Not-So-FAQs

Good Christ, this week. It is almost over. Good riddance, week! Thanks for bringing us the Craigslist ad about the beards and the unicorns and all, but other than that? Go away. Fuck you.

Since I spent the vast majority of my week either 1) cleaning puke off of various sufaces and a wide variety of fibers, OR 2) sitting at my desk staring at multiple laptops and like, flowcharting deliverable synergies and shit, I don't really have much to blog about.

NOT THAT I'M GOING TO LET THAT STOP ME, OR ANYTHING. OH HO HO HELL NO.

Instead, I'm going to mass-address some questions you guys have asked recently, either over email or in the comments, and I'm sorry for ignoring you in both of those places. I have an excuse, I swear. And it's that I'm a terrible person. 

QUESTION: Omg, did you see that video about the dad who recorded his son's special education teachers and discovered they were bullying him and saying awful things and...

ANSWER: No. I mean. Yes. I wrote about the video at Babble. It's complicated. On the one hand, RIGHTEOUS FURY. On the other, I need to not watch things that will make me cry for a million years. 

QUESTION: Omg, did getting your nose pierced hurt?

ANSWER: No. I mean. Yes. Getting a sharp metal object forced through your cartilage is not an entirely painless process. However, I found that getting my ears re-pierced a couple years ago hurt way worse. Two holes instead of one, and the healing process took a LOT longer. Probably because I kept whacking my ears with my hand whenever I flipped my hair (which I never realized I do a million times a day, apparently), or rolling over on them in my sleep. The nose piercing felt vaguely bruised for a couple days, but feels just fine now, honestly. 

And circling back to the actual piercing part? Let's just say that compared to getting a GIANT GODDAMNED NEEDLE JAMMED IN YOUR SPINE in preparation for childbirth, or trying to do things like STAND UP or GET OUT OF BED or BREATHE DEEPLY after the post-c-section Vicodin has worn off, getting your nose pierced is more like stubbing your toe, you big giant baby.

Although your one eye will water uncontrollably, depending on what side you pierce. That was weird.

QUESTION: Omg, what do the kids think of it? 

ANSWER: It took them several days to notice. I went with the tiniest possible stud available, and figured I could upgrade to something a bit flashier once it's healed and not such a dicey situation if the baby grabs it. (He has yet to grab it.)

Noah said, "Heeeeey. What's wrong with your nose?" I told him it was jewelry, and I think I was still pronouncing the L sound when his eyes rolled back into his head out of boredom because GAH JEWELRY I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR FEMALE NONSENSE, WOMAN, LEGOS LEGOS LEGOS. 

Ezra stared at it once and asked to touch it. I told him no, not yet. He also promptly went back to Not Giving A Shit. 

I'm gonna have to up my game in order to shock them, I guess. Tough crowd.

QUESTION: Sorry, but it looks like a zit.

ANSWER: LOL, I know. I'm not entirely sure what happened with that initial photo I posted — all the silver-y-ness of the stud got washed out, even though it looked fine before I uploaded it. It is a rounded bumpy sort of stud, which may not have been the best choice. Meh. I can change it in about a month, and would be super appreciative of any recommendations on places to buy non-shady nose jewelry that won't give me a flesh-eating disease, or something. 

(I'd usually go with Etsy but I'm super-mad at them right now, along with the rest of the planet. LAMESAUCE RESELLER BULLSHIT.)

QUESTION: But wait! Aren't you going to have to take it out, now that you're working for The Man?

Nope. Sorry if I confused anyone — I was aiming for vague and stumbled straight into cryptic — but I am still working from home. I'm just working a lot MORE from home, doing non-mommyblogging worky things. Another 20 hours a week, actually. Which, combined with everything else I do, basically means I'm working full time. But from home. And probably not forever. It's a consulting contract, so nothing permanent. I'm helping a company launch a corporate blog and related social media strategies and best practices and documentation for the process and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. It's only exciting if you are me. Luckily, that's exactly who I am! So I'm loving it. 

I will be leaving my little hobbit hole and taking my first steps into a corporate office environment next week, however, just to meet some people in person. Just me, my nose ring, and my fuzzy interpretation of what "business casual" means these days. I will be leaving my propensities to embarrass myself and walk into walls at home. I hope.

