And This Was BEFORE They Handed Out the Vibrating Pens

I just got back from a parents' workshop thing at Noah's school. And it was a very useful workshop, really, about how to encourage fine and gross motor development through toys and play at home. I was especially pleased to learn that I can totally do all of Noah's Christmas shopping at the $5-and-under store, along with like, some bubble wrap. The problem started when one of the therapists demonstrated a toy hanging from a doorway, designed to turn a regular balloon into a sturdier punching bag. Another parent requested the brand name, which was Balzac.

"I guess they mean like, ballsack," she said, kindly providing us with a handy mnemonic device, while jiggling the thing idly in the palm of her hand. I choked on the inside of my lung, briefly, before clearing my throat and muttering apologies for startling the grown-ups.

Then we moved on to wheelbarrow walking. A very helpful handout was provided.

DM me if you want to buy the TV rights...

Oh my God!

You guys!

In between all the craziness of...uh...sleeping and eating and taking like, THREE WHOLE SHOWERS IN FIVE DAYS, I completely forgot to tell you about the most exciting thing to happen to me ever in my whole life:

 

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

PHHHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTBBBBBB!

...is pretty much what I said when I got the notification on my phone, right before involuntarily flinging the thing upward, like it was on fire (VOLCANO FIRE), where it collided with ceiling of my car, teaching us all an important lesson about Checking Twitter DMs While Driving, i.e. Don't Do It, It Could Be A Celebrity.

I drove home with this huge dorky grin on my face, composing hypothetical replies in my head that included the somewhat embarrassing factoid that I was a devoted Reading Rainbow watcher until the age of 12, maybe 13, SHUT UP YOU, and that I record the show for Noah whenever our PBS station decides to air it, and that a rerun this past summer was about composting and I sat there watching it BY MYSELF, with GREAT INTEREST, shouting to Jason in the next room about how we were TOTALLY gonna plant us some potato chunks in our backyard this year, because one potato turns into like, 45 potatoes according to Reading Rainbow, and think of how much money we'd save on potatoes? MILLIONS, probably. Also, yes. Reading was more of a strong point for me than math, as a child. Or ever.

Obviously, I planned on...editing all that down once I got home. Into one concise, non-crazy-fangirl reply, embodying both the reverence a Really Important Childhood Idol deserves with the grown-up understanding that we're all just regular people and stuff. 

Then I call Jason and screamed into his voice mail: I JUST GOT DM'D BY GEORDI LAFORGE. JEALOUS MUCH?

(For the record, he SO WAS.)

Then I loaded up TweetDeck to actually compose my masterful reply and found that I couldn't. Because LeVar Burton doesn't actually follow me, because I am endlessly baffled by the Direct Messaging Rules of Twitter, always asking people to DM me and then they're all: I can't, Dipshit.

So I thought...well, maybe he plans to follow me and just hasn't gotten around to it. I should wait a couple hours and see what happens. Play it cool. Yes. I am cooooool.

Of course, he didn't follow me, because...why would he? I am a terrible Twitterer. Tweeter? Twit? I would probably use it solely to keep the world abreast of my children's bowel movements, if I could. I mean, I'm aware that I could, I just often forget that Twitter even exists for days at a time, while everybody else seems so much more...into it and plugged into the whole concept and @ @ @ RT RT #hashtagcakes.

My point is, Twitter makes me feel patently uncool, and we all know that my fragile vagina flower ego simply cannot handle that. So, when faced with the LeVar Burton Direct Message Quandary of Doom, I opted to simply ignore Twitter for a few days until it came to its senses and LET ME SEND LEVAR BURTON A DIRECT MESSAGE, DAMMIT.

Then Jason asked me why I didn't like, just thank LeVar Burton for his message on Regular Twitter, talking to him like everybody else does. And I fretted about that, because you know, he sent the message awhile ago, so I felt WEIRD bringing it up, plus wouldn't that seem kind of obnoxious, like I was BRAGGING to everybody else that OH HAI, LeVar Burton sent me a DM and not you, let's all bask in how AWESOME I AM?

Jason: Seriously, do you not get how Twitter works AT ALL?

Amy: Not really.  But remember that time you asked me what the hell "RT" meant? I totally knew the answer to that one.

