kdiddy.org

I spent most of yesterday on the couch, tooling around on the internet and watching TV, which is what you’re supposed to do when you’re sick. I think the giddiness that I experience at the prospect of being able to partake in such activities without a smidgen of guilt is what jump-starts the recovery process.

I watched things that wouldn’t cause me any grief if I were to fall asleep during them. Daytime TV is made for that sort of thing, but that’s also what makes it kind of enthralling, leaving me napless. First was The Family Stone, the plot of which captured about 3% of my attention. The rest of them time I spent thinking, “God, I LOVE that house.”

Then I watched a particularly absurd episode of MTV’s True Life, which was about young psychics. One young woman was having trouble in her relationship with a guy whose name I believe was Squash because he didn’t believe in her abilities. There was also the not insignificant issue of her Christianity and her psychic gifts were not in line with the Bible. Squash went to Chattanooga to buy guns and then they broke up over the phone. She started dating a guy she met at a psychic expo and made out on camera, but then broke up two weeks later. (Insert joke here about why she didn’t see that coming.)

There’s a soap opera channel and they were showing an episode from the first season of Beverly Hills 90210. I realize now that the only reason that I ever liked that show was because I was 12 and a moron. I wanted to smack Brenda so badly and Jason Priestley does nothing but furrow his eyebrows the whole time.

At some point in all of this, I saw a commercial for Rent-a-Center starring Troy Aikman and Hulk Hogan. The, um, plot was that Troy talks up the great deals at Rent-a-Center for a few seconds and then Hulk Hogan wanders into the frame wearing an elf costume. He then utters the words, “I have an elf wedgie.” And that’s it. That’s their commercial. That’s how a company chose to sell themselves. I have an elf wedgie. If viewing this commercial caused you to consider patronizing a Rent-a-Center, please drop a bag of hammers on your foot.

Later on that night, the husband and I ended up watching Spies Like Us, which is way more hilarious than I remember. We were cracking up over the training sequence, particularly the Radical Vertical Impact Simulation exercise.

We then ceased being able to breathe when the husband read the comments for this video. Someone actually formed this thought and then typed it:

They watched the explosions, the bog of pig shit with machine gunfire, flamethrowers, g-force exercise, and an airplane smashing into the ground, and THAT was the detail that gave them trouble.

I’m taking this week off of 30 days of truth because the topics that I would tackle this week, my views on religion, politics, drugs, and alcohol, are way too long-winded to crank out during a lunch break blog post. Next time!

Jason stood in front of me, expectantly, as I pondered my purchase. His black jacket was smudged with foundation and he smelled like cigarettes, especially when he leaned in to apply the products that I was sampling.

“I’ll take the primer, the powder, the concealer, the brushes…and the eye cream. I don’t need any moisturizer,” I said, finally.

“Great! Just meet me up at the register and we’ll get you rung up.” Jason had some odd tic where he drew his breath in sharply and quickly through his teeth every few words.

At the counter, I went through the motions of signing up for some loyalty card and dumped the free samples that I’d earned into my purse. I fingered my credit card while Jason totaled my order. I couldn’t afford all of this stuff, but I wanted it.

“Okay, Kelly, that’ll be $115 even,” said Jason cheerily as his eyes darted toward the credit card machine.

My face flushed at the total. I felt shameful about my indulgence. $115 could buy nearly two weeks of groceries. I swallowed and slid my card through the machine and signed my name on the screen as Jason made chit chat with me about my job and my life. My name stared back at me from the oddly soothing light blue screen, choppy, pixelated, and more awkward than my regular signature. It was like a cartoon of commerce.

$115 got me a small bag that barely weighed anything at all. The eye cream was the priciest item. I had asked Jason about the dark, baggy circles under my eyes and had quickly added that I’d always had them, even when I was little. I realized that I always explained this unfortunate feature of mine away before anyone suggested that I was tired, or sad, or stressed out, or melting into the earth, eyes first.