Oh, whatever. You know that'll never happen. I'll probably lose a shoe heel in the parking lot or accidentally lock myself in a bathroom stall. Or both! And I'll remember why I stopped going out in public on a regular basis in the first place. 

No Party, All Bullsh*t

Weeks like this should be illegal. It's been the kind of week where everything has been a kind of low-grade terrible. Just enough to annoy the shit out of you, but not dramatically terrible enough to give you interesting stories for your blog. 

But it's Friday! So...whatever. Here, I Wrote You Some Stuffs, Deal With It.

1) MOLARS ARE BULLSHIT

Ike is cutting molars right now. Three of them, so far. His gums are a horrible blackish-purple color and he's cranky and congested and his sleep schedule is all kinds of jacked up. I am tired. I am running low on both Tylenol and wine.

You know molars are a one-year thing, right? Most kids get them sometime around their first birthday? Usually on whatever day you've planned their birthday party? 

You know Ike is 10 MONTHS OLD, right? Why you gotta be in such a rush, son? 

Because freezer-burned yogurt melts are bullshit, Mother, and I would like to get going on some filet mignon instead. 

2) PETS ARE BULLSHIT

Max the Cat has been feeling a bit poorly as well, on and off. Trips to the vet confirm that there's nothing particularly wrong with him, other than being...well, old. (He'll be 14 this year.) And while I do not really AT ALL, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT, want to linger on thoughts about Elderly Max Possibly Not Living Forever And Ever Shut Up It Happens Amen, I have to admit it's been less than awesome dealing with a cat who is routinely barfing all over the place and taking shits in our bed for no apparent reason. Except that he's old! Either put him in some Kitty Depends or change the sheets while focusing on how nice it feels to still have him curl up and keep your feet extra warm at night.

Speaking of old, any longtime readers remember Max's beloved stuffed Puppy?

If so, brace yourselves. 

UNDEAD PUPPY WANTZ BRAAAAAAINNNNNZZZZ

Puppy is actually older than Max, so I guess we should be similarly amazed and grateful that he is still here with us and bringing joy to our cat and ignore all the times I've walked into the bathroom in the middle of the night to pee only to be confronted with HOLY SHIT WHAT IS THAT DEAD THING GAAAAHHHH instead. 

3) HOMEOWNERSHIP IS BULLSHIT

Our to-do list around our house is pretty long, at this point. Long and expensive. Full of stuff we want to do but just can't (or won't) sack up and spend the money on. I'd (still) like to redo the kitchen. I'd like to replace some furniture. I'd like to upgrade some fixtures and appliances and paint a bunch of rooms. I'd like to hire abchao to come order me to throw everything out and make the whole house look nothing like it actually does, which is awful. 

Instead, the only things that ever get done are the things that reach Emergency Trailer Park Status. Like, we need to replace the TV cabinet in the living room because one of the doors BROKE IN HALF and now Baby Ike has unfettered access to the Xbox and a stack of loose DVDs that I keep saying "NO BABY IKE" about and then re-stacking them back in the exact same place because I am too lazy to find another place to put them. 

I've wanted to buy new blinds for the boys' room for ages now, but am only going to finally do it because they did this to the current set:

I am really regretting letting them take that Reverse Basketweaving 101 class at the Y, you guys.

And then there's the stuff that just randomly, unexpectedly goes to all hell and costs hundreds of dollars to fix. This week our utility sink clogged up, and since our washing machine drains into it, we couldn't do laundry until we got it fixed.

(I should also mention that the sink clogged up in the middle of a load of cloth diapers, so we spent several days with a sink half full of the dankest, grossest, foulest water you have ever seen or smelled, especially since one of Ike's teething symptoms always seems to manifest IN HIS PANTS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING, AND IF YOU DON'T I ADVISE YOU TO JUST NOD SO I DON'T FEEL COMPELLED TO GO INTO GREATER DETAIL.)

(The clog was run-of-the-mill lint and hair-based, in the end, for the record. I was so terrified that the plumber would come out and be all, "POOP! THERE'S POOP IN YOUR PIPES! YOUR ENTIRE HOUSE NEEDS A COMPLETE PIPENDECTOMY BECAUSE OF POOP, YOU DISGUSTING, MISGUIDED HIPPIE.")

