My, my, my, I am an ambitious little blogger, aren't I? Well, I've just so much to say, lately. There's no stopping me. So don't even try. Really. I'm warning you.
I love this time of year. I would say that from about Oct. 1 - Jan. 1 I am generally in a very happy, festive mood (unless you do something to piss me off).
Halloween kicks off a season of crispy weather, hot decorations, and a lightheartedness in New Yorkers that can only be experienced this time of year.
Tomorrow I will officially be the proud mama of a freshly minted five year old. And then I'll start shopping for a Tofurkey. And then we'll start putting candy canes on everything. Wheeee!!!
So, we got up this morning and Lily actually consented to wear her pumpkin costume to school. Shawn took her to school on the subway, giant orange pillow-thingy (handmade by gramma) in hand, while Lil worked the pole and chattered about how much fun she was about to have. Babydaddy brought the camera so he could snap pics at school before she decides it's fucking horribly uncomfortable to wear a giant orange pumpkin costume all day, so I'll have pictures to post soon. I just know that for the parade and trick or treating tonight, she's gonna demand I let her wear her cheap ass made-in-Korea Cinderella dress instead. But, I'm enjoying it while it lasts.
Tomorrow we celebrate her birthday. This morning I started reminiscing (a tradition my mother had with me, and one I warned Lil will last her entire life)... "Five years ago right now, I started having contractions!" "Five years ago right now I was jumping up and down on the bed, trying to get my water to break!" "Five years ago right now I was in so much body-rocking pain that I projectile vomited and farted at the same time!!!"
She's tolerating my sentimentality for now. What can I say, it's my thing. It's what I do.
On a weird note, I got a call from my mother today and she told me how my father was summoned to my nephew's kindergarten yesterday morning, because he had somehow wedged the little flat handle of his jacket's zipper between his two front teeth. Dad got there and the poor little guy was totally panicked, his jacket up over his mouth, unable to get the zipper out himself. Dad saved the day, as usual, and all was well.
And life goes on.
Have a great day, ghoulies!!! I can't wait to hear all your debaucherous, horrifying Halloween tales. Stay safe, and look out for razor blades in the apples.
Last night Lily and I were on the Youtube, because she is having a Pirate/Princess themed birthday party next weekend, and I convinced her it would be really cool if she dressed up like Princess Leia.
Now, getting Lily to do this was quite a feat, since my child is kinda rather obsessed with the fake plasticky princesses of the Disney variety. Wee one is hard-pressed to accept that other princesses could actually exist without candy-colored dresses and heavy merchandising. If you can't buy vitamins shaped like her, maybe she's not a real princess, is her thought. So she eyed me with suspicion when I initially made the recommendation.
This was understandable, since up until yesterday Lily's only familiarity with Princess Leia was that her head was on a Pez dispenser in my collection, and that she was in a movie with the green guy with the pointy ears who is also on a Pez dispenser. But I was able to locate some great images to show her, and once she saw the buns, she was totally into it. The buns always sell themselves, really.
Thiskilled me though. Absolutely killed me. Apparently, there was a Star Wars Christmas Special, which aired in December of 1978, one time only, and was never seen again. If you watch this clip, you can probably figure out why.
I think we should start a letter-writing campaign though to George Lucas and rain down on the Skywalker Ranch with requests to get this puppy on DVD. It's freaking priceless, I'm telling you.
This weekend I went to my mailbox to see if Netflix had delivered my copy of "The Business of Being Born" (I've got babies on the brain for some reason...last night I dreamed that I watched a woman shoot a baby out while holding this yoga position: and the baby came out smiling and stood right up and waved at the crowd of onlookers)
I only check my mail every few days, mostly because what I receive is bullshit. Lots of credit card offers (now that I'm single and ready to mingle, companies think I have money. Which is funny), ads for local politicians, bills, "Vegetarian Times". If I miss the mail for a few days I'm not exactly upset.
But this time I pulled out an oversized envelope which was stamped with a nebulous (and large) message reading, "Let's Face It Now".
It? Well, what are we facing? And why now? I've got so much shit to do.
I opened the sketchified mystery package and inside was this.
An elaborate brochure advertising a mausoleum.
For as low as $40 a month, I can start paying off my final resting place.
That is the most depressing thing I have ever heard.
Also, it doesn't help the cause that the brochure probably hasn't been updated since 1975. I mean, look at the yellowed photos...I bet if you pulled back you'd see a baby blue Edsel parked by a gravesite.
So tell me, guys...what does it mean when you start receiving direct mail from cemeteries?
...And the wrong year to be a contracted graphic designer at an investment bank, D'oh!
Oh, it's just so typical. I finally pop a tentative pinky toe back into the vast sea of the American workforce (after a 3.5 year hiatus to be home with Lily), and the economy dumps itself so far down the crapper it may take years for it to come back. Great, that's just great. Thanks, god. Kick ass.