@LeVarBurton: *is just really wishing Amy had just sent the danged public tweet because OH YEAH, a whole blog entry about this is soooooo much less creepy*

Anyway. I'm writing this because today TweetDeck crashed and I opted to go crazy old school, using Twitter dot com...where I suddenly discovered that I do indeed have the option to reply to LeVar Burton's Direct Message, even though he doesn't follow me. And that I could have replied to him ALL THIS TIME. ALL ALONG, I had the power. And then I went back to TweetDeck to yell at it, maybe kick it a little bit...and discovered that I actually could reply there too, but I'd simply been looking for the wrong icon:

 

In my head, the lack of a little arrow box in the top left corner meant I couldn't reply. I checked the little gear wheel setting and all the little drop-down menus, but for some reason, THE BOX WITH THE ENVELOPE, THE ONE THAT SAYS "DIRECT MESSAGE LEVARBURTON" WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MOUSE OVER IT, never once came to my attention.

No. Seriously. This is the dumbest thing I have ever done. I admit that. Worse than getting off the train in Newark. Worse than the Not-Pregnant Mistaken-Identity Lady. It's failing at TWITTER. Topped off with a bonus of it involving a VERY MEANINGFUL CELEBRITY CHILDHOOD ICON.

But what could I possibly say at this point, because I would feel the need to explain WHY I hadn't replied earlier, which was so RUDE of me, because Oh Em Eff Gee, he's LeVar Burton and he took the time to cure me of a lifelong phobia and I couldn't even be bothered to come up with a single 140-character reply? Like, I don't know: "THANK YOU." That's only like, 34 characters, or something.

Clearly, my only real option was to turn to my blog and 1) tell you guys about what a freaking dumbass I am (again) (some more) (six bloggy years and counting!) and 2) go ahead and completely freak poor LeVar Burton out and get myself blocked on Twitter for the very first time.

So it is written, indeed.

Post-Nasal Block

I've been sitting here all morning -- yes, actually physically here, in this virtual white space of my publishing platform, it's kind of like Tron -- trying to think of something to write about. And having a bit of trouble. I'm tired, I'm congested, I've just discovered that this "parent-teacher conference" thing is just a thinly-veiled excuse for schools to force you to parent your own children for two days in a row, and somehow our personal math means two schools x two days off = THREE days of scheduling fuckuppery.

(And only ONE actual parent-teacher conference. RIDDLE ME THAT, expensive hoity private school. EXPLAIN YOURSELVES.)

Anyway.

It's punt time. I could use a little writing exercise, so how's this...YOU GUYS post questions/topics in the comments -- any old random topic you want! the more off-the-wall the better! -- and I will pick some and update this post each time I write a little bit about it. Live, in real-time! Or...you know, whenever I get around to it, in between the whole keeping-children-alive thing.

I have actually done a variation on this before, a long, looooong time ago, if you would like to refer to that post for inspiration. Yeah. That's dryer lint. And multiple paragraphs about a kitchen sponge. I'm hoping we can come up with something a little more interesting than that.

Okay. Go!

(Oh, God. Nobody's going to ask me ANYTHING, and it will all crickets and silence and I will not only be forced to come up with my own post topics ANYWAY, I will also have to spend mental energy on creating sockpuppet commenters to hide the fact that no one asked me anything and maybe I didn't think this through very well.)

***

Whoa. Well. Oh em gee and all that. I guess my little attempt to guilt y'all into participating worked better than I anticipated! While my plans to rapidly update "live, in real-time" did NOT work as well as anticipated, what with the immediate and simultaneous arrival of Thing One on the school bus and the wide-awake caterwauling of Thing Two from upstairs. So there was much lunching and some sobbing when I had to break it to Noah that his afternoon school is closed today.

"But whyyyy I miss my friends, Mommy? Whyyyy my friends are all gone, Mommy?"

"Because it's Staff Development Day, sweetie." 

"..."

"I know, dude. Laaaame."

THEN I got momentarily derailed by the sudden appearance of an itchy, bug-bite-like thing on my boob, which required much Googling. Turns out it's a bug bite. Okay then! Now we are ready!

First up, by nature of her being FIRST!!!1!!1 is Allisone's suggestion of irrational fears.