However! As we are capable adults with excellent coping skills, Jason and I naturally attempted to unclog the sink ourselves before calling the plumber. Which is how we ended up breaking part of the sink drain in the process and had to spend three hundred and forty damn dollars on a new utility sink, which is probably pretty high in the Top Ten List Of The Most Unexciting Home Upgrades Ever. 

Anyway, since it would probably be super weird for me to take dinner party guests on a basement tour just to show off our sexy new utility sink (WITH COPPER PIPE EXTENSIONS, HOLLA), I'm posting a photo of it on my blog. Which is only slightly weird. 

When we decide to sell this place I am including this photo as a selling point, for sure. 

Dee, When Your Allergies Act Up, Take Out Your Nose Ring.

Hi! I just got my nose pierced. 

Why? I dunno, actually. Because I felt like it. Because I always wanted to, but worked in offices with dress codes and am finally realizing that I might not do that again anytime soon. Because I was feeling old and bored and this was cheaper than buying a Porsche. Because I thought, "Self, you've had three needles stuck into your spine and then had three babies cut out of your abdomen, I bet getting something staped into your face won't hurt at all." Because I've been home all week with three stir-crazy kids on Spring Break and broke up approximately 5,239 fights over who touched who and who stole what toy and stepped on one too many damn Legos and went temporarily batshit. 

Definitely a combination of those five things. Plus, what's the point of being a grown-up if you don't take advantage of the fact that no one can tell you not to pierce stupid shit into your face? HERE'S MAH DRIVER'S LICENSE, BODY PIERCING PARLOR EMPLOYEE WHO IS AT LEAST A DECADE YOUNGER THAN I AM, I DON'T NEED ANYBODY'S PERMISSION TO DO THIS, YAAAY! 

Everybody say hi to Andy, by the way. (He's the same guy who also re-pierced my ears a couple years back.) His wife is due with their first baby in two weeks. I told him everything was going to awesome, and it's really not as scary as some people like to make it sound. TRUST ME, ANDY, I'M A PROFESSIONAL. 

This Is Some Award-Losing Nonsense, Right Here

In honor of my shiny new super-organized (for now, but check back in 30 seconds) office, I present an entry without any topic at all. But disorganized, stream-of-consciousness writing is a valid art form as long as you do it while sitting in a chair, at a desk. FACT. Are you sitting at a desk? I have just legitimized everything you do today. You are a serious professional and nothing will change that. Go on, drip yogurt on yourself. You've earned it.

Apologies to the non-desk sitters in the audience. I was you! All the way up until yesterday! And while I will never forget my roots, I have already forgotten where I was going with this sentence. I'M AT A DESK! To the next topic! Hurry!

1) MY HAIR & ASSORTED AW SHUCKSING

Thank you to everybody who complimented my hair yesterday! In the old days, people used to have to write their own daily affirmations on their mirrors in lipstick. Now we can just post flatteringly-blurry photos of ourselves online. What a glorious time to be alive.

I will add the caveat that those cell-phone-mirror-reflection shots completely hide the unfortunate Chia Bangs, which yes, are still there and are still unfortunate. At my last hair appointment they were the first thing my stylist noticed, and was like: "This is because of the BABY, you know that, right?" I answered that yes, I did, sigh, hormones be crazy, etc.

She examined them closer and added: "But wow, I don't think I've ever seen them THIS BAD before."

*shoots Internet a LOOK, like, the hell?*

However! I will own that from slightly more far away, I am having a Good Hair Phase right now. I recently switched to one of those weird shampoo bars from Lush (the one for oily hair, for my scalp could slick down an entire flock of seagulls and some baby seals in the morning, AND YES I AM JUST THAT SEXY), and I cannot believe I never tried one before. I believe the technical term is "amazeballs." 

I weigh almost the same as I did the day I gave birth to Ike (oh yes I do), my chin is melting into my neck (I now stare covetously at other women's jawlines like I used to stare at anyone who had bigger boobs than mine) (which was everybody) and I have crow's feet that are more like octopi-spider-zilla tentacles, but dammit, my hair looks nice most of the time kind of.

Christ, I felt a lot better about myself approximately four paragraphs ago. Perhaps we should change the subject.

2) IF A BLOG AWARD FALLS IN THE FOREST...

Did you know I was nominated for a Bloggie this year? Me the fuck neither. 

