kdiddy.org

My great-uncle brought it back from Italy after World War II and gave it to my grandmother. I wore it on our wedding day.

I think it’s notable that before I even turned 30, I already owned two pairs of Easy Spirits and one pair of Aerosoles. (They’re cute, though. Honest. Not so orthopedic-looking.)

On Saturday, I turned 31, and I think my footwear is now totally age-appropriate, especially since I was ready to take to my bed after trick-or-treating with the baby.

I normally announce my birthday and this year I didn’t because I was too mopey. It wasn’t my age getting me down, but that lingering sadness from things not totally going our way. If you know me, you know that when I get sad, I get REALLY sad, and as my birthday approached, I panicked at the thought of random outbursts of tears whenever someone asked me how we were doing.

Early last week, I called my mom and told her that I just didn’t feel like celebrating my birthday and that I really wasn’t trying to be dramatic. And while my family wouldn’t let me get away with completely ignoring my birthday, things were very low-key this year, and I was so glad to put all of my energy into helping my kid celebrate Halloween.

The baby went as Zombie Troy Polamalu and his costume turned out pretty fantastic.

The only stuff that we had to buy were the wig (Troy’s luscious locks are almost more famous than he is, so there was no getting around it) and the makeup. The wig was actually one of those ridiculous dreadlock wigs from the costume store that we just combed out, trimmed, and tied in a ponytail. I was wildly insecure about this because I had read at least a dozen posts leading up to Halloween about racist costumes. Then when nobody noticed the zombie part of his costume until after we pointed it out, I became even more worried that people were glancing at his painted face and assuming it was blackface. My white guilt. Let me show you it.

Anyway, we went to our neighborhood’s annual Halloween parade and the baby took home the prize for scariest costume. The parade was thankfully very brief this year, but I managed to snap a picture of zombie Troy with the baby mayor.

My mom came over to dole out candy while the husband and I went trick-or-treating with the baby. This was the first year that the baby really got into it and we managed to cover quite a few blocks. His haul weighed in at 14.5 pounds. And we had a ton of candy left over because our side of the boulevard is apparently not where it’s at when it comes to trick-or-treating. (One block was so anemic that I proposed an outreach program where people from other candy-deprived neighborhoods come in and hand out their goodies.)

On Sunday we had to be at the soccer field at 7:45 a.m. for a playoff game. The baby’s team won but he got an earful from us for goofing off the whole time and not trying whatsoever and then getting pissed when he screwed up. For the second playoff game at 12, he was fired up and played wonderfully, scoring his first-ever goal. So they get to play for the championship on Saturday. At 8 a.m. (*quiet weeping*)

Every year since 2001, when the baby was still officially The Fetus, we’ve made a trek to Trax Farms right before Halloween. We fully recognize that driving out to the country for the day to do country-ish things like hay rides and corn mazes and pumpkin picking and cider guzzling is some total City Mouse behavior, but whatever. It’s tradition and I’m pretty sure it’s written in one of my algebra textbooks that after two years, a tradition is never to be questioned.

And every year, the atmosphere at Trax has become increasingly circus-like. I think they’re pushing their fall festival theme a little bit harder and so they keep adding attractions that depart further away from the farm theme. This year there was a Moonbounce and a large inflated Titanic…thing. Because the Titanic crashed in rural Pennsylvania dontchaknow.

And, of course, the number of people making their annual trek to the country from the city and the suburbs has steadily increased. All of these things combined have made our annual trip less and less pleasant.

(I also stopped buying the Trax Farms brand products in the store when I had the revolutionary idea to look at the labels and realized that none of these products were made at Trax Farms, but rather somewhere else for Trax Farms. I guess I had this adorably naive and urban idea of a bunch of ladies draped in, I don’t know, doilies and aprons, toiling somewhere in the back of the farm making apple butter and applesauce from an old family recipe. Yeah, not so much. I’m not sure exactly where their stuff is made, but I don’t think there are any grammies involved and I’m fairly certain that old family recipes don’t include high fructose corn syrup. So, there’s yet another fantasy quashed. Also, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny don’t exist, God hates you, and your elementary school teacher did not, in fact, think that you could be anything you wanted to be. She always knew that you were an idiot.)

A few weeks ago, I suggested that we go to Trax the first week of October. I had several reasons, mostly having to do with our weekends being packed all of October. The husband staunchly refused, saying that that was too early.

Somewhere around mid-October, faced with a frigid and rainy weekend, the husband mused that we should have gone to Trax at the beginning of October. “OH, REALLY?!?!?” I squawked, and he quickly backpedaled and said that my reasons were not freak-weather-related and so therefore I was still wrong to suggest the early outing. He has since relented a tiny bit, and last night declared, that I was “right, but not right-right.”

We decided to sacrifice the first half of the Steelers game and head out to the farm right after the baby’s soccer game. Of course, everyone else had this idea, too. (Note: if you want a peaceful grocery shopping experience, go during a Steeler game. The aisles will be gloriously empty…but you might have a tough time finding hot wings or sandwich rings. Just FYI.) We parked far away from the entrance and had to go through the back entrance of the store, past a Christmas display.