Yes. Look. I'm still very, very scared of volcanoes. I've told you this one before. It's nothing I made up to be cute or calculatedly quirky on my About Page: I once had a full-on anxiety attack at the Mirage in Vegas while watching the beginnings of the outdoor laser/lights/fountain volcano show they do. THE GROUND RUMBLED. IT WAS OMINOUS. I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. IN FRONT OF COWORKERS. I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE.

And yes. It really is thanks to an episode of Reading Rainbow. Hill of Fire, to be exact. Farmer finds a bump in his field, bump gets bigger and bigger and then eventually erupts and like, I don't remember. Everybody dies. Some with puppies. I think I was cowering behind the couch by the end. The WORST parts, honestly, were the scenes with LeVar Burton at the site of an erupting volcano in Hawaii. I kind of had my first girl-boy crush thing with LeVar. (Or maybe second, after Magnum P.I.) I was also maybe seven. My memory put LeVar like, RIGHT THERE, on the very edge of the volcano's mouth, gazing into the fiery abyss with his usual non-threatening enthusiasm, but according to the PBS website he was actually 2,000 feet away. 

That night I had a dream that my class was going on a volcano-climbing field trip, and we were all lined up and tied together at the waist with rope, when the girl in front of me turned around and told me that we were SUPPOSED to wear closed-toe shoes, AMY, way to follow the RULES. I looked down at my feet and saw that I was wearing flip flops. Then I woke up. I spent the entire day after in my backyard, looking for bumps. And probably a lot of other days after that. 

Fun update to this story! I now follow LeVar Burton on Twitter, but have never worked up the nerve to tell him this story and/or ask if he knows how I can obtain a copy of that episode. For like, therapy, and stuff. 

Next!

***

Okay, next question, from Mary, who wants to hear how I discovered my love and/or talent (AIRQUOTES talent AIRQUOTES) for writing. 

I'm actually one of those cheesy Tracy-Flick types who ALWAYS knew exactly what she wanted to do. I was going to be a writer. I'm not sure I ever remember seriously wanting to be anything else, beyond the usual "actress/mommy/astronaut" phases. I wrote my first "book" when I was five or so. It was called "The Pink Bunny." My mom still has it. Aside from the questionable design choice of writing a book about a pink bunny on pink construction paper using primarily pink crayons, it honestly was not a terrible first effort.

Pink Bunny is lonely. Pink Bunny goes out to find her friends. She finds one (who I think was a purple cat or a blue bear or some other dubious, carnivorous companion for a bunny) and invites them over to her house. They eat popcorn. The end. I even made a cover and additional title page, asking my mom how to spell each and every word. "How do you spell 'written'? And how do you spell 'and'? And how do you spell 'illustrated' And how do you spell 'by'?" On and on, this went, and my mother never once let any trace of boredom or OMGness into her voice as she patiently went along with it.

I even made a back cover, where I drew long squiggly lines to represent the book's synopsis and publisher's information. 

I routinely started and abandoned book ideas all through elementary and high school -- usually whenever I came across a really cool notebook that I just HAD to write something in. Most of the results were predictably horrible, so, so horrible, but my parents never, ever stopped telling me that I was a good writer and to stick with it.

It also helped that my dad was a high school English teacher and our house was almost hoarder-levels full of every classic piece of literature in the WORLD, and I was encouraged to treat his office like my personal library, and also to write "book reports" for him on the books that his much-older students were reading.

Later, I started mixing in funny short stories based on people and teachers from school, or big controversial events that I thought needed to be diffused with a little humor. I'd pass the stories around and even the snotty popular kids would laugh and tell me that I was soooooo funny and should write a book or for a magazine and I would nod seriously and then go back to whatever crap-ass "serious" novel I was currently attempting to write longhand in an obnoxiously twee leather journal. 

In college I tried my hand at "real" journalism and absolutely HATED IT. I wasn't good at it. The style and form and pace didn't come naturally to me at all, and two weeks after landing a super-prized position at the Penn State student paper, I quit and switched my major to English, even though I had no idea what the hell I would do with it. But clearly, I was not cut out to be a writer after all. I guess maybe I would teach? Or be some kind of editor? Eh?

But! Then! (Oh my God, this story. It is so looooooong. Where's a goddamn editor when you need one?) (Oh. Right.) I took a literature course in American Comedy. Mark Twain. James Thurber. Erma Bombeck. Garrison Keillor. David Sedaris. While I was sort-of famous for being one of Those Students who regularly wrote A-level papers on books that I didn't even READ (hello, HEART OF DARKNESS, YOU ASSHOLE), I read every scrap of assigned reading for that class, and even all the short stories in our textbook that we never actually covered. I still HAVE all the books from that class, to this day. Changed my life, this realization that writing "funny" could still actually "count."