Last week we attended Parents' Day at Ezra's school and another mother congratulated me for it. And I stared blankly at her because I had no idea what she was talking about, plus I always get momentarily disoriented when someone in real life turns out to be a blog reader, and I freeze and mentally go through my writing because 1) oh dear God, I hope didn't say anything stupid about them, and 2) oh dear God, this person has read approximately fourteen thousand words about my boobs.

Anyway, yeah. I was nominated for Best Parenting or Family Weblog, along with the Bloggess, Aunt Becky, How To Be A Dad and Parenting, Illustrated With Crappy Pictures.

I, uh, didn't win. OBVIOUSLY.

3) LUCKILY THE CRIB RAILS ARE PRE-CHEWED FOR HIS BITE-MARK CONVENIENCE

Oh hai. I am up to NO GOOD AT ALL.

I haz a plan. A terrible one.

LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE DONE.

LOOK AT IT.

'Sup, bro?

I Want To Belieeeeeeeeve

I have no idea how we got on the subject of Bloody Mary -- the ghosty sleepover dare, not the drink -- but somehow, we did. A little vodka may have been involved, but I am definitely sure that tomato juice and celery were not. 

Jason and I both grew up in very, very religious households, and because of this, had both achieved adulthood without ever -- EVER -- attempting the Bloody Mary game. We believed that just by THINKING about Satan or evil things, one was technically inviting demonic influence, or even full-on possession. That shit was real, man, in an incredibly literal sense, and the idea of actively baiting a ghost/demon/evil spirit like that was a genuinely terrifying prospect that neither of us would ever mess with. 

I have a vague memory of standing in a darkened bathroom after first hearing the story from my friends...and THINKING about maybe giving it a try, and the very second the idea popped into my head, a car drove down the street and a glimmer of the headlights flashed in the mirror and I freaked out and ran back to my room, hid under the covers and prayed for forgiveness and protection from my sinful wandering brain. 

That was farther than Jason ever got, however, and he admitted that he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite long since abandoning the fire-and-brimstone religion of our childhoods, and happily indulging in a steady TV/movie habit of supernatural horror -- we LOVE all that Paranormal Activity/American Horror Story/True Blood/Walking Dead garbage SO VERY HARD -- the Bloody Mary game was still something that genuinely freaked him out, because what if?

So obviously, because I am a complete asshole, I got the idea that we needed to confront that fear head on. Right then, right there. We were gonna walk into the nearest bathroom, hold hands and summon up that damned urban legend and finally put this ridiculous shared part of our childhoods completely behind us. Once and for all. Together. MOVE ON FROM FEAR. GROW WITH LOVE. ALSO I THINK THIS WILL BE SUPER FUN AND LATER YOU CAN BRAID MY HAIR.

At first -- and second, third, fourth, and so on -- Jason flat-out refused. No way. No way! He couldn't. He wouldn't. I made offers and promises and some very dirty bargains, but in the end I finally managed to convince him to follow me into the bathroom via a very persuasive argument of come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on (breathes) come on come on come on etc. 

We stood in front the mirror with the lights off. "BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY!" I called out confidently; Jason slightly less so. I waited a few seconds and then switched on the light. Nothing happened. We'd done it! Two thirty-something parents of three had gone and played a made-up game most people stop being scared of sometime in middle school, and we survived it without a single jump scare or coincidentally-timed lightbulb flicker.

Afterwards, I was gleeful and amped up -- I felt invincible, free, reckless and daring. Like the first time I voted for a Democrat, or dropped a casual f-bomb into a conversation. Jason was...well, he was headed towards the liquor cabinet for another drink.

I followed him, giggling stupidly and trying to think of any other similar games we could play. Let's have a seance! Order a ouija board! Is The Exorcist on Netflix? Blair Witch? Candyman? ZOMG ADRENALINE OF THE FORBIDDEN.

Jason opened the cabinet. And then screamed and jumped backwards.

I remember screaming too, but I don't remember hitting the floor. But there I was, cowering behind the dining table and flat on my stomach with my arms covering my head, while Jason laughed and laughed and laughed...until he was on the floor too, because bitch, you TOTALLY had that one coming. 

Official Post-Valentine's Day Recap ExtravaganzSQUIRREL!

I had a really nice Valentine's Day, thank you for not asking, but allowing me to pretend that you did. We're all organic and conversational up in this bitch!

