Bush’s presidency tick toward their last, I find myself reflecting a lot on how I feel about him as a person. Many times during the last eight years, I said that I hated him, that he made me furious, that he was evil. But I watched video of him the other day in which he answered questions about his presidency and how he felt about it now that it was coming to an end. I realized that I didn’t hate him. I listened to the way he listed the things he regards as “disappointments:” the lack of weapons of mass destruction, never capturing Bin Laden, plastering up that “Mission Accomplished” sign, the extent of the devastation of Katrina, his “inheritance” of an economy in recession. It occurred to me that he doesn’t understand what happened. Thousands and thousands of people died. Whole families were destroyed. These are not disappointments. These are catastrophes that would haunt most people until the end of time. But W., I think, is simply unaware of the reality that we live in under him. He is an unwitting tool of some project steeped in privilege and entitlement, a project that is hopefully gasping its last breaths.

Ultimately, W. is responsible for his actions as president, but the blame (and my rage) can not rest solely on his shoulders. I hope that it will be the legacy of a way of thinking and behaving, that there are people who simply don’t matter, that will die as the books close on W.’s term.

Hope.

It’s such a strange thing, isn’t it? It’s so thrilling but carries with it such an uneasy feeling. Obama doesn’t owe anyone anything and the task of making things right at this time is a job surely far too immense for a couple of measly presidential terms. Honestly, he’s proving a bit too centrist for me and some of his cabinet appointments make me very uncomfortable. But I can wait and see.

That’s my son, right after I let him push the button that cast our vote for Obama and the whole world might as well reside in that blue iris, the same way the President-elect can see the universe in the eyes of his daughters. We have your back, Barack. Show us what you we can do.

With such heavy things pressing on our minds, it’s wonderful to turn to something where the stakes are considerably lower.

Indeed, the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to the Super Bowl. Plenty has been written about how football fans, particularly Steelers fans, are an inexplicably rabid bunch. But I would argue that the anti-football folks are far more rabid. Several seemingly innocent interactions online yesterday quickly turned ugly when folks felt the need to inform me that I am stupid and/or insane for liking football.

I can understand the kneejerk defensiveness. Football is mainstream and we all know how Americans tend to react to behavior that is outside the mainstream. But oddly enough growing up and living in artistic and intellectual circles, my devotion to the Steelers was seen as, at best, a quaint remnant of my blue-collar roots or, at worst, a hint toward my true nature of hideous yinzer Morlock, something to be shed along with my grating and offensive accent and my scandalous desire to simply have fun rather than devoting every waking moment to the elusive goal of enlightenment. This belief that artistic or academic interests are mutually exclusive to football fanaticism is just…stupid.

And besides, I can wax the hell out of some eloquence when it comes to the Steelers and what they mean to Pittsburghers like me. I just know that opening the door last night and hearing the cheers of unbridled joy of people who aren’t even in the game is an amazing experience. And I know that celebrating their Super Bowl XL win on my normally silent main street is something that will flash in my mind right before I die. It’s not really The Win, you see. It’s getting the chance to see people who you normally pass on the street and maybe grunt at just…happy.

What’s up, party people? I am in Rehoboth with Sweetney and Co. and right now everyone is off doing their own thang. The husband ventured to the main drag to check out the record store. The remaining adults are all internetting, and the kids are watching a movie and making high-pitched noises.

I was in the living room by myself when the beach house phone rang. I ran to answer it and had one of the most ridiculous conversations ever.

“Hello?”
“Hello, who is this?”
“This is Kelly. I’m…I’m here…and I’m…My name’s Kelly,” I answered, because really what other explanation does she need and she’s the one who called me anyway.
“Uh, so this isn’t _____?”

Now, here the woman on the other end, no doubt a little stunned by having to talk to TEH KELLY (like, seriously, why did she even have to ask who I am? She didn’t recognize my voice?), asked for someone…and I could have sworn she said, “Stephen Hawking.” And I told her that no, that person wasn’t here. I mean, I saw someone wheeling through the hall earlier with a vocoder, but I don’t think it was him.

At home we always get calls for Pottery Barn Kids. The first few calls were just annoying, and now I get all irritated with such callers, because why can’t they and their yuppie friends get the right number when seeking out their tasteful but overpriced children’s furniture? Gawd.

Anyway, here’s some pics of our one big activity so far: making our compulsory trip to Dogfish Head. We’ve spent the rest of our waking ours on the couch, though Tracey and I did throw down at the outlet mall today before our hungover asses nearly caused us to black out in Old Navy by the performance fleece.