I toiled away for a few more years after that, more aborted novel attempts, some short-story and essay rejection letters, struggling to keep myself disciplined to KEEP WRITING even after a long day of editing investment advice and stock market commentary.

So I decided to maybe start a blog, just to have a dumping ground for my existing stuff and maybe a place to write something new, and just to see what would happen. The end!

(Still haven't written that blasted novel yet, though. Sigh.)

Five Toys That Are Made of Magic

FULL DISCLOSURE: These are not paid product reviews. If they were, I probably would not get paid, because I'm not sure toy companies appreciate being compared to monstrous black magic hell demons. The links are Amazon Associates, meaning if you decide to buy a monstrous black magic hell demon today, you can click through and reward me with a shiny 1/8th of a penny, or you can open up Amazon in a different browser tab and navigate to the toys yourself, muttering "fuck you, Amalah" the whole time. I am totally fine with either.

1. Hasbro Playskool Busy Ball Popper

The Busy Ball Popper works thusly: you drop some balls into a chute, press down on a lever and and the balls pop up and out and back down the ramps as a merry little circus theme plays. And your kids. Go. Apeshit. They lose their ever-loving goddamned minds over this thing. Babies, toddlers, preschoolers. Even a jaded emo teenager would be powerless to resist squealing and clapping and jumping up and down because OMFG BALLS. Do you remember that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd wishes he liked anything as much as his kids liked bubbles? I don't think there's anything in my adult life that has brought me as much crazed joy as the Ball Popper brings to my children, and I'm including the battery-operated stuff in the nightstand. The Ball Popper is a breakdancing TiVo, an iPhone that shits unicorns, the last faint beacon of hope between this generation and a smoldering pile of war and toxic air and financial ruin.

Cost: $27.99  Alternatively, you could probably make your own with some bent PVC pipe and a hair dryer, but I'd be worried that my neighbors would see the effect it has on their children, and then they'd storm the house in the middle of the night, with torches and pitchforks and their best witch-burnin' stake.

2) Ocean Wonders Soothe & Glow Seahorse

Okay, so I know this thing doesn't really resemble a seahorse. I think it looks more like a Care Bear crossed with My Little Pony sperm, but NO MATTER. You press the beetle-like shell of a belly and it lights up and plays music, just like dozens of other toys that light up and play music, except that this one has apparently been bewitched with magical sleep powers. Yesterday I put a squalling, protesting baby in his crib while I went to retrieve some socks from a nearby laundry pile (shut it), and he kicked and cried and somehow sort of sat on the Spermhorse and the music played and he went into a dazed, silent, thumbsucking trance. Within 30 seconds, he was sound asleep. I honestly keep waiting for an indicator light to come on and tell me it's time to replace the vaporized opium packet located somewhere near the battery pack.

Cost: $14.99. Also available with an extra X chromosome.

3) Ocean Wonders Aquarium

Also bewitched with magical sleep powers of simulated ocean sounds, but be warned: It will eat through your soul at pretty much the same rate it eats through batteries. It will become the bulky, heavy bane of your existence as you feel compelled to drag it with you everywhere that your baby MIGHT POSSIBLY need to sleep, never once encountering a crib design that actually seems compatible with the straps on the back, leading to various precarious jury-rigged arrangements on Pack-n-Plays and relatives' nightstands, because your baby CANNOT SLEEP WITHOUT THE AQUARIUM. NO. NOT EVER. It will demand nightly sacrifices at 2 am of four fresh D batteries, and of course you have no choice but to placate the bubbling, lullaby-playing monster, because without it your baby might wake up at 2 am, or something.

Cost: $49.99, sucker.

4) Fisher-Price Laugh and Learn Learning Piggy Bank

You know a toy is educational when they manage to cram the word "LEARN" into the name twice. (Just wait until the Fisher-Price Busiest Busy Ball of Poppin' Pop Balls hits the market. It's gonna be awesome.) And yes, while both of my children were uniformly delighted by this toy, I must admit I am really including it because 1) its red curly tail looks EXACTLY like a baboon's ass, and 2) one of the song lyrics says "you can put coins in my slot and you can take them out." 