“Well, they’re hereditary,” Jason explained, which instantly made me feel a little better. It wasn’t my fault, you see. The bags weren’t there because I’d only slept a few hours a night for years or because I cried too often about things that I can’t change. “But this cream will keep that area moisturized and minimize the darkness by…” Jason droned on, spouting what I knew was probably pseudo-science dreamed up by the cosmetics industry.

My eye cream. It sounded so grown up. Of the things that I purchased that day a few weeks ago, it would turn out to be the one that I use most often. When the cream dried, it would stiffen slightly, making the skin underneath my eyes feel tighter, making me feel a little bit cured somehow.

I owned eye cream. I was someone who bought a product called, “eye cream.” This spur-of-the-moment purchase at Sephora wasn’t just a 4 ounce pump of white goo but a rite of passage.

The baby and I squinted in the morning light and I glanced down at him and winked. Up close he looked big, but he would pace a few feet away from me and I couldn’t believe how tiny he still looked.

“You look old,” he said, out of nowhere.

“Well, thanks,” I muttered.

“You do. You look old.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not saying that to be mean.”

“Thanks.”

“Quit saying, “Thanks,” all sarcastically!”

“Well, what do you want me to say? ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m old. Think I’ll just croak right here.'”

It wasn’t an angry conversation. I wasn’t even that hurt by his observation. The cracks in the veneer that start to show up on my people my age must look like giant canyons and vast forests of gray hairs. Everything is huge when you’re that little.

Want to hear something kind of mushy and pathetic? The husband was out of town the last two nights, therefore I couldn’t get to sleep. I guess when you sleep with someone most nights for 10 years, not having them next to you is distracting.

Wednesday night, I tossed and turned until after 2 a.m. and didn’t have a very restful sleep. I woke up a little bit later than I wanted to and when I reached for my glasses on the nightstand, I couldn’t find them. I started cursing my cat, because he occasionally takes it upon himself to nudge my glasses onto the floor, which is really just kind of mean considering how bad my eyesight is.

As I looked around, I realized that everything looked very strange and it took me nearly a minute to realize that the reason my glasses weren’t on my nightstand was because I never put them on the night before. And the reason I never put them on is because I never took my contacts out. And the reason everything looked so strange is that I’m not used to being able to see anything first thing in the morning.

So, summing up: tired, squinty.

Before he left, the husband and I had a pretty good conversation about our direction in life. I don’t know if I can say that any resolutions were made, but it was a far more productive conversation than the one we had the other night.

We’re struggling to adjust our perceptions, I think. We agreed that things beyond our predicament are changing. If the economy recovers, it won’t be the same.

We both grew up steeped in the ethos of, “If you work hard and go to school and keep aiming high, you’ll be fine.” None of our parents went to college. But they got decent jobs and worked hard. While they did okay, they struggled and believed that if they had gone to school they would have been in much better positions in life. Building some savings, not having to worry so much during hard times, and being able to set money-related goals and meeting them. The husband and I were never interested in becoming rich, but seeing our parents worry about money so much and the strife that it caused made us resolve to do whatever we could to not live that way. We were going to take off from the foundation that our parents provided and end up on a higher plane.

What we’re realizing, REALLY realizing, now is that it’s not just our resolve and hard work that controls our fate. It may end up that our investments in our education were riskier than we thought. It may be that they/we weren’t as successful as we just knew that they/we were going to be, that we weren’t on a voyage toward financial security, but instead taking a gamble and crossing our fingers. And, you know, I guess it’s okay that we might fall short of our goals.

But we also agreed that things could be much worse for us. We could have no education, we could be stupid, we could be without families that help us any way that they can.

Last night, the baby and I ate dinner on the porch because it was too hot to eat inside. Afterward, he wanted to take a walk up and down our street. As we got to the end of our block, he managed to convince me to keep walking down to our main street and get some ice cream.

“Let’s play follow the leader!” he shrieked as we headed back home. I imitated his hops and robot moves and then it was my turn. I led him in the Ministry of Silly Walks walk, which is kind of difficult to do uphill.

Both my grandmother and the husband’s grandmother regularly sport house dresses, or “hahs dresses” as they pronounce them. They might also call them “dusters” from time to time. They’re loose, knee or calf-length dresses in a light, feminine fabric and often feature a zipper closure in the front. They’re worn for housework and general relaxing.