The iPhone usage here is off the hook.

Hot wings. Perfect for a growing boy.

Shortly after taking this picture, I tossed these kids into a blender and made a cuteness smoothie. Seriously, is that shit not ridiculous? It’s a total survival mechanism because the whining is a little intense.

M daintily dabs at her mouth after eating some fresh souls.

I know it looks like I’m sitting on the couch in my pajamas and posting to my blog about something not quite earth-shatteringly important when I should be doing laundry and hacking a path through the Christmas debris that is littering our entryway, but it only looks that way to you because you’re high.

Anyway, a belated Merry Christnukkwanzaa to you, internet. I hope you’re having a lovely holiday week. Yesterday was fun, but very long, and I am still a tad exhausted today. We all got plenty of cool presents.

The baby seemed pretty happy with all of his stuff, despite not getting a D-Rex, which we said no to because a) it’s a $150 and this is not a $150 dinosaur kinda year and b) we weren’t convinced that he really wanted it. And, as it turned out, he didn’t mention it once since he did get plenty of rad presents and we kept telling him not to be disappointed if he didn’t get everything we wanted and that Christmas is more about hanging out with family (and eating) than presents. Moral lesson learned? Let’s hope so. Especially since I think The Lord must be communicating with me through my breakfast. Check it:

I was frying an egg and broke the yolk, because I hate dippy eggs, and it started looking like a fetus. That’s gotta be a sign, right? I should go buy canned goods and bottled water or something.

Alright, I need to get moving. But! I do want to say thank you to reader Emily from LA who was sweet enough to send me a book from my Amazon wishlist. Thanks, Emily! I read a few pages the other night and it’s crazily interesting so far!

I started this post the other day. Go ahead and read through and then I’ll meet you down at the bottom.

As I mentioned the other day, my semester is finally over. It’s a relief, sure, but I find myself uneasy about my final grade. But there’s nothing I can do about it now, so let’s discuss parties.

The baby had his birthday party this past Saturday and it was rather awesome. The Oaks Theater is available for parties so we booked that and showed one of the baby’s favorite Godzilla movies for him and his buddies. It was especially fun for the kids since they got to talk and giggle and wander around the theater during the movie. A taste of the forbidden! The guy at the Oaks also wrote a happy birthday message to the baby on the marquee, which was really cool for him to see.

It was a small group. The kids in the baby’s class don’t seem too big on birthday parties. But that was fine. Less noise, less stress, etc.

So, I highly recommend the Oaks for special events. I will note that it was a tad pricey (not surprising, really) and I’m thinking this will be our last big birthday party for awhile.

Of course, the baby started feeling crappy right as the party was ending and spent the rest of the weekend fighting off a nasty head cold.

I made cupcakes for the party, continuing in my deranged domesticity. Amber requested a picture of a cake wreck and I’m happy to deliver.

Those are chocolate cupcakes with mint icing, as per the baby’s request. I bought this pastry bag set the other day and it’s one of those crappy home baker sets, not a professional one. I don’t harbor any delusions that I am hiding a cake decorating superstar, but the pastry bag experience was rather frustrating. This is as far as I got the other day.

Anyway, yes, cupcakes. I went at them with the pastry bag set not really looking to make them fancy, but it just seemed easier to ice them with that than a butter knife or whatever I normally use. Not so much. But they tasted awesome.

AND I got my final grade for grammar and it’s an A minus. I’m not really sure how I pulled that off but I will so take it.

The title of this post refers to a story I was going to tell you about this yinzer baby shower I went to on Sunday and how I cleaned house during the loathed shower games. But it’s left me.

In fact, I am totally sapped of writing energy. I had an article due on Monday and I guess that and the usual end-of-semester meltdown have rendered me useless. I’ve been sparing you and subjecting the readers of MamaPop with my semi-coherent rambling. Lucky them.

Aaand I’m out of nothings to say. Instead, I’ll leave you with this clip from Sade’s Lovers Live DVD, which we started to watch last night and were stunned by it’s awesomeness.

Oh, I don’t have much time to chat here, but I think it would be a blogging crime of the highest order if I did not mark the significance of this date.

See this guy? You all know him as The Baby. Well, he turns 7 years old today. Can you believe that shit?

It’s hard for me to do comparison pictures since 2001 was quite a few years before we leapt into the 21st century and got a digital camera. I scanned a few pictures some time ago but never really dove into that project. So his baby pictures aren’t readily available to the online public. I mostly show this one, which is one of my favorite pictures ever, even though it’s more a picture of my armpit cleavage than anything else:

The baby wanted to look at his baby pictures the other night so we lugged the photo album out. He marveled at the size of my pregnant belly and couldn’t help but coo over how cute he was as a brand new kid. He also asked me, “Why did you look like that?”