For the first time in years, I was thoroughly pleased with my own gift-and-card-related offerings for Jason: 

Geeky Han-and-Leia bracelets from Spiffing Jewelry.

Super-highly-mature card from Wit and Whistle.

Usually I get completely out-gifted by my thoughtful, creative husband while I'm like: Here's a sweater? It's red? I bought you some chocolates but I ated them? 

Not that Jason did too shabbily himself, or anything. But he's an established pro at Valentine's Day -- gifts! flowers! candy! pampering! home-cooked gourmet meals and champagne! -- so I'm usually just happy to not suck too badly at it. 

Since the babysitter works on Tuesdays, we played hooky had a lunch date together at a restaurant nearby, a place we've gone several times with ALL OF THE CHILDREN in tow, and the hostess gave us a suspicious side-eye when she sat us, like "aren't you the ones wot show up with all them kids usually? where's your baby? oh dear God, did you leave him in the car?"

Then we both went to the Valentine's Day party at Noah's school, which thrilled him to no end, because NOW I CAN SHOW YOU OUR MEALWORM FARM, MOMMY. 

OH WOW, BUDDY, THAT'S SO COOL.

(Shudders.)

After that, we came home and basically counted the hours until bedtime, so we could enjoy a fancy grown-up dinner in peace. (And you know, rrrrroooomance.) We were almost home free by 7:30, because everyone was already acting so tired, so I corralled the boys upstairs and oh yeah, that's when the giant fucking squirrel got inside the house and holed up in the living room for awhile.

WAIT WHAT. 

I was rocking Ike to sleep when I heard Jason yelling -- and I mean YELLING -- a string of oh my Gods! and Ceiba! Ceiba! Ceeeeeeiiiiiiiibas!

I could tell he was trying really hard not to let a string of f-bombs loose too (FUHcrap! WHATTHEFUHHHreak!), what with the children still being awake and busy brushing their teeth, and I tried to figure out what in the hell he caught Ceiba doing that would warrant such an outburst -- actively taking a crap on the couch? Climbing in the fridge and helping herself to our creme brulee? Sneaking a cigarette? Doing DRUGS? WHAT?

I was completely stuck in that I Must Remain Hushed And Zen Despite All Hell Apparently Breaking Loose Downstairs spot, since Ike was alllllmost asleep and if I dared raise my voice to find out what was going on, I knew he'd jerk fully awake and be all, "Welp, that took the edge off! Let's party!" for the next five hours. So I kept my mouth shut and assumed that whatever it was, it had to be something Jason could handle. Plus, I still feel like he owes me a little bit for daring to be on a business trip right at the exact moment the oven decided to catch on goddamn fire. 

Jason appeared at the nursery door about 15 minutes later. He looked like he could use a drink or seven.

"We are never," he said quietly, so not to startle the baby, "EVER. Leaving trash out on the back deck again."

My mind flashed back to the morning of the shredded, scattered trash bag. Really? All that was over the dog getting into the trash? There couldn't possibly have been anything grosser in it than all the Disgusting Paper Towels of Horkgate Grossness that I had to clean up, unless, oh God, did Ceiba eat something dangerous? Is she...wait, no.

"I put the trash inside the recycling bin," I protested. It was a small bin, without a lid, but still too high for Ceiba to get into. "How did she get..."

"Not Ceiba," he said. "I picked up the bag and brought it inside so I could take it out front to the curb. And...a squirrel jumped out of it."

Not just any squirrel, apparently, but the biggest, fattest squirrel Jason had ever seen -- easily as big as our dumb little dog -- who had decided to take up permanent residence inside our trash bag. It took a flying leap out of a hole in the bag somewhere in the kitchen and took off into the house, eventually settling behind a bookcase in the living room. Ceiba (being dumb, little) ran after it, even though the thing could have probably bitten her head off, honey-badger style.

While I stayed upstairs, obliviously rocking Ike to dreamland, an epic struggle of Man, Squirrel, Pursedog and Broom had been going on without me. 

"I locked Ceiba in the bathroom and eventually chased it out the door with a broom," he informed me. "So it's gone now."

"Did you take a picture of it?" I asked, while shaking with silent, gasping laughter, as I am both 1) experienced when it comes to harmless yet spastic wildlife trapped in the house, and 2) an asshole.

No, he did not. I know! I'm disappointed too. That would have made it officially the best Valentine's Day ever. But I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it was at least a pretty close second. 