These seem to be a relatively generational feature as my mom and I both shun dresses and don sweatpants for housework and relaxing. Though since the rebirth of the maxi dress, I’ve spent many pleasant evenings relaxing in what is essentially a huge, spaghetti-strap tshirt.

Anyway, kdiddy.org has a new house dress, though it is so much nicer than actual house dresses, thanks to the fine folks at Sweet Blog. I answered some questions about what I would like to see, which mostly amounted to, “Err, durrr…” and Schmutzie took that and came up with that thoroughly awesome image that you see above. Then Dawn swooped in and stretched and pulled the code like so much taffy and now here we are, in new digs every bit as charming as the old, but made just for me.

Aside from the fact that Sweet Blog is run by my dear Tracey, who happens to be celebrating a kick-ass birthday today, I found the whole experience of working with the crew so pleasant. Schmutzie and Dawn were patient and open-minded, but also a huge help when I had trouble making decisions.

Ahh, this new house dress feels comfy already.

My poor kiddo was sick over the weekend. Indeed, his ailments on Mother’s Day got a little worse before they got better.

He doesn’t have asthma, but his lungs seem to be especially prone to congestion and nastiness whenever he gets a cold.

Saturday he seemed to be sniffling more than usual (we’re all kind of drippy this time of year) and that night he was wheezy and miserable. We sent him to bed and in the morning he didn’t seem to have improved much. He slept most of the day while I pushed fluids and Tylenol, which didn’t seem to help.

We made him eat some dinner and get a long, hot shower before putting him to bed.

Aside: a few weeks ago, he had a stomach virus that thankfully didn’t last too long. We picked him up from school and on the drive home instructed him to let us know if things were starting to go downhill. Close to our house, he suddenly announced, “Things are going downhill!” and then successfully barfed out of the window as we sped home. It was hilarious and cute and kind of pathetic all at the same time.

Anyway, Sunday night, things started going downhill again. From downstairs, I could hear him saying something like, “Mum!” I went up and asked him if he was okay and…well…he began speaking in tongues.

“Mum. Mum. Muuuuummmm. Murrrrmmmm. Maaaaa. Maaaaaaa.”

“I’m here, buddy. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeeeehhhh. Yeaaaahhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Yeeeeeee,” he replied, in a growl.

“Buddy, wake up. What’s wrong?”

“Caaaaaa. Caaaaaa. Caaaaaa. Cuurrrrrrppp.”

Well, shit. That’s never a good sign, is it? I could tell that he was not fully awake but it still freaked me out, so I called for the husband, trying to figure out the best way to inform someone that their son is possessed.

The husband came upstairs, still chatting on his cell phone to a friend, but abruptly ended his conversation when he got to hear some of the baby’s demonic freestyling. “Uh, my son is…ill. I’ll talk to you later.”

We got him out of bed and he started to seem slightly more…of this realm, especially when he informed us that he had wet the bed. We peppered him with questions and he still seemed mostly out of it, saying stuff like, “I don’t like life,” and his breathing was still not great. I declared that we needed to go to the hospital, worried that perhaps he was having serious trouble breathing while laying down, which could have caused the Regan performance.

The husband wanted to cool him down first in the shower, since he seemed to be running a fever. I scurried off to get dressed. However, once the baby was in the shower, the cool water snapped him out of whatever half-sleep he had been in and he started making way more sense.

The husband told me that the baby seemed okay at that point, just a victim of fever-induced nightmares, and that we should just sit up with him for a little bit and then decide if we should continue on to the hospital. I stood in the baby’s room wearing nothing but a bra and some pajama pants and, in that get-up, had the audacity to peer at him cautiously and make decisions about his sanity and well-being.

We let him watch Treme with us and I pulled him into my lap so that I could pat his back. The husband watched us and laughed at the sight of our 8-year-old curled up on my shoulder. “He’s too big, Kel!” he chuckled. Never!

Despite making a dramatic improvement overnight, we took him to the doctor yesterday anyway. The doc commended me on my detailed chronology of his illness. I did not get a sticker. Harsh. However, I didn’t think my account was all that stellar. What must other people do? Plop their kid on the butcher paper, point, and say, “It’s broken?”