I can't shake the same sinking feeling I had when, a year after moving to NYC, 9/11 happened. I am starting to see a trend here, folks. I know it's egocentric, but you can't deny the 'coincidences'.
I obviously make things happen. Bad things. Maybe I'm tainted. Or radioactive. Or just a plain old bad luck charm, like The Hope Diamond. Those of you in Los Angeles (and you know who you are) better thank your lucky stars I haven't moved into your neighborhood, because you just know the Big One is waiting for me to hit town before it rocks the state of California into the ocean, Thank You and Good Night.
But I digress.
I can't spend hours obsessing over the (very real) possiblitiy of losing my job. I'm trying, instead, to get proactive. Focus my energies on my god-given talents and brainstorm about what I can do to ensure that Lily and I don't end up on the street, or worse, back on Long Island. (Just kidding mom! Hee hee! Still got that spare bedroom, right?)
So on my way to the train this morning I saw my scantily-clad neighbor who I am pretty sure is what you disgusting people call a Lady of the Evening. The difference is, though, that she treks up and down the streets at all hours of the day and night in her Spandex microminis and rubber boots. She gets into black Lincoln Town Cars with tinted windows and speeds off to unknown neighborhood destinations, to engage in activities I can only imagine in my (very vivid, somewhat horny) imagination.
I don't know. I could be totally off the mark here. Maybe she is just a Starbucks barista who likes to dress slutty and splurge on car services to work. But really, I don't think so.
So, here's what I'm thinking. It's good to have a backup career, right? And you should pick something you're good at, otherwise, what's the point? And in this economy, I think a cash business is really the best way to go.
So, I figure I'll catch her on her way to 'work' on one of these breezy mornings/afternoons/evenings, and sort of chat her up about how one might go about breaking into her 'profession'.
Like I said, proactive, folks. Get your ducks lined up in a row and have a backup plan. Watch and learn from me, darlings.
This was the exchange I had with Lily this morning after, upon walking out into the semi-darkness of our predawn trudge to the bus stop, she insisted on wearing her sunglasses. She was also wearing her faux fur coat, which is badly in need of a toss in the gentle cycle, a pink floppy hat, and a string of hot pink beads that somehow got twisted around her neck about a block from the house and she started grabbing at it, "Mama! I'm stuck!"
Quick-thinking wondermother plucked the necklace from her tender throat and and placed it in my pocket for safekeeping (ie to be tossed in the garbage as soon as I saw her off to school). She also decided to hand me the glasses before the end of our walk, and those got slipped into my pocket without a thought as well. She said, "Mama, don't forget to give those back to me! I want to wear them to school!"
We met up with my friend Julie and her daughter Ella, and listened to their little girl conversation as we hurried to meet the school bus. (Ella: "who invented food?" Lily: "My mom doesn't like to eat pigs or cows")
It wasn't until I got off the train in the city and started walking to work that I put my hand in my pocket and felt the little sunglasses.
Actually, that's a big, fat lie. I was born a cute white girl in upper middle-class suburbia whose only inherent detriment was that I had brown hair in a community of mostly aryan-looking peoples.
However, after growing up and overindulging in my creative-leanings (by studying art and literature in college and receiving a degree with which I could barely wipe my ass), marrying and divorcing my bohemian Knight in shining Salvation Army Pants, and birthing my little miracle girl, I pretty much forgot what it was like to live in a paid-for house and not wonder how the electric bill was going to get paid each month.
I've been living below the poverty line for so long that all this world economic crisis stuff really doesn't affect me all that much. Still, I can always find something to complain about. In fact, I was just fretting the other day with my therapist. She did help me put things in perspective, though.
The conversation went something like this:
Me (flopping on leather couch, touching hand to head in dramatic Scarlett O'Hara fashion): "So, I am stressed about the state of the economy."
Judith (nodding, looking skeptically at me over half-moon Smart Lady Glasses): "Ah. You lost money in your 401K?"
Me: "I... don't have a 401K."
Judith: "Mmmm. Your stock portfolio, then. How's that looking? Pretty bad, huh?"
Me: "Yeah. I don't have any stocks though."
Judith (smiling bemusedly): "Planning to retire any time soon?"
Me: "No. Okay, OK, I get it. It could always be worse".
Judith: "It could always be worse."
And it's true. I love my therapist. She gently reminds me on a regular basis that no matter how much my drama-queen brain tries to convince me of my own suffering, there are always people out there in more pain than me. And that's wicked comforting. I know I shouldn't say that, but it is.
Seriously, though. It's all about perspective.
Being poor helps me recognize what is really important, because really, I have no other choice. When you don't have money for stuff, you don't miss it that much because you forget what it was like to even have it in the first place. You following me?
Plus, if I wasn't poor, I could never even afford to go to therapy that I can get for free because of my kick-ass poor people health insurance. So, who am I to complain, really?
So, I don't know about you people, but I think I'm gonna stop my bitching and put my efforts into some other cause. Like figuring out how to rob the ATM down the street. See you guys later.