Hormones & My Hair: A Postpartum Update

*peeks head around door*

*eyes room nervously*

*steps inside*

Is it...is it safe? Is everyone...healthy? Can I sit down and relax for a minute without...you know...having to talk about the vomit and the vomiting and the vomiting on top of various surfaces up to and including my own neck? Can I at last possibly maybe change the frigging subject already?

The coast looks clear. For now. Hurry! WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT MY HAIR.

The last time I yammered on about the topic, you may remember, I was going through what I affectionately and accurately described as my Chia Pet period. I was pregnant with Ike and my head had decided to grow a new pelt of wispy stick-out-y hair all over the place. I even illustrated the situation for you. 

The problem miraculously solved itself at some point, right when I stopped paying attention. I'm not sure what happened: Either the short bonus hairs all fell out later in the second trimester, or they grew super-fast and started laying flat and blending in, more or less. By the third trimester, my hair once again achieved its typical pregnancy-induced awesomeness. Indeed, on the day Ike was born, I was sporting a bunch of ugly new sun spots and freckles and no longer had any jawline definition to speak of, but goddammit, my hair looked pretty fabulous.

And then it all fell out. Like ALWAYS, every time. Around six weeks postpartum my hair began to shed with a vengeange and I was soon back to having a head of limp, fine hair that refused to do anything interesting. 

HAIR ONE: What do you want to do today?

HAIR TWO: I dunno, what do you want to do today?

HAIR ONE: I dunno, I asked you first.

HAIR TWO: I dunno, I just want sit here and hang, all flat-like and stuff.

HAIR ONE: Didn't we do that yesterday?

HAIR TWO: Yeah.

HAIR ONE: Okay. So I should tell the blow-dryer and the hot rollers to go fuck themselves, right?

HAIR TWO: Whatever. I'm drunk.

But I was expecting that. It happens. It's annoying and drain-clogging and always lasts juuuuuust up to the point where you start getting vaguely alarmed by how much you're shedding, but then it evens out and you're left with approximately the same amount of hair you had pre-pregnancy.

But after six months or so, I noticed...something. 

There, up around my hairline, was the bizarre return of the Chia Pet hair.

At first I thought it was breakage, but no. After wetting it down and examining it, I am dealing with a perfectly uniform-in-length fresh crop of growth that crosses my entire forehead, my temples, and goes around my ears and across the back of my neck. It's thickest up by my hairline, but if I part my hair on the sides there's a substantial peppering of it there, too. And it all sticks straight up and out so I look like I had an encounter with an electrical socket, or perhaps a weed whacker.

(The longish section in the center is a widow's peak/cowlick thing I've always had, but which also prohibits me from just getting a nice straightforward swath of bangs to cover up the stupid stick-out-y new hair, because it grows completely sideways. So I go for "sideswept" and just hope I don't anger it, because occasionally it does decide to stubbornly go in the opposite direction.)

(Also let's ignore my eyebrows. I'M AWARE. I'M JUST VERY BUSY.)

Will this hair...keep growing? And eventually catch up with the rest of my hair, like (I assume) the first patch of wonky hair did? Will I perhaps keep sprouting new layers of hair every year or so, like a magical everlasting Chia Pet? Or this maybe something breastfeeding-hormone-ish related? (And no, I am not pregnant. NO. DON'T EVEN. I WILL BAN YOUR ASS SO HARD.)

But no matter what, I can blame it on my children, right? Because I can live with pretty much anything as long as I can blame it on my children. 

UPRISING IN DISTRICT 12! WE SHALL NOT BE SILENCED BY TYRANNY OR HAIRSPRAY! WE WILL MAKE YOU WALK AROUND LOOKING LIKE THIS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND YOU WILL SHRUG AND USE IT AS AN EXCUSE TO PUT ON SWEATPANTS. 

The Plastic Wrap That Ate New York City

Happy Monday, Innernets! How was your weekend? Ours was fine! I learned two things:

1) When Ike comes down with his big brother's cold, he gets this hilariously gigantic cough -- CAAAAHHH-UGH CAAAAAHH-UGH-UGH-CAH -- and sounds exactly like an old man having a top-volume coughing fit at a quiet restaurant. So the next time you hear a cough like that and start looking for the person to scowl at, like GO OUTSIDE, DUDE, NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU COUGHING UP YOUR LUNG, be forewarned that it could be my baby.