Cost: $18.72. Slot. Heh.

5) Goodnight Moon

In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon and there were three little bears sitting on chairs and one little boy on a big wheeled bike, and an elevator that flooded the hallway with blood and REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM...wait, what? My point is, kids really like this book. A lot.

Cost: $8.99, though don't be surprised to look around one day and realize that you own no less than seven copies of it, even though you don't actually recall buying it in the first place. You back away, a little unsettled. You trip over three or four copies of Guess How Much I Love You. The lights grow dim. And then the bunnytaur is upon you. Goodnight. NOBODY.

America's Next Top Influential Opinion Maker

I hit a terrible wall this past week. A metaphorical brick wall of...of MORE metaphors, like paralysis and drowning and suck and ass. SOLID BRICK ASS. Yeah, that pretty much sums everything up perfectly.

I missed a deadline, due to a simple flipping around of dates in my head. And missing this deadline sent me hurtling down the road (OF ASS) into the wall (OF ASS), because I got flustered and frustrated with myself.

I beat myself up over my inability to stay organized and on top of things, and yet instead of... I don't know, sitting the fuck down and getting shit done...I floundered instead. I didn't know where to start. I couldn't prioritize. Everything became a jumble OH RIGHT SHIT FUCK THAT and a scramble to keep on top of the NEW deadlines that were coming in, while everyday I continued to pile up more things that were officially Past Due Goddamn It. Then we all got sick, which helped a TON, and I went into full-on passive aggressive "I can't heeeear you" ignore mode to pretty much everything.

And again, let me remind you, that all I needed to do was 1) Sit the fuck down, and 2) Get shit done. Instead, I often chose 3) Staring at the wall for awhile, alternately chewing on the inside of my mouth and mentally composing blog entries that I would never get around to typing, because how can I blog when I have this and this and this to do, oh my God, I have so much to do.

Hey! I know! Let's stare at the wall some more. Shut up, it's totally helping.

In the end, I needed to do what I've ALWAYS needed to do when I get myself into a state like that. I needed to sit down and write out a to-do list. Holy SHIT, Dorothy, how ever did you come up with an original idea like that? I KNOW. It's so dumb and obvious, but that's all it took. That's all it ever takes, whenever I get myself into a State Like That. Write it out, break it down, get started and cross crap off. 

And oh, ho HO, would you like to hear about the irony? The delicious, mouthwatering irony? The deadline I missed was part of the Parent Toolbox at Slideshare, where oh, HO HO HO, the entire point of the project is to swap tips and MS Office templates that we use to make our lives easier and stay organized and hoooo hooooo hooooooooo ho. 

So. It is with great, timely pleasure that I present: A PAINFULLY OVER-DETAILED TO-DO LIST FOR UNDERACHIEVERS WHO REQUIRE A CONSTANT SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT.

Use it because it WORKS, people. I am living proof. 

(And thank you to Asha and the folks at Slideshare for not firing my pathetic ass.)

(And for you guys, for putting up with a terribly half-assed posting schedule here.)

(Here are some pictures of a baby eating a comically large apple. Are we good now? Good. Onward!) 

 

The Bacon Poler Express

So I figured something out, something that should really help my time-crunched, messed-up schedule quite a bit. I just need to multitask. Everything I do must serve a dual purpose. Like, I can put Swiffer cloths on the baby's knees, color my roots while I drive, teach my preschooler how to use his pragmatic language skills to argue with our health insurance. And lunch! Oh, what a pointless uni-task waste of time that is! Until now!

Yep. Time for another adventure in microwavery. On today's menu:

BACON POLES!

So I actually felt a little sad about how terrible that poor souffle turned out, especially since...well, come on. It was a souffle. That I microwaved. Let's not stack the deck too high against any chance of success, shall we? So I chose this recipe because 1) it contains bacon, 2) I had a coupon for bacon, 3) microwaved bacon is actually pretty darn good, and 4) BACON POLES, YOU GUYS.

MEAT STICKS.

BEEFLOGS. (Okay, PORKLOGS, if you buy into the idea of a single magical animal that gives us pork and bacon and ham and logs.)

(Also pictured, top right: "Seaside Cheese Dip." The secret ingredient is canned clams!)