See, I had an emergency c-section and it really wiped me out. I was completely dopey for the first few hours after the baby was born. There aren’t many pictures of me in that state and of course none are online but I can recreate it for you:

Later.

My pie was awesome. I got the recipe from Martha Stewart. I think it was a little rich for my family but I think the taste was undeniable. The husband really liked it. And yes, I realize my crust is a little wonky. It was kind of late at night and I was getting punchy. I spread the topping out because one part of the filling separated from the crust. All in all, not bad for a first attempt. I also made a mushroom pate to use up some mushrooms from my CSA box. I don’t really like mushrooms…it’s mostly a texture thing. But this pate was pretty yummy.

The baby finally lost his other front tooth. It hung in there, literally, for a couple of weeks. I kept trying to pull it but there was one little piece that wouldn’t let go, but a stray smack to the face in gym class today did the trick. (I am not a fan of the kid who delivered the dental blow but I’ll let it go this once.) It’s hard to see the nice big gap the way he’s smiling, but trust me. The cute. It’s ridiculous. And I totally hadn’t thought of the endless entertainment of making him say “s” words until he mentioned wanting to read a “Dr. Theuth” book. And since I’m such a nice mom:

I’m taking requests.

Anyway, I’ll probably be pretty scarce ’round these parts until next week. Classes end this week, then the baby’s birthday is on Saturday, I’m going to a baby shower on Sunday, then I have a final and an article due on Monday. Then I’ll probably collapse for a day or two.

Started this last night…

So, first things first: how are you guys? I’m okay. I’m very tired right now. But at least tonight I don’t have to talk myself out of going on a stabbing spree. That was last night, before I remembered that, once a month, my normal, bearable contempt for my fellow humans turns into BLINDING STABBING RAGE FLAMES! FLAMES! ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE! I did teach the baby some new and inventive ways to use the word “motherfucker” in a sentence, so I can’t say I haven’t been productive.

Speaking of the baby, he turned to me earlier and said, “Daddy makes you unhappy and poor.” I laughed heartily and then gave him a raise. He’d earned it…the cute little motherfucker.

Anyway, yes, the subject of this post. I’ve gone wildly Stepford the past few weeks. I think it all started when I said to my mom, “You know, I made some pretty tasty pumpkin puree and froze it. I could make the pumpkin pie this year.” Apparently what is an offer in my world is a throwing down of the gauntlet in the world of my mom and my grandmother. They’ve given me multiple opportunities to back out. Whatever, man. My pie’s going to be fucking awesome.

The last time I made cookies, I noticed that my cookie sheets were pretty gross. I’ve had them about 2.5 years and they’ve seen plenty of mishaps. I’ll still use them, but for more dirty jobs…say, catching whatever bubbles out of a casserole dish. So I bought some new cookie sheets and some of those nifty Silpat thingies so I don’t have to struggle with tearing parchment paper into strips to fit the sheets. Those came yesterday today.

So, to go with my upcoming pie baking and Cookie Baking Extravaganza ’08, I bought some aprons. Oh, yes.

WE ARE THE ROBOTS!

This darling thing and another Christmasy one that reminds me of one that my mom used to wear came from Boojiboo on etsy.

I’ve been on a small etsy/handmade binge lately. My buddy Cristina and I went to the Handmade Arcade a few weeks ago. I got a few Christmas gifts and a few things for myself, most notably this purse:

It’s by these folks, Ray-Min, and I absolutely adore it. It’s made out of vintage upholstery fabric. Know what that means? SCOTCHGARD!

I’m also rocking this necklace from etsy seller HouseThatCrowBuilt:

Jen posted it to We Covet a few weeks ago and I snapped it up immediately. Admittedly, that’s kind of a dick move since I write for that site, but whatever.

To top off my wifey-ness, I made a Bundt cake the other night. A Banana Caramel Bundt Cake to be exact. The bottom (top?) burned a little bit. I don’t know why. But other than that it’s pretty awesome.

It’s the little things. I get out of work at 3 p.m. today, which is awesome, but I noticed this morning that the day or two before a vacation I get very, “Who gives a fuck?” about getting out of bed on time. Like, we’re going to be off of work and school in a day so why bother going now? Clearly, I have some work to do in the whole maturity area. Also, the Boulevard of Allies reopened the other day and our commute is no longer a gigantic joke.

I should probably go take some valium now, right?