The baby politely asked the nurse, “Will there be shots involved?” He was relieved that there weren’t but became slightly alarmed when the doctor prescribed him a steroid for his condition, especially since we had just been talking about Barry Bonds a few nights prior.

“Steroids?” he asked, perhaps worried that he might get kicked out of Little League for juicing. And, besides, heads run big in our family. His small frame can’t support domes of the Bonds or McGwire variety

“Yes, but not the kind that make you…” the doc paused, and curled his arms to flex his muscles.

We were sent home with our prescriptions, which included breathing treatments. We had been through the nebulizer routine once before, a few years ago, when he had persistent congestion. We used to jokingly refer to it as huffing gas. “Okay, kiddo, time to huff gas!” I bet his teachers love all of the colorful phrases that he adds to the elementary school lexicon.

This morning he returned to school and I reported to the husband, “I gave him his steroids and he huffed gas. He’s all set for the day.”

This morning, I admitted something to myself: I’m neurotic about lunch.

And, like any good mother, I blame my son for this.

He’s a picky eater, though much MUCH better than he used to be. But at any given time, the list of things that he will eat for lunch is pretty short. So, I’m always trying to find some balance of actual calorie input and health for him. Currently, he will eat half of a sandwich, consisting of bread (wheat or rye) and lunch meat (we’re on a chicken breast kick right now), a cup of applesauce (no sugar added or high fructose corn syrup), sometimes a cheese stick (I go totally mainstream here and give him Kraft), sometimes a few baby carrots and/or some other fruit or veggie.

His old lunch box was one of those canvassy, zipper joints that was kind of small and useless. A few times, I let him use my Laptop Lunch and recently that company came out with some new bento lunch systems.
When our tax return came, I took a few bucks and ordered him one, along with some extra containers. Today was his second day using it. He had a sandwich, some carrots, some graham crackers, and some strawberries. He seemed a little indifferent about it yesterday. I hope he gets more enthusiastic about it.

I had a Laptop Lunch because I have been on a quest for the perfect lunch vessel for some years. I liked the Laptop Lunch, but I felt that it was just too small for me. I like to bring a pretty big salad, a “main” dish, dressing and croutons on the side, a snack, and my breakfast. And if I don’t have what I consider a good lunch, I get all anxious about it. I was explaining this to someone the other day as they eyed my tote bag of containers of various sizes. I needed a change.

Around the same time that I bought the baby his Laptop Lunch, I bought a tiffin from Happy Tiffin. I heard about tiffins last summer in my business class when we watched a movie about dabbawalas.

My tiffin arrived yesterday and I was so excited to pack it up today.

Here we have my salad and my bagel for breakfast…

This is my wrap sandwich that contains a layer of fresh spinach and a helping of my tweaked version this Curried Tofu Salad. (I need to take a little more time preparing that salad the next time that I make it. It’s too watery this time from the veggies and tofu. But very tasty.) The other container holds my croutons and dressing, plus a snack of sunflower seeds and dried cranberries in one of those silicone cupcake baking cups, which is a trick that I learned from watching blogs about bento-style lunches.

And here it is, all stacked up, latched, and ready to go. The only problem that I’ve had so far is finding a fork that will fit. Also, obviously, this isn’t microwave-safe, so I’m not sure what I’ll do if I ever want to bring leftovers to heat up. And if I were to bring something that was already warm, I would need to keep it away from things like my salad.

Like I said, I’m neurotic about lunch.

But so far, I’m pretty happy with it.

Speaking of food, I’m going to have some pretty big posts on the matter coming up in the next few days, so be sure to check back, especially if you’re in the Pittsburgh area.

I shouldn’t call it punishment, but sometimes it feels like it. I’m doing Couch to 5k.

I finished my third week on Saturday and I’m honestly kind of surprised that I’ve made it this far. The first few days I thought for sure that I would die, but I can actually feel myself getting stronger bit by bit. And I’ve been really pushing myself to finish the jogging intervals no matter what.