Now, I can’t complain too much, because the crowd did disperse a little, and the pumpkins were still plentiful. However, three things get a huge boo from me:

– Now that I am officially a Soccer Mom, I got the urge to decorate my front porch with some of those hardy mums in gorgeous fall shades. There were about six or seven hardy mums left and they looked as though they had gone on a bender, culminating in a fistfight with the cornstalks.

– The animals in the petting zoo were so overfed from everyone marching in and out of there all day with their cups of grain and baby bottles, that they barely acknowledged our cries of, “Here, goat. Here, goat. Have some dried corn and stuff. Come on.” However, the alpaca obliged us and didn’t seem to mind that I called him, “Mr. Sweater.” Also, some hipsters gave me the stinkeye when I mocked the goats for not having thumbs. Whatever, man. I’m circling the bottom of the food chain. I need to feel superior to someone.

– The corn “maze.” I don’t know if there were budgetary constraints this year or not. But the maze was not tightly packed rows of undulating cornstalks, but rather cornstalks spread out and tied with twine in such a way that I could look through the maze and see most possible routes. And the entrance was also the exit, meaning that if we were competing, I could just go in, hide for a few seconds and then emerge and claim that I had completed the maze in record time. Really, really anticlimactic and not nearly “Shining” enough.

But we acquired pumpkins and a bushel of apples. After watching the glorious Steeler game, the husband made some beef vegetable soup with the help of one of Trax’s soup bags. It’s his annual foray into the kitchen and is like one giant, stereotype-laden sitcom episode, as he yells out to me asking where the knives are and drops things and burns fingers and overflows the sink with dishes and uses the most profane language. The soup was good, though.

Being Harriet to his Ozzie, I made an apple pie. My pies are always delicious, but aesthetically I’m terrible. I have some difficulty with rolling out pie dough. Last night, the dough for the bottom crust was thick in the middle and nearly translucent on the edges, while the dough for the top crust was the opposite.

I also took the requisite picture of my kid in the pumpkin patch, but I haven’t gotten it off of the camera yet. That reminds me, that we managed to avoid that Kodak onslaught. Last year, I was standing next to a woman who plopped her six-month-old on a pumpkin and he was all overstimulated by the crowd that he wouldn’t look at the camera. Instead of just grabbing an equally precious profile shot, the mom was insistent on getting a toothy grin, and kept saying, “Anthony! Anthony! Anthony! Look at mama! Look at mama! Look! Look! Beep beep Beep! Anthony! Anthony! Beep! Boop! Anthony!” I was torn between wanting to fist bump Anthony for not bending to his mother’s inane will and grabbing his head and turning it toward her EasyShare just to make the noise stop.

We had to be at the soccer field at 7:30 this morning for pictures, which sucked, but the game that was supposed to be at 8 was called for rain. We headed back home and piled onto the couch with orange juice and maple links, then grabbed some blankets, turned on some cartoons and passed out.

It’s nice and dreary here today and after the turmoil of the past couple of days, it’s a relief to know that life will sink into somewhat familiar rhythms.

The rainy Sunday got me feeling nostalgic, but watching The Clone Wars doesn’t help with that. I started poking around on YouTube and quickly came across some compilations of 80s commercials. For whatever reason, they’re like comfort food. Though I’m slightly disconcerted that I remember nearly all of these, indicating that I watched way too much TV as a kid and absorbed way too many sales pitches.

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.

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.

Because of the short notice, not many people were able to attend the little party at AlphaLab last night, but it was still a very nice time. AlphaLab is an amazing space and we got to meet some of the people who are building their start-ups there. And we had a TON of food. I even gave away some brown sugar pound cupcakes with brown butter glaze to some ladies who were hanging out at the Double Wide Grill and started fantasizing about operating one of those trucks that tweets their location and sells yummy stuff. I think it would be an especially successful venture if I were to troll popular drunkard locations.

I was badly in need of a haircut. I’m pretty sure my last trim was in February and the last two inches or so of my hair looked like spun sugar gone awry. I realized that I was not going to be able to squeeze an appointment in before I left for Chicago if I didn’t go Saturday, so I pounded the pavement of the main street here. The husband joked that I would come home with poofy bangs since the beauty experts in our area tend to cater to a more, erm, nostalgic crowd.

I had faith, however. What I did not have was an appointment and as you might imagine beauty salons are busy places on Saturday afternoons. In fact, the only place that could take a walk-in was a small place that was decked out with Dean Martin figurines and possessed at least half of the world’s supply of rollers. I was the youngest person there by about 40 years but hey these are trained professionals and scissors are scissors.

I think the results are just fine and there’s not a bouffant or blue hair in sight. And it came just in time for my date with the husband to the Maxwell show which was AWESOME. As I stated last night, I predict that that show will urge a small baby boom and that at least 100 babies were made last night. (None here, though, for the record. I will say that the last time we saw Maxwell live, I was quite pregnant and Maxwell had an indirect role in that development. :-p)

And I know that this might get me kicked out of the sisterhood, but Maxwell’s version of “This Woman’s Work” is amazing and absolutely slayed everyone last night.

I really wanted that song to be playing when I gave birth, and yes I had seen She’s Having a Baby a few too many times, but emergency C-sections tend to blow your soundtrack plans out of the water.

ANYWAY, I’m trying to get myself motivated to do stuff around the house before heading out to the thing later. I think you’ll be shocked to learn that it’s not going so well.