Wanna hear something? This is so typical of the way my week is going.
So, it's finally getting cool here. In fact, the last few nights have dipped into the low 50s; I'd say that's downright down-comforty. And yet, my cheap ass piece of shit building still hasn't turned the heat on. So, I get home tonight, tuck the kid all cozy in her bed, take a quick swim in the tub, and scamper all teeth-a-chatter into the kitchen, my brain on fire with another brilliant idea.
Now, I refuse to turn the oven on, generally, from May-September, because New York City is just too goddamned hot, and anything worth eating in summer is worth eating cold or raw, is my opinion. So tonight I think to myself, hey, I know. I'll bake something. And the kitchen will be filled with the delicious scent of sweet banana bread or brownies or some crap and I'll warm the apartment at the same time. Good. Yes.
Then I think, wait, you know, I'm really pretty lazy though. Why bake anything at all? Why not just turn the oven on 'broil' and get the house a little toasty, then shut it down, scoot my hiney under the covers and turn out the lights? Awwww, that's just crazy enough to work!
So I crank up the dial on the oven and wait for the magic to happen.
Only here's the thing. When a certain Babydaddy who shall remain nameless was staying at my apartment this weekend, he cooked something, and it spilled all over the inside of my oven.
I'm still not sure what was spilled. I'm thinking cheese, though he he swears up and down that he didn't spray-explode melted cheddar down the oven door, but within minutes of turning that fucker on, the entire kitchen was filled with the acrid smell of burnt asshair and a low-hanging gray smoke that made my eyes tear. Awesome. Good thing I disabled that annoying smoke alarm or else I'd have been dealing with that too.
So guess what I ended up having to do?
Open all the fucking windows.
And now I'm cold again.
October 15th Mercury starts spinning out of retrograde.
Why do I have such terrible dreams? I am starting to think that it's punishment for all the evil I do during my waking hours.
I had a dream last night that I was staying at my parents' house and was desperately horny and needing to masturbate. But I couldn't find a quiet place to set up my laptop and the door to my childhood bedroom had no lock. And Lily wouldn't give me 5 minutes to myself.
Then I had to kill a giant tiger with my bare hands. It was horrible, because it was big and scary and biting and scratching me and I was fighting for my life here, then I stabbed it in the heart with a stake.
I woke up covered in sweat and shaking and muttering to myself.
I was suffering on Tuesday from a terrible stomach virus. My poor belly felt like a giant clenched fist that was repeatedly getting stabbed with a sharp, splintered stake. Plus, I was shitting fire.
Lily had the day off from school, so I decided to call in to work so that I might recuperate. The ever-faithful Isabel was coming for a few hours to take the kid out to play so mommy could sleep, and Lil and I spent the morning laying about and taking it easy.
The two of us were sprawled on the carpet watching the Barbie movie for the umpteenth time (I rue the day I bought that piece of shit DVD), when suddenly I felt a giant gas bubble start demanding its release out my ass. So I simply let it go.
Except it wasn't a gas bubble.
It was all liquid, baby.
This is what my college friends and I used to call 'Oops Poops', since heavy drinking and heaping servings of nachos and mini cheeseburgers at 3 in the morning would sometimes produce this same effect. Mind you, for some of my friends. Never for me. Never, ever for me.
I think it's probably been a good 29 years since I shit my pants. In fact, I remember distinctly the last time...it was in first grade, and I was sitting on the cold tile floor of my classroom in the dark, watching a film strip about bugs on a rainy Friday. I needed to pass gas and instead totally squirted myself.
With heart-stopping horror I realized what I had done, but I popped a finger inside the waistband of my Wonder Woman undies to make sure.
Then I was sure.
I came away with a fingerful of poop and desperate not to be found out, quickly wiped it on the floor in front of me. I remember a couple of kids sniffing suspiciously and turning around and me kind of looking around too, like, "What disgusting pig would have shit their pants in FIRST GRADE?!?!"
Well, this incident the other day wasn't quite as embarrassing, since I was in my own living room, wearing my soft, comfy PJs, and was able to cup my hand under my behind and run to the bathroom where I quickly stripped and hurled myself into the shower.
"Mommy just had a little accident, baby! I'll be out in a second!" I sing-songed as I scrubbed myself raw.
This of course prompted Wee One to pad into the bathroom, where she spied my stained PJs and immediately cried, "MOMMY! Did you POOP your PANTS?!"
"It happens, honey," I called nonchalantly. "Even to grownups." I was determined not to make this a big deal. Whatevs, right? Everyone shits themselves sometimes. I'm certain of it.
I cleaned myself up, washed out the PJs and slipped into some soft sweats. The doorbell rang and it was our Isabel, there to save me.
Lily, The Informer, swung open the door and greeted her with, "Mama's not feeling very well today. She pooped in her pants."
I honestly don't know which experience is more humbling: The stomach flu, or motherhood.