    1a) I mean, you can still scowl at him, if you want. He won't care. Old-man cough badger don't give a shit.

    1b) CAAAAHHHHH-UGH-GGG-CAH-UH-ETC.

2) Before you bundle your children up and send them outside to frolic in a couple inches of freshly fallen snow, you should PROBABLY confirm that the white stuff on the ground actually is snow. As opposed to a deadly, pointy mix of 10% snow and 90% ice. And you should confirm this fact through a testing method OTHER THAN watching your six-year-old pelt your three-year-old in the face with an iceball. 

    2a) He's fine! The cut didn't even need stitches. 

    2b) (dies)

    2c) Though I have to admit, the sight of both them lying on the icy ground, flapping their arms and legs in a desperate attempt to make snow angels while shrieking "WHY ISN'T THIS WORKING?" was pretty damned funny. But obviously I am tremendous jerk who routinely derives humor in the pint-sized suffering of my children. (See item 1. Also every blog post ever.)

***

Anyway. Enough about them! I need to talk about plastic wrap! SHUT UP THIS IS IMPORTANT.

Once upon a time, many years ago, I made the fateful decision to buy a box of generic plastic wrap. 

And when I say many years, I am not (for once, not even a little bit) exaggerating. This roll of plastic wrap is like the goddamned loaves and fishes, because it never, ever runs out. It just keeps going and going. An endless, magical supply of plastic wrap.

I should maybe call the Vatican. Or the Paranormal Activity people. 

Because this is the absolute WORST plastic wrap in the history of human kind.

I can't even express how terrible this plastic wrap is. It clings directly and desperately to itself, and nothing else. Put it on a bowl or dish and it will just...sit there, all non-sealing-like while its edges curl in to create an un-straightenable mass of gummed-up plastic wrap. It puckers and creases and instantly folds up into a three-inch-wide strip of uselessness the second you tear it from the box. That is, IF YOU ARE LUCKY ENOUGH to even get it to tear from the box, since instead of those fancy metal tearin' strips the hoity toity brands come with, this stuff has an edge of slightly perforated, long-since-worn-to-the-nub cardboard "teeth":

Hello! Do you need some plastic wrap! Okay! I will start gumming my way through that shit now! You come back in an hour or so. With the scissors. 'Cause we both know this ain't happening.

We HATE this plastic wrap, is what I am saying. Neither of us can use this plastic wrap without vocally complaining about how much we hate this plastic wrap. And while we're not like, AVID plastic wrap enthusiasts, or anything, the topic does come up quite frequently. Several times a week, for YEARS, one of us has bitched out loud to the other about this terrible, terrible plastic wrap.

Giving old boring married people something to talk about since 2007. Can your name-brand products deliver on that promise? For pennies on the dollar? I don't fucking think so, son.

And yet, the plastic wrap keeps going and going and going. I know I bought the big economy size, but this is RIDICULOUS. I should not still be paying for one single crime of frugality, all these years later.

Every once in awhile -- usually while muttering and cursing and trying to rip my third sheet of plastic wrap off the roll in order to mummify an ice cube tray of baby food -- I do stop and think, "Fuck this. I'm throwing this crap out and buying some new plastic wrap. Because life is too short for shitty plastic wrap. Because I am worth it!" 

But then, for whatever reason, I don't. I don't throw the box out and I don't buy a new one. Is it guilt? The fact that we're not using some recycled BPA-free hemp-paper alternative to the shitty plastic wrap? Or because we've made it this far so we might as well see this never-ending shitty plastic wrap storyline until the end? Because we maybe don't even believe that end will ever come so what's the point, we might as well just suck it up? Is it because the SHITTY PLASTIC WRAP IS FULLY IN CHARGE NOW?

YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED. YOU WILL ALSO GET A SURPRISINGLY NASTY PAPER CUT ON MY WEAK-ASS CARDBOARD TEETH. 

I don't know. It's an easily-solved problem that instead has become an epic years-long struggle for no particular reason. If this was a Paranormal Activity movie you'd probably be yelling at us to move or call an exorcist, so maybe we'll just try one of those things. 