I'm a big fan of things wrapped in bacon, and an even bigger fan of meats on sticks. Put meat on a stick and wrap it in bacon, and I will...uh. I will eat it. Yeah. I'm that serious. (Although if you present me with the other recipe on page 55 -- Microwaved Bacon-Wrapped Chicken Livers -- I may pass on those.)

ANYWAY! It's a pretty straightforward recipe. Packaged breadsticks, bacon, scissors, paper towels and a paper plate.'Twas a simpler time, in a way.

I wish I could say that my perfectly seasonal choice of paper plate was intentional, but it's actually a leftover from last Halloween. (I also may have some fun-sized toffee bars or some other thing that no one in our household likes. You know, in case our BACON POLES! don't turn out so well.)

Cut bacon in half with scissors. Ew. This is actually not super fun, but I suppose it's necessary to achieve true spiral "barber pole fashion."

 

Mmmm, meat barber lollipops.

Now, there was no way I was going to follow the times in the recipe -- while "Defrost" and "Medium" have proven to be fairly comparable, cooking on "High" in a modern-day microwave is the 1977-equivalent to roasting over an open rod of plutonium.

My microwave actually has a "bacon" setting, but it requires math and stuff, like dividing an 8-ounce package of bacon by 10 strips and then multiplying by three strips, which means this is about 2.4 ounces of bacon but you can only enter whole numbers awwww fuck it, let's just nuke the plate for a minute and a half or so.

 

The crackling sound means it's working! Or that it's about to explode. Definitely one of those two things.

 

Okay, so the first batch came out a leeeeeettle well-done. They tasted distinctly burnt, with playful undernotes of char-broiled nitrates. The bacon-wrapped section of breadstick was cooked to the point of blackened petrification.

(STOP MOCKING ME, STUPID JACK O' LANTERN PLATE.)

 

Take two! I was determined to succeed this time, since DUDE. It's a fucking microwave. Surely I can not fuck up a fucking recipe that involves little more than pressing a a fucking button. I mean, for all my mockery of this cookbook, I am running dangerously close to being run over by a GE-powered truckload of irony.

I also wanted to eat some bacon, so I made a few modern-day concessions: the rotating turntable went back in, and I used the "bacon" setting, figuring that even if the cooking time wasn't exact, the power level would be. I aimed for underdone, and checked on them compulsively. Come on, BACON POLES!

Huzzah! Close enough, more or less. Eh.

 

For cookbook-photo comparison purposes. I am so serving these at our next Key Party! They'll be awesome dipped into some Canned Clam Cream Cheese Dip!

Okay, so of course I tasted the BACON POLES!, despite the fact that the end product sort of alarmingly reminded me of these dog treats we used to give Ceiba, until we figured out that she was just gnawing off the bacon-like wrapping and then hiding the rawhide stick-part under the sofa cushions.

These were neither especially bacon-y nor pole-like -- eaten warm, the breadstick was kind of chewy. Once they cooled, the breadstick STILL tasted overcooked and the bacon was rendered down to little more than salt. A thick, reddish-brown crunchy coating of salt.

The first one was pretty good, in a "wow, it's like they figured out how to sell bacon in a vending machine" sort of way.

The second one was...uncomfortably salty. What is this world, where bacon is something other than completely delicious? I am distinctly unsettled.

By the time I nibbled on a third one my tongue was shriveling up and I needed WATER WATER MAYDAY WATER.

 

Ceiba really liked them, so...that's something. 

(It will probably surprise absolutely NO ONE AT ALL that Paula Deen has her own recipe for BACON POLES! She makes hers in a fancydancy oven. And then she covers them in cheese.)

(BACON POLES!)

Microwavery in Action

Oh, come on. You knew I was gonna do it.

So last night I made the infamous spinach-cheese souffle. In the microwave. MICROWAVED SOUFFLE. BECAUSE WHY NOT. Would you like to see how it turned out? In painstakingly over-documented, un-retouched, high-res detail? Yes? Then keep on clicking, baby.

Off To a Good Start, Part Two: In Which We Replace "Good" With "OMG"

So. Okay.* The Other Story.

*Does anyone remember LonelyGirl15? The really early videos when she was just cute and vlogging and only vaguely ominously in danger, before things went kind of off the rails and involved too many shaky-running-scenes through parking garages? She always started those videos by saying "So. Okay." or some variant and anyway I seem to have caught a touch of that this week. I don't know why either.