I’ve never jogged as regular activity. When I was a ballet dancer, it was generally discouraged because of the risk of shin splints and the different muscle use (read: your thighs might get too big). So, learning to jog is very humbling. And I think it’s really making me recognize that, while I’m not old, I’m definitely not as young as I used to be. I feel pretty certain that if I had decided to take up jogging, say, five years ago, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Now, my knees hurt and my breathing sucks. The 30ish pounds that I’ve put on since I started grad school and my main physical activity became typing and freaking the hell out* dance gloriously around my mid-section as I start to resemble Fred Sanford during one of his claims of The Big One.

The game has changed for me. I was very in shape from ballet when I was younger and retained a lot of that through a good portion of my 20s. Picking up a physical activity wasn’t A Thing. Now it is.

I had actually been toying with the idea of doing the Couch to 5k for a number of years after a friend on LiveJournal mentioned it. And I made an attempt last year which resulted in me deciding that I don’t like treadmills for much the same reason that I was terrified of escalators when I was little. I mean, I don’t REALLY believe that the treadmill is going to eat me, unlike that automatic foot-eating monster in Gimbel’s that forced my mom to go the long way to find a safe and non-hungry-for-tiny-toes elevator. But the speed that I had to go to run was just slightly too fast and remember one time thinking, “I really should have put that emergency clip thing on my shirt. This could end poorly.” Plus, the first few weeks of C25K have a lot of switching back and forth between running and walking, and that made for a lot of button pressing while hyperventilating, running, and trying not to fly off the treadmill and into the bench weights.

I’m not doing much in the way of calorie restriction or anything. Just eating healthy foods when I’m hungry and trying not to snack too much. A few people have told me I’m looking good and I’m just going with that for now. My scale has dust on it.

I’ll start week four hopefully tomorrow. I was going to start it today but we went roller skating on Saturday and I have a monster blister on the bottom of my foot. Sexy.

*By the way, my school was just ranked the 8th most stressful school in the country by the Daily Beast, which isn’t exactly The Source on such matters, but whatever, it’s documentation that I slayed that particular dragon and/or am certifiable for attempting such a thing.

Last week, I opened the door to hustle the baby to the bus stop, and gasped when I saw a big, flat package on the porch.

My diploma. My Master’s degree. Live and in the flesh paper-and-faux-leather-case.

Faced with a cartoonish amount of student debt (when I think of the total, which I’ve been advised not to do, I automatically picture Scrooge McDuck as the symbolic beneficiary as he cackles and holds two large sacks with dollar signs on them), and the *^%#(*^ dumb luck of graduating during the worst economic climate in generations, the husband and I have both been experiencing some sort of…buyer’s remorse about our degrees. I may have whined about this here before, but we’re both dealing with bummed out thoughts about aiming too high or something and that we’re as embarrassed of our student debt as we would be if we had burned through credit cards or invested in swampland or something.

Self-esteem: we has none.

Anyway, it’s over. No going back now. And in May, I’ll don my cap, gown, and Master’s hood and participate in a little good ol’ pomp and circumstance. And then figure out what to do with this monster.

I offer my hand for scale. The thing is huge. Also, please note my mad Photoshop skills. I’m not so paranoid, but for whatever reason, posting a picture of my diploma with my full name on it seemed like a bad idea.

I don’t know what I think about fate and powers greater than us and whatnot. I know that the universe is not something that I can comprehend but that sometimes it seems to work for a minute or two.

With me trying desperately to get out of the emotional k-hole that I had been in, the husband suggested last week that we take a quick trip down to D.C. There were a number of things that made it the perfect time to go: I had already planned to take a day off on Friday, two DJs that we like were playing there on Friday and Saturday, and the sister-in-law’s birthday was on Sunday. Unable to come up with a decent excuse not to (and believe me, I tried, because it’s too hard to wallow in unfamiliar environments), we set off on Friday afternoon after a stop at the baby’s school for a quick good-bye and supplies for his weekend with various grandmas.

We were there for less than 48 hours, but I haven’t had that good of a weekend in awhile. All we did was stay up all night, eat amazing food, and take naps.