The Day The Magic Died Because I Accidentally Murdered It

So if you were around on Friday you're already aware that it took Baby Ike all of an hour and a half to make a complete jackass out of me. Post About Thing Baby Is Not Doing, Baby Immediately Up And Does It, All Casual-Like.

Perhaps his reading comprehension is better than I previously thought as well. 

Highlighting their mother's general incompetence was a theme for the weekend, actually. On Saturday Tracey and Charlie came over for an evening of...um. I dunno. Food and baby stuffs. Dogs and Instagramming and YouTube and heavy metal on Pandora. We made slow-cooker jerk chicken and collards with bacon and while the kiddos were eating their frozen mini-pizzas from a box LIKE YEAH, Noah started hollering to me about his cheese falling out. 

I was in the middle of some REALLY IMPORTANT discussion about something that I no longer remember and wasn't particularly interested in pizza-cheese drama, like "Okay dude, whatever, just eat it anyway," but it turned out he was actually trying to tell me that his tooth had fallen out. 

Oh! Yeah. Don't eat that, after all.

Everybody clapped and high-fived and made an appropriately big deal over it. We put the tooth in a little plastic treasure chest he'd gotten from the nurse's office when he lost a tooth during P.E. back in September and discovered that...oh, there was already another tooth in there. He lost three teeth in such rapid-fire succession a few months ago that he apparently lost interest in the Tooth Fairy concept and hadn't put the last one under his pillow. Given the market's high going rate for human baby teeth and our tendency to not ever have any cash in our wallets, I guess we forgot to remind him after a couple days of disinterest. 

But now, of course, Noah was thrilled. Holy shit! Two teeth! Do you know how much money that is, right there? Do you know how many Legos that will buy? Probably only like, five spare blocks, really, since Noah is still a little fuzzy on just how much we've spent on those bloody things, but hey, whatever. It's Legos or college. He's made his choice. 

We put the bounty under his pillow and went right back to our hosting duties, which naturally included making one of our guests put our baby to bed. Charlie acted like I was "letting" him put the baby to bed but HA HA HA. Yeah. Ike went down like a very sleepy rock and did not wake up ONCE, AT ALL, EVER, until almost 9 goddamn o'clock in the goddamn morning. Charlie can come over and put that baby to bed any night he wants to and I'm not even going to ask questions re: whether black magic or bourbon are involved because I AM STILL SO TIRED.

Noah and Ezra woke up a little earlier than that, and I was just slowly starting to become aware of their voices and chatter and Ezra was...crying about something? Maybe? And then Jason bolted upright.

"OH SHIT."

"WHAT?" 

He didn't need to answer, because by this point I was awake enough to hear what the boys were hollering about. 

"TOOTH FAIRY!" They were both shouting. "TOOOOOTH FAIRY!"

"Oh. SHIT." I muttered. "That."

Yeah. THAT.

Noah had managed to open their window (thanks, handy integrated childproof locks!) and they were shrieking in despair at the early morning sky, thus broadcasting our parental ineptness to the ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD.

*headdesks*

So we spent Sunday morning coming up with various excuses for the punk-ass tooth fairy, including traffic and weather and maybe there's a pre-dinner-time cutoff for same-day money delivery? (And the more truthiness-based "she probably just made a mistake and forgot.") 

He seemed to get over the disappointment before too long, though I'm sure this moment of shattering disillusionment in both magic and his parents' general trustworthiness will come up in therapy one day as the source of ALL OF THE PROBLEMS, so I figured I best beat the inevitable bestselling tell-all revelations and confess that yeah, we forgot about your tooth and felt really shitty about it. 

Noah, this morning, one tooth poorer but eight damn dollars richer. 

Merry Geekmas

(Sorry, Star Trek! Mama's bringing things back to her fandom this Christmas.)

(Even though she's usually about as crafty as your average garden slug.)

(So please don't look too closely at R2D2. He was tragically maimed in a freak gasoline fight accident.)

(Though Boba Fett turned out pretty badass, I think.)

(Printable DIY Star Wars snowflake diagrams are here, though I'm serious: the R2D2 one will make you want to punch kittens in the vagina.)

(I still need to make Yoda and C3PO, but decided a little break was in order after I started seeing the face of Darth Vader on my parchment paper while baking Christmas cookies.)

(RIGHT?)

(Totally.)

(Thanks to Jackie for the snowflake link! It's not I had anything productive to do during all those hours.)

(PARENTHESES!)