First, some background. If you were reading this summer, you may remember a post about a mother I met at Noah's summer camp. Our encounter started with some banter about slings and second babies (she was pregnant) and then we immediately moved on to the business of Crap Ass Preschools and their treatment of even the mildest of special needs. She was feisty and clever and I liked her immediately, but then everything took a turn for the HOLY SHITBALLS AWKWARD when I mentioned our old preschool by name. It turned out to be the very school she was planning to send her son this fall, having been fed the same goddamn lines about their "experience" with sensory and attention issues. It understandably rattled her, and I assured her we'd talk more about it later. 

And then the next day she completely, almost willfully ignored me. And the day after that. No eye contact. I would smile and wave and...nothing. So I spent a good amount of the summer fuming and Twittering about it. WHAT THE HELL, SENSITIVE PREGNANT LADY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT THEY SUCK. YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL THAT YOU KNOW. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY BE WANTING MY FRIENDSHIP. AND YES. I AM CAPS LOCK IN REAL LIFE.

Flashforward** to last Thursday: Noah's first day at The Preschool.

**Dude. Was there not a TREMENDOUS drop in quality from the pilot to the second episode? If you were one of the many people who missed the first episode and then watched last week's because I got all breathy and caps-locky on you about OMGWATCHFLASHFORWARD, I apologize. I was possibly mislead. Charlie From Lost is still supposedly going to show up? So? Eh?

The arrival and drop-off routine at The Preschool involves kids and parents all sitting in a designated area off of the lobby until the teachers and aides arrive to escort every one down to the classroom at once, thus minimizing the distraction of students who attend The Elementary School. While I knew we were joining an established class, I didn't realize just HOW established. It's a mixed-age class, going all the way up to six years old. Noah is the youngest by a good six months. Most of the kids and families have known each other for at least a year -- two years in a couple cases. So. Hi, I'm the New Girl. I overheard birthday party discussions and playdate plans and everybody knew everybody and Noah was...really not happy with the waiting room arrangement, since he knew he was at The Camp but we didn't wait in this room at The Camp and why won't I let him go to The Camp gaaaaaaahhhhhhmeltdown. I was caught a little off-guard by how stressful I found it all to be.

And then two little boys became entranced with Ezra and proceeded to take turns kissing him on the mouth. I mentally made up my mind right then and there about the H1N1 vaccine and tried to politely suggest that hey, LET'S NOT DO THAT...and that's when I saw Her.

The Mom From Summer Camp. I was torn between reverting to my WTF IS YOUR PROBLEM LADY stance and immense gratitude that hey, at least it's someone I know and someone Noah knows and I directed Noah's attention to hey look it's Johnny!*

*His name is not Johnny.

Another mother said something like, "Oh, you guys know each other?"

And just as I nodded, the Mom From Summer Camp looked me in the eye and said no.

NO.

Y'all, my jaw dropped a good foot and a half and I was overcome with a desire to DIE or MELT TO THE FLOOR or hurl myself at a nearby potted plant, Jon-Gosselin-Girlfriend style.

Exhibit Yes, Like This

I think I managed to say something about oh, actually, YES, the boys were at summer camp together. I could tell she was genuinely struggling to place me, but Noah's name finally rang a bell and THANK GOD, the teacher showed up right then to save me from all this "conversing with other grownups" bullshit.

Back in the car, I kind of laughed about it. Here I'd been so worried that by unwittingly bashing the preschool I'd made some kind of crazy faux pas, thus forever earning her scorn and ire and it turned out that the conversation had BARELY registered on her radar, or at least the person she had the conversation with. Who the fuck do I think I am, honestly?  

And either way, fresh start! Moving on! Let's make some mom friends! You can do this!

When I arrived to pick Noah up a few hours later, she pulled into the parking lot at the same time. I suddenly wondered if she'd had her baby -- she was still wearing the same long baggy clothing but certainly didn't look pregnant, though she didn't have a baby with her now.

We started walking together.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Did we really meet each other this summer?"

"Yessssss," I said, smiling as hard as I possibly could, resisting the urge to reveal the fact that I remembered every word of our singular conversation like it was yesterday. So there.