Friday night, not long after finally arriving at my sister-in-law’s apartment, we headed to the Warehouse Loft to see Ron Trent. The space was really cool: dark, low-key, open, and an amazing view of the city. I had had to employ the tried-and-true vodka and Red Bull elixir since I had been up since 6:30 and the event was supposed to go until 4 a.m. I was a little rowdy, but mostly just danced and goofed off and tweeted things like

and

At the bar, the SIL and I met a guy named Ezra who hadn’t purchased enough drinks to close out his tab and offered to buy us some. I immediately invited him to come to Detroit with us in May. (Note: I am easy.) This round of drinks…if I were somehow in the position of instructing a blindfolded person how to pour it, I would probably tell them, “Okay, VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODKA redbull.” The sister-in-law provided much needed commentary on my reaction to this concoction.

Classy. However, we both agreed that this was still a better performance on our part than the time we went to some art thing downtown and I exited the bathroom proudly holding a drink that I had found on the sink, which we then shared while looking at a Blackberry that the SIL had found on a chair and intended to keep.

The husband and I were somewhat dismayed to realize that D.C. isn’t really a late-night kind of town. 24-hour eateries and ATMs were kind of scarce, but we did end up at Georgetown Cafe, where we had really REALLY good food, including the best chicken shawarma on the planet.

I spent part of the next day recovering but we headed out to Ray’s Hell-Burger in Arlington upon the insistence of the sister-in-law and her boyfriend. I’ve been thinking about the burger that I had there ever since and both the husband I resolved to never eat another burger ever again unless it’s at Ray’s. Or Five Guys. This is a good resolution, I think. We don’t eat burgers often, but this should keep us down to a strict allowance.

We had a really ridiculous encounter with one of DC’s notorious motorists. Some jackhole in an SUV attempted to merge/cut us off by just basically driving into the side of our car. We yelled and when the jackhole had an opportunity later to pull up beside us, he started screaming at us and then called us white trash because we had a donut on our wheel. We were actually on our way to the AAA to get our flat tire repaired. But, that guy was probably right. That nail found its way into our tire because we’re white trash. Nice attempt at insulting us without stopping to see if it would even be offensive. The husband sometimes seems to exist in between episodes of road rage, so the situation escalated and soon other motorists were cheering us on. I begged the husband to stop, noting that we were in DC and chances were good that the dude was a gun or finance lobbyist or something and could very well shoot us and/or manufacture some kind of foreclosure on our house.

Anyway, we went out to see Theo Parrish that night at…some place…that was like an ethnic club or something? It was near a lot of Dominican hair salons. It was fun and the space was also very cool. The crowd was weird. They seemed somewhat taken aback by the stuff Theo was playing, then a bunch of people left around 4:30 a.m., leaving the grimy devotees.

Sunday we went to Lebanese Taverna. My god. Also so amazingly good.

We managed to avoid any chaos that might have been present in the city because of the looming health care reform vote. It was weird to think of us just chilling on the sidelines while this big fucking deal went down (tip o’ the hat: Biden). Health care is a sensitive issue for me. I was on Medicaid when I had the baby because that was my only option. If we hadn’t had that…I can’t even begin to think how utterly ruined we would have been. I know that it’s complicated and it goes far beyond my anecdotes. Just…let’s try not to be assholes about something that people NEED, alright?

Anyway, the trip made me feel better. And spring is helping, too. Anytime that the husband and I get a chance to be on our own, I always feel super re-connected to the dude. I’m lucky. I know.

Me and the husband, who may or may not be from Pittsburgh. I can’t tell.

So, it’s been *checks watch* two weeks since I posted here last. I knew that I was going to make time to do so today and thought about a few different approaches: pick up with a goofy story like I haven’t been silent for days, explain some of the messy contents of my life.

I don’t know.

I guess I feel the need to do some explaining. I haven’t been writing here because I’ve been too bummed out. And that’s all I can really say. I’m so fucking sad all the time these days and it’s really boring. The constant monologue running through my head puts me to sleep and I can’t imagine subjecting anyone else to it.

And that’s all that I have the energy for right now.