"Wow, I was really in such a fog. Drop off, pick up. You know."

"Mm-hmmmmmmm," And then I couldn't help myself. I asked about whether her son attended a preschool in the morning. NO REASON. JUST CURIOUS.

And then what followed suddenly got...confusing. Yes, her son does go somewhere in the morning, but certainly not our old school, and then there were other details that just didn't jibe with our old preschool even being a possibility for him.

And I suddenly had a flash of clarity. I could suddenly see the face of the mom I had the preschool conversation with.

And it wasn't her. It wasn't HER.

All summer. ALL SUMMER YOU GUYS. I have been obsessing over the WRONG WOMAN. I have gone out of my way to engage the wrong woman in eye contact, smiling, finally giving up and flat-out glaring, because WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM WITH ME?

Oh, I don't know. Maybe something do with all the bug-eyed crazy faces I made at someone whom I never actually said a single word too? Someone who actually seems very shy and soft-spoken and OH YEAH, completely not even a little bit pregnant?

At this point I am wondering whether I had some kind of Fourth-of-July fireworks-induced stroke, because I cannot even BEGIN to understand how I ever got them mixed up. They both had...brown hair? Kind of...tall? I THINK the first woman, the Real One, either stopped sending her son to the camp or someone else took over drop-off and pick-up duties because now I don't remember seeing her again after the first day, and thus I inexplicably pinned all my hopes and dreams of Mom Friendship on the next tallish brunette in a flowy top that I laid my eyes on. 

Basically: Amy, this is why you can't have nice things. Or friends. Or permission to leave the house unsupervised.

/dying of shame, paranoia, & plans to delete this post before an updated class list is distributed with last names and I achieve the Social Pariah status that I so clearly and justly deserve

Ephemera Friday

And here we go again, with your weekly update to When You Marry. I'm skipping ahead to the "Where Babies Come From" chapter, mostly because the previous chapters (on marital strife and quarrels) were kind of normal and borderline helpful, especially if you need to know EXACTLY how to verbally abuse your wife over her bad cooking.

(HINT: Tell her "Get a cookbook, sister, get a book and start studying. This is the last lousy meal I'm eating here, understand?")

(No, seriously. That's totally marked as a productive approach to quarreling. And here I thought this class was gonna be an easy A. Stupid girl-brain!)

Anyway, despite the chapter title and all the many touchy-feeling reference to intercourse found elsewhere in the book, NO WHERE is there any actual description of...you know, where babies come from. Sperm meets egg in his local fallopian tube...somehow...and then ta-da! A brand-new American citizen! I guess they cut out the facts of life chapter (which exists in the 1953 version) to make more room for all the talk (SO MUCH TALK) about genetics and skin color, as white people in the 60s apparently lived in dread fear of Spontaneous Black Baby Syndrome. 

(On that note, some of the pages in this chapter are rather offensive. Without the "rather" part. Old tyme-y racism! It's not funny because it was true. Consider yourselves warned.) 

Additions start here. Read from the beginning here.

Ephemera Not-Thursday

Okay, so I know it's 5 pm on a Friday and there's absolutely no point in posting at 5 pm on a Friday but I cannot stand leaving that pointless, neurotic post up all weekend and anyway I spent all afternoon scanning and it always takes so much longer than I think to produce four minutes' worth of entertainment but what I am trying to say is that I updated the When You Marry gallery with two more chapters. Newlyweds and Money Matters. New additions start here.

Also, a reader found the original 1945 edition online for a DOLLAR, and I ordered it and I was all excited but then I got an email from the store and they said that it had already been sold but they were trying to find another copy, and then it arrives and I was all excited AGAIN, but then I realized it was the 1953 edition, not the 1945, and I composed this long complicated email to the store about why this wasn't right (especially since it is virtually word-for-word IDENTICAL to the 1962 version, which means all the crap in the forward about being completely re-written and expanded for today's modern American teen-agers was LIES, NOTHING BUT LIES)...and then I stopped and realized I was about to really confuse some used bookstore's poor summer intern and spend five bucks to ship the book back across the country just so I could get my DOLLAR back. So...if you're a friend of mine who plans to get married anytime soon, well. Mwa ha ha, baby. Have I got an awesome wedding present for you. Yes, indeed.

(It cost a freaking FORTUNE. Like, a hundred dollars. It's